FIC: Reconciling Lily's Eyes (4/11)
Title: Reconciling Lily's Eyes
Author: persepolis130
Pairing: Snarry
Rating: NC-17 (all over 18, fret not, LJ!)
Warnings: explicit Snape/Harry, Harry/Ginny, spoilers for DH
Summary: Had Harry known bonding with his former professor would lead him to three different countries, a hastily-planned wedding and his pants around his ankles in Snape's sitting room, he wouldn't have quit his day job. Or... maybe he would've...
Notes: If you're wondering why this suddenly became 11 chapters instead of 10, I realized that this chapter had to be split in two or heads might explode with the sheer amount of sex contained therein.
CHAPTER ONE / CHAPTER TWO / CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
"Harry! I can't believe it!" Hermione exclaims, dropping an egg. "What are you doing here?!"
Harry beams, so relieved to see her he could almost weep. "Decided to come back a little early."
She lets loose a very un-Hermione-like squeal and runs across the Burrow's kitchen to throw her arms around Harry's neck and nearly strangle him. "Oh, we missed you so-- Ron! RONALD!"
"I told you," Ron's voice filters down from the stairway, "I'm not helping you make some bloody Muggle Christmas bis--"
"Like anyone would eat anything you made!" Harry shouts up to him.
He's pelting down the stairway in three seconds flat. "Harry!"
"Oof! Ron!" Harry exclaims, smiling fit to split his cheeks as Ron smacks his back. "Watch it! Hermione nearly strangled me, and now you--"
"I can't believe you're still in one piece!" Ron exclaims, smiling from ear to ear himself.
"Don't know how many pieces you thought I'd be in," Harry tells him, and he's never felt more fond of him than this very moment.
Ron shakes his head. "I know you survived Avada Kedavra twice and all, but living with Snape is--"
"Harry, dear!" Mrs Weasley is standing in the door with a bag of flour and a bunch of carrots, the very picture of a devoted housewife. "What a surprise!"
He braces himself for the obligatory kiss on each cheek.
"Oh, Ginny's going to be so pleased, Harry," she exclaims. "She's been so worried about you!"
Harry grins and lets himself be swallowed up by her motherly affection, overfed on mince pie and treacle, and later, when Mr Weasley gets home, grilled on how cordless drills work. He is overjoyed to be regaled by Cannons tales, questioned about the plight of American house-elves, and put to bed in Fred and George's old room, with extra blankets because Mrs Weasley thinks he looks peaky.
The night sounds of the house-- the ticking of a clock, Ron's breathing, Pig flapping in his cage, the muted moaning of the ghoul-- lull him to a deep, sound sleep.
It's good to be back.
It is even better tomorrow evening on Platform nine and three-quarters, watching the train roll in and searching the windows for his girlfriend. She's the first one off the train, throwing herself into his arms.
"Oh Harry, I missed you so much," she whispers against his cheek.
He looks into her pretty brown eyes and means it when he says, "I missed you too."
He only realizes how long he's been kissing her when a familiar voice calls, "Oi, get a room!!"
"Oh, go away, George," Ginny says with a roll of her eyes, trying to hide her smile. Harry kisses her one more time, and she laughs, looking prettier than ever.
George starts singing (very badly off key) what Harry recognizes as one of Celestina Warbeck's old tunes, with slightly improvised lyrics:
Oh, Harry, stir my cauldron,
And if you do it right,
I'll boil you up some Weasley love
To keep you warm tonight!
"Merlin, I hate that song," Ginny says, and takes Harry's hand.
She doesn't let go of it all day.
That night, exactly three minutes after Hermione has snuck into Ron's room, Harry sneaks into Ginny's. It looks the same, with the darkly stained desk beneath the window and the posters of the Weird Sisters and Gwenog Jones on the walls opposite each other.
She sees him looking around and laughs. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. I kept all your newspaper clippings and the pictures we took last summer back at Hogwarts. I was hoping I'd get a shot at the real thing this Christmas, so..."
Harry throws her a look he likes to think is sexy, but probably really isn't. "Is that so? And what were you planning to do with this… shot at the real thing?"
Ginny laughs and wraps her arms around his neck. "Hmm, let me think…"
"You'd better be careful, or someone's going to think you're having impure thoughts," Harry warns her, sliding his hands against the warm skin under her jumper.
"Well, now that you're back, I suspect I'm allowed to have them," she says, kissing the tip of his nose. "I've stored up quite a few, you know."
Harry smiles, running his hands up her back to the clasp of her bra. "Well then, we'd best work some of them out before I go back, hmm?"
Ginny's arms come down from his neck. "Go back?" she says, voice gone cold. "You're home, you're not going back!"
Harry sighs. "Ginny…"
"No!" she exclaims, pulling his hands out from under her clothes. "You are not going back, Harry!"
"I'm sorry, but I have to!" he tells her as soothingly as he can manage. "You don't understand, Ginny, I have a responsibility to--"
"You don't! You have no responsibility to that man, Harry!" Ginny insists. "You've offered your help, you've done all you can, we've talked about this! You're not going back, and that's final!"
"Well I hate to disagree, but I am!" Harry says, exasperated. "How many times do I have to explain it to you? I need to do this! He needs me, you have no idea--"
"He doesn't need you! Do you listen to yourself when you talk? Yes, he loved your mum. Yes, he saved your life. Yes, he deserves to be forgiven for all the awful things he's done, but he does not deserve to take over your life! Harry, you can't…" she trails off, smoothing her jumper back down over her stomach. "He's not going to give you what you need."
"What I need?" Harry says, throwing her a look. "What do you mean, what I need?"
"Look, Harry…" she sighs. "I'm sorry, alright. I just… I thought you were back for good. I missed you, and…"
Harry runs his knuckles across her cheek and tucks her long red hair behind her ear. "I'm back now though. That's got to count for something, right?"
Ginny takes his hand in hers and lowers it to his side. "I'm really tired, okay. Let's just… we can talk about this tomorrow. Alright?"
Harry nods and lowers his lips to hers. "Of course. We'll have plenty of time tomorrow to--"
She turns away. "I mean, I'm really tired. I need some sleep, Harry."
Harry blinks, uncomprehending. "But I thought…"
Ginny sighs and sits down on her bed. "I know. Just… not tonight, alright?"
"Right," Harry agrees bitterly. "Not tonight."
Stalking out of her bedroom and into the toilet, he glares at his reflection in the mirror. "She's not being fair," he tells it indignantly. "She doesn't understand what this means to me."
The mirror tut-tuts in sympathy.
It's pretty sad he can get more affection from Professor Snape than from his own girlfriend, he thinks. The thought sits badly with his current state of mind, and he splashes water on his face to rid himself of it. When it doesn't work, he sighs, dries his face, and brings himself off into the toilet.
She's the wrong sort of cold, Harry decides, working himself steadily with one hand and gripping at the tank with the other. Shouldn't she be more physical if she's trying to convince him to stay? What is she playing at?
It makes no sense, and the quick wank does little to relax him when he was counting on warm, naked girl in his arms.
The next morning, he's still annoyed, maybe even more so because Ron looks quite proud of himself.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione asks him as he sulks over his sausages. She seems as though she hasn't slept much and doesn't mind.
"Fine," he says, spearing a sausage rather too forcefully with his fork. "Perfect."
She corners him in George's bedroom later that day. "Harry, you and Ginny didn't have a fight, did you?"
He shrugs.
"Harry..." she says, giving him one of those all-knowing looks that make Harry fear for Ron's future well-being.
"She doesn't want me to go back," he tells her. "I told her I had to. Professor Snape needs me, Hermione, he does. He has days when he... he's not right. I tried telling Ginny that, and she couldn't kick me out of her room fast enough last night. Why do I get the cold shoulder for being a good person?"
Hermione sighs and sits on the edge of George's bed. "Harry, we don't want to hurt your feelings, and it's... understandable that you're dealing with some personal issues. We just... we're worried about how you're coping, Harry."
Harry's jaw drops. "How I'm coping? What's wrong with my coping? I'm coping just fine! I'm an excellent coper!"
Hermione looks very serious as she takes his hand. "Harry, this has all been a very big change for you, leaving school, defeating Voldemort and becoming an Auror--"
"I don't have coping issues! Hermione, I swear, I'm just fine!" he insists.
She makes a little noise and squeezes his hand. "I understand you think you're coping well," she begins.
Harry pulls his hand away and stalks to the window. "This isn't about me. He's been hated and shunned for years, and he deserves to have someone there for him. He nearly died for me, Hermione. I thought he had."
"Harry, he didn't..." Hermione breaks off, sighing as though she's the one being criticised. "He doesn't care about you. He loved your mother, I know that, but he's hated you since the moment he laid eyes on you."
"He doesn't hate me," Harry tells her, frowning. He can very suddenly feel Snape's lips against his, his hand at the back of his neck and knee between his thighs, cock hard against his hip. He shudders. "Shut up," he tells Hermione.
She looks stunned. "Harry, is there something you want to talk about...?"
He turns his back on her and walks out.
He finds Mr Weasley, very politely inquiring about the state of his plug collection. Two hours later, he helps Mrs Weasley peal potatoes, sets the table, and flatters her for her astounding cooking ability. He chats all through the meal with Ron about the Cannons, who still haven't even come close to winning another game though Ron has high hopes, and pretends Ginny and Hermione don't exist.
After dinner he helps clean up and then tells them he's going to head home for the night. "I want to check on Kreacher, I'll be back tomorrow," he says, and pointedly doesn't kiss his girlfriend goodbye.
Kreacher all but squeals in delight when he walks in, his hairy ears twitching and fingers curling proudly around the cheap locket hanging from his neck. "Is Master hungry? Thirsty? Tired from his journeys? Needing fresh towels for bathing? If Master only tells Kreacher, Kreacher will make it right!"
Harry smiles weakly and feels a bit better. "Not tonight, Kreacher, but I expect a really good breakfast first thing tomorrow," he says.
Kreacher beams and hurries off to clean the spotless table and polish the already shining chandelier.
Lying in Sirius's bed that night, light reflected off the snow shining through the thin drapes, Harry stares at the old Muggle pin-ups on the walls and wonders what the hell he's doing with his life. When he was in Salem with Snape, he only wanted to be back here with Ginny, but now that he's here, he wishes he hadn't come at all. It might have something to do with the look in Snape's eyes when he kicked him out, but Harry doesn't want to think about that, so he doesn't.
The next day is a Monday and Ron and Hermione are gone, so Harry doesn't bother showing up at the Burrow until dinner.
Her cheeks flushed with anger, Ginny corners him in the kitchen some time later, his back against the counter with no escape.
"Don't look at me like that," Harry tells her. "You can't pick and choose when you want to be affectionate. It doesn't work like that. I only came all the way back here because you wanted me to, Ginny!"
Her bottom lip trembles.
He feels just a little awful, and relents. "Ginny, trust my judgment on this, alright? Think of it as... I'm helping out an old family friend. For my Mum. Okay? It's not because... it's not that I don't want to be here."
"I'm really sick of this argument," Ginny tells him, arms crossed.
"Then let's stop having it, alright?" he suggests helpfully.
She throws him a dark look and trudges up to her room alone.
By Christmas Eve nothing has changed, and Harry feels like pulling his hair out. He wonders if Mrs Weasley would mind if he opened her cupboards and started flinging crockery. He wants to lob her big serving platter with the partridges on it right at the pantry door where Snape pushed up against him and made him come.
He wonders what the man's doing, if he's miserable, lonely or worse. He wonders if he somehow knew this would happen, and that's why he stayed in America. He wonders if Snape's wondering about him being happy and then wonders why he thinks Snape would care. Then he wonders why he's wondering about Snape wondering about him wondering and wonders why he's giving himself such a headache.
Ron rescues him. "Harry! Hey, do you have a minute? Or, maybe two. Do you have two minutes?"
Harry gives him an odd look. "Um, I guess."
Ron grabs his arm and hauls him into his bedroom. He closes the door behind them and rubs his hands on the sides of his robes, looking nervous. "So, I need to ask you something. I know I could've owled you, but it just didn't seem right, putting it in writing. You have to tell me what you think."
Harry regards him expectantly.
Ron goes pink. "Okay. Right. Hold on a mo..." He opens his top drawer and starts rummaging through the socks. Swearing and tossing a few pairs over his shoulders, he eventually comes out with a vile orange pair rolled into a tight ball. Rolled inside is a small black box. He opens it and holds it out to Harry.
Inside is a diamond ring.
"Why Ron," Harry grins, "I don't know what to say. I'm flattered."
"I know it's not great," Ron says, ignoring his jibe. "I mean it's rather small and not so impressive, but Krum's been writing again and do you remember that Ravenclaw, Boot, from the DA? He's been wanting to discuss Protean Charms with her, which sounds really dodgy to me, and I wanted to, you know, get my name in first. On her, ah, list."
Harry stares.
Ron clutches at the ring and throws Harry a hopeful look. "You're my best mate, tell me I haven't completely lost my marbles!"
Harry laughs, feeling at a loss. "I'm sure your marbles are all around here somewhere. I'd take it out of the sock first, though. She's not likely to want it if it stinks like feet."
Ron grins, and then goes distinctly greenish. "I'm going to ask her tonight."
"Tonight?" Harry asks in shock. "That's... rather soon, isn't it? Don't you want to, I don't know, take her out someplace special, or..." he scratches his head, pondering the possibilities. "Are you sure it has to be tonight?"
Ron looks as though he's about to vomit slugs. "I don't even know what a Protean Charm is, Harry!" he says in a sick voice.
"Calm down, it'll be fine," Harry reassures him. "She's been with you for this long, so she's obviously off her nut anyway."
"Oh, I hope you're right, Harry!" Ron exclaims, and hides the ring in his pants drawer.
Harry feels sick.
This entire trip has gone completely wrong, nothing is like he remembered it, and everyone is happy but him and Ginny. Though actually, he thinks she's secretly pleased with herself for putting him through so much trouble and making him feel guilty. If she weren't, why would she be going to all the effort? Maybe she thinks she's punishing him.
All he knows is, he's had enough.
The International Floo Network is surprisingly busy tonight. He supposes everyone's trying to get home to their loved ones for the holiday last minute. Standing in front of the North American grate, he lets a family-- mother, father and two small girls with puppy in a red and green jumper-- ahead of him in the queue. The man thanks him and then shakes his hand, and Harry smiles weakly.
Will Snape even let him in when he gets there?
The streets of Muggle Salem are still full of shoppers when he arrives, due to the fact it's still only early evening here. Shop windows are lit and decked with holly, and piles of snow are ploughed onto either side of the pavement. Harry shivers, pulling his fingers up inside his jumper. People give him odd looks, and it takes him several blocks to realize he's still in his robes.
The flat is mercifully unwarded, and it is warm and bright, a candle lit on the kitchen cupboard and a fire burning in the fireplace. Harry lines his trainers up neatly beside Snape's old boots.
Snape is slouched on the sofa, a book in one hand and glass of mead in the other, the fire flickering against his pale skin. He doesn't look up when Harry enters.
"You're drinking?" Harry says, eyeing the bottle on the coffee table with unease.
"What are you doing here, Mr Potter?" Snape asks mildly.
"How much have you had?" Harry demands.
"Apparently not enough," Snape informs him, knocks backs the rest of his glass, and pours himself another. He sets down his book.
Harry regards the bottle, still nearly full, warily. "Have you started burning essays yet?"
"I am not sharing," Snape tells him, "so do not ask."
Harry sighs and slides down onto the sofa beside him.
Snape looks alarmed.
Harry sighs. "Yeah, I know. Go ahead, tell me how pathetic I am, I won't say you're wrong. Everyone was just so... cheerful. I couldn't stand it. It was all... What's wrong with me?" He stares into the fire, which pops and shifts with the settling logs.
When he looks up, a glass of mead is hovering just above his nose.
"Drink," Snape says, "and then be silent. If one more maudlin word escapes your mouth, I shall not be held responsible for my actions."
Harry's lips slip into a slight smile, and he empties the glass.
He thinks he hears Snape mutter something about wasteful Gryffindors and not appreciating decent liquor when they manage to get their ham-handed fingers on it, but at this point, Harry could frankly give a boggart's shifty arse. His mouth tastes good and his head is soon blissfully light, and he rests it against the back of the sofa, taking a deep, cleansing breath.
"I don't understand women," he says in a quiet voice, not quite sure why he's talking. "D'you reckon they're all a bit insane?"
Snape snorts disgustedly. "I hardly think I am the one to ask."
Harry smiles, feeling warm and drowsy from the mead and the fire, and leans his head against Snape's shoulder. "I was worried about you."
"Silence," Snape reminds.
"I wish you'd just talk to me so I can stop. I'm no good at worrying," he admits. "Takes too much effort. I can't read minds like you can, you know. Why can't we just talk?"
Snape interrupts his verbal meanderings by pouring them each another glass of liquor, which Harry takes his time with and decides is delicious. He settles back into the sofa's soft cushions, closes his eyes against the glow of the fire, and sips his drink. His brain feels warm and muzzy, and his body restful against Snape's still form.
He thinks this was the comfort he was looking for at the Burrow with Ginny, and for a moment he imagines he's with her. They're lying on the soft rug on the floor of Sirius's sitting room laughing about Gryffindor's victory over Slytherin and eating slices of Kreacher's chocolate gateau. Ginny dips her finger in the frosting and slides it over his lips, and then dips her mouth down to lick it off.
That makes him feel warmer still, though in slightly different places, and he pulls his robes into his lap to hide it.
Snape clears his throat and sits up to set his glass on the table.
Harry closes his eyes and stretches out across the sofa, mindful of his drink, thinking it might be nice if Snape sat back and let him reach an arm around his thin shoulders. It's Christmastime, after all. It's obviously too much to ask though, for the man to lay his hostility aside for five whole seconds and--
Something is rubbing his cock.
Harry's eyes fly open, and he sees Snape perched on the edge of the sofa staring down at him, his right hand in Harry's lap, moving against his tented robes. He starts to protest, because what the bloody hell is this, but Snape squeezes, and all thoughts of disagreement flee. Harry gasps and presses himself against Snape's palm, the man's sudden intake of breath at the movement sharp in his ears.
Harry licks his lips, remembers his liquor, and swallows down the rest. He feels hazy but not so much so that he doesn't realize what's going on, with Snape looking at him like that, his fingers digging in through the fabric of Harry's clothing to grasp his cock, his thumb pressed hard to the tip.
He wants to tell him he doesn't understand this, any of it, that he wants it to stop and never, ever happen again. Or that he wants Snape to slide his hands under his robes and bring him off right here on the sitting room sofa. All he manages is a dull moan and a jerk into Snape's fist that makes the man squeeze even harder, which confuses matters even more.
The thing about the robes though, and Snape's hand being under them, Harry needs to mention it because as awful and wrong as this is, it would be so much more awful and wrong with Snape's hand against his skin and that's somehow just what he needs. "P--Professor--" he manages, gasping at how debauched it sounds.
Snape slides off the sofa and between his knees, and Harry's eyes widen as he feels a hand run itself up against the skin on the inside of his leg. That hand is sliding between his thighs and up over the straining bulge of his pants, and Harry feels short nailed fingers slide themselves under the band. He jerks as they slip against the heated skin of his cock, calloused and rough like his own. "Ah--"
"Silence, Mr Potter," Snape murmurs, lifting Harry's robes and ducking his head beneath them, "I shall not remind you again."
Harry jerks at the hot, slick feel of a tongue against the soft skin on the inside of his thigh, and he lifts his hips when he feels Snape mouthing at his cock through the fabric of his pants. He hisses something obscene, empty mead glass tumbling from his fingers when Snape hooks his thumbs over the top of them and tugs them down.
Snape's tongue is hot and hard against Harry's cock, licking wetly up the length and to the head, where Harry feels his lips encircle him, tongue pressing into the slit. There is no teasing, or posturing, or pointless dry lip pressing like with Ginny. Snape's mouth slides down, lips firmly encircling the base of Harry's cock, with an intent that makes his stomach tighten.
His mouth slides back up, covering just the head, and Harry feels a pull, and the tiniest nip of teeth, and he's arching up off the sofa, hands gripping at the cushions, gasping and squeezing his eyes shut and it's too much, too good, too awful, too wrong and just perfect. It's everything he ever wanted from Ginny and Cho and anyone else whose throat he ever thought of shoving his cock down and before he can stop himself, his stomach clenches, balls tighten and hips jerk, and he comes into Snape's mouth.
The force of it leaves him breathless as the last time, and with his brain fuzzy from the alcohol, he barely notices Snape sliding out from under his robes and onto the sofa beside him.
Harry's body is limp like noodles. He feels like noodles-- overcooked, gooey ones-- sprawled there on the cushions with his wet cock hanging half out of his pants and Snape sitting beside him very soberly sipping mead.
"Mmm," Harry manages, throwing the man a pout.
"Silence," says Snape.
Harry smacks weakly at him with a noodle arm.
"Go to sleep," Snape says accusingly.
Harry snorts and wriggles down into the sofa and does just that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Author: persepolis130
Pairing: Snarry
Rating: NC-17 (all over 18, fret not, LJ!)
Warnings: explicit Snape/Harry, Harry/Ginny, spoilers for DH
Summary: Had Harry known bonding with his former professor would lead him to three different countries, a hastily-planned wedding and his pants around his ankles in Snape's sitting room, he wouldn't have quit his day job. Or... maybe he would've...
Notes: If you're wondering why this suddenly became 11 chapters instead of 10, I realized that this chapter had to be split in two or heads might explode with the sheer amount of sex contained therein.
CHAPTER ONE / CHAPTER TWO / CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
"Harry! I can't believe it!" Hermione exclaims, dropping an egg. "What are you doing here?!"
Harry beams, so relieved to see her he could almost weep. "Decided to come back a little early."
She lets loose a very un-Hermione-like squeal and runs across the Burrow's kitchen to throw her arms around Harry's neck and nearly strangle him. "Oh, we missed you so-- Ron! RONALD!"
"I told you," Ron's voice filters down from the stairway, "I'm not helping you make some bloody Muggle Christmas bis--"
"Like anyone would eat anything you made!" Harry shouts up to him.
He's pelting down the stairway in three seconds flat. "Harry!"
"Oof! Ron!" Harry exclaims, smiling fit to split his cheeks as Ron smacks his back. "Watch it! Hermione nearly strangled me, and now you--"
"I can't believe you're still in one piece!" Ron exclaims, smiling from ear to ear himself.
"Don't know how many pieces you thought I'd be in," Harry tells him, and he's never felt more fond of him than this very moment.
Ron shakes his head. "I know you survived Avada Kedavra twice and all, but living with Snape is--"
"Harry, dear!" Mrs Weasley is standing in the door with a bag of flour and a bunch of carrots, the very picture of a devoted housewife. "What a surprise!"
He braces himself for the obligatory kiss on each cheek.
"Oh, Ginny's going to be so pleased, Harry," she exclaims. "She's been so worried about you!"
Harry grins and lets himself be swallowed up by her motherly affection, overfed on mince pie and treacle, and later, when Mr Weasley gets home, grilled on how cordless drills work. He is overjoyed to be regaled by Cannons tales, questioned about the plight of American house-elves, and put to bed in Fred and George's old room, with extra blankets because Mrs Weasley thinks he looks peaky.
The night sounds of the house-- the ticking of a clock, Ron's breathing, Pig flapping in his cage, the muted moaning of the ghoul-- lull him to a deep, sound sleep.
It's good to be back.
It is even better tomorrow evening on Platform nine and three-quarters, watching the train roll in and searching the windows for his girlfriend. She's the first one off the train, throwing herself into his arms.
"Oh Harry, I missed you so much," she whispers against his cheek.
He looks into her pretty brown eyes and means it when he says, "I missed you too."
He only realizes how long he's been kissing her when a familiar voice calls, "Oi, get a room!!"
"Oh, go away, George," Ginny says with a roll of her eyes, trying to hide her smile. Harry kisses her one more time, and she laughs, looking prettier than ever.
George starts singing (very badly off key) what Harry recognizes as one of Celestina Warbeck's old tunes, with slightly improvised lyrics:
Oh, Harry, stir my cauldron,
And if you do it right,
I'll boil you up some Weasley love
To keep you warm tonight!
"Merlin, I hate that song," Ginny says, and takes Harry's hand.
She doesn't let go of it all day.
That night, exactly three minutes after Hermione has snuck into Ron's room, Harry sneaks into Ginny's. It looks the same, with the darkly stained desk beneath the window and the posters of the Weird Sisters and Gwenog Jones on the walls opposite each other.
She sees him looking around and laughs. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. I kept all your newspaper clippings and the pictures we took last summer back at Hogwarts. I was hoping I'd get a shot at the real thing this Christmas, so..."
Harry throws her a look he likes to think is sexy, but probably really isn't. "Is that so? And what were you planning to do with this… shot at the real thing?"
Ginny laughs and wraps her arms around his neck. "Hmm, let me think…"
"You'd better be careful, or someone's going to think you're having impure thoughts," Harry warns her, sliding his hands against the warm skin under her jumper.
"Well, now that you're back, I suspect I'm allowed to have them," she says, kissing the tip of his nose. "I've stored up quite a few, you know."
Harry smiles, running his hands up her back to the clasp of her bra. "Well then, we'd best work some of them out before I go back, hmm?"
Ginny's arms come down from his neck. "Go back?" she says, voice gone cold. "You're home, you're not going back!"
Harry sighs. "Ginny…"
"No!" she exclaims, pulling his hands out from under her clothes. "You are not going back, Harry!"
"I'm sorry, but I have to!" he tells her as soothingly as he can manage. "You don't understand, Ginny, I have a responsibility to--"
"You don't! You have no responsibility to that man, Harry!" Ginny insists. "You've offered your help, you've done all you can, we've talked about this! You're not going back, and that's final!"
"Well I hate to disagree, but I am!" Harry says, exasperated. "How many times do I have to explain it to you? I need to do this! He needs me, you have no idea--"
"He doesn't need you! Do you listen to yourself when you talk? Yes, he loved your mum. Yes, he saved your life. Yes, he deserves to be forgiven for all the awful things he's done, but he does not deserve to take over your life! Harry, you can't…" she trails off, smoothing her jumper back down over her stomach. "He's not going to give you what you need."
"What I need?" Harry says, throwing her a look. "What do you mean, what I need?"
"Look, Harry…" she sighs. "I'm sorry, alright. I just… I thought you were back for good. I missed you, and…"
Harry runs his knuckles across her cheek and tucks her long red hair behind her ear. "I'm back now though. That's got to count for something, right?"
Ginny takes his hand in hers and lowers it to his side. "I'm really tired, okay. Let's just… we can talk about this tomorrow. Alright?"
Harry nods and lowers his lips to hers. "Of course. We'll have plenty of time tomorrow to--"
She turns away. "I mean, I'm really tired. I need some sleep, Harry."
Harry blinks, uncomprehending. "But I thought…"
Ginny sighs and sits down on her bed. "I know. Just… not tonight, alright?"
"Right," Harry agrees bitterly. "Not tonight."
Stalking out of her bedroom and into the toilet, he glares at his reflection in the mirror. "She's not being fair," he tells it indignantly. "She doesn't understand what this means to me."
The mirror tut-tuts in sympathy.
It's pretty sad he can get more affection from Professor Snape than from his own girlfriend, he thinks. The thought sits badly with his current state of mind, and he splashes water on his face to rid himself of it. When it doesn't work, he sighs, dries his face, and brings himself off into the toilet.
She's the wrong sort of cold, Harry decides, working himself steadily with one hand and gripping at the tank with the other. Shouldn't she be more physical if she's trying to convince him to stay? What is she playing at?
It makes no sense, and the quick wank does little to relax him when he was counting on warm, naked girl in his arms.
The next morning, he's still annoyed, maybe even more so because Ron looks quite proud of himself.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione asks him as he sulks over his sausages. She seems as though she hasn't slept much and doesn't mind.
"Fine," he says, spearing a sausage rather too forcefully with his fork. "Perfect."
She corners him in George's bedroom later that day. "Harry, you and Ginny didn't have a fight, did you?"
He shrugs.
"Harry..." she says, giving him one of those all-knowing looks that make Harry fear for Ron's future well-being.
"She doesn't want me to go back," he tells her. "I told her I had to. Professor Snape needs me, Hermione, he does. He has days when he... he's not right. I tried telling Ginny that, and she couldn't kick me out of her room fast enough last night. Why do I get the cold shoulder for being a good person?"
Hermione sighs and sits on the edge of George's bed. "Harry, we don't want to hurt your feelings, and it's... understandable that you're dealing with some personal issues. We just... we're worried about how you're coping, Harry."
Harry's jaw drops. "How I'm coping? What's wrong with my coping? I'm coping just fine! I'm an excellent coper!"
Hermione looks very serious as she takes his hand. "Harry, this has all been a very big change for you, leaving school, defeating Voldemort and becoming an Auror--"
"I don't have coping issues! Hermione, I swear, I'm just fine!" he insists.
She makes a little noise and squeezes his hand. "I understand you think you're coping well," she begins.
Harry pulls his hand away and stalks to the window. "This isn't about me. He's been hated and shunned for years, and he deserves to have someone there for him. He nearly died for me, Hermione. I thought he had."
"Harry, he didn't..." Hermione breaks off, sighing as though she's the one being criticised. "He doesn't care about you. He loved your mother, I know that, but he's hated you since the moment he laid eyes on you."
"He doesn't hate me," Harry tells her, frowning. He can very suddenly feel Snape's lips against his, his hand at the back of his neck and knee between his thighs, cock hard against his hip. He shudders. "Shut up," he tells Hermione.
She looks stunned. "Harry, is there something you want to talk about...?"
He turns his back on her and walks out.
He finds Mr Weasley, very politely inquiring about the state of his plug collection. Two hours later, he helps Mrs Weasley peal potatoes, sets the table, and flatters her for her astounding cooking ability. He chats all through the meal with Ron about the Cannons, who still haven't even come close to winning another game though Ron has high hopes, and pretends Ginny and Hermione don't exist.
After dinner he helps clean up and then tells them he's going to head home for the night. "I want to check on Kreacher, I'll be back tomorrow," he says, and pointedly doesn't kiss his girlfriend goodbye.
Kreacher all but squeals in delight when he walks in, his hairy ears twitching and fingers curling proudly around the cheap locket hanging from his neck. "Is Master hungry? Thirsty? Tired from his journeys? Needing fresh towels for bathing? If Master only tells Kreacher, Kreacher will make it right!"
Harry smiles weakly and feels a bit better. "Not tonight, Kreacher, but I expect a really good breakfast first thing tomorrow," he says.
Kreacher beams and hurries off to clean the spotless table and polish the already shining chandelier.
Lying in Sirius's bed that night, light reflected off the snow shining through the thin drapes, Harry stares at the old Muggle pin-ups on the walls and wonders what the hell he's doing with his life. When he was in Salem with Snape, he only wanted to be back here with Ginny, but now that he's here, he wishes he hadn't come at all. It might have something to do with the look in Snape's eyes when he kicked him out, but Harry doesn't want to think about that, so he doesn't.
The next day is a Monday and Ron and Hermione are gone, so Harry doesn't bother showing up at the Burrow until dinner.
Her cheeks flushed with anger, Ginny corners him in the kitchen some time later, his back against the counter with no escape.
"Don't look at me like that," Harry tells her. "You can't pick and choose when you want to be affectionate. It doesn't work like that. I only came all the way back here because you wanted me to, Ginny!"
Her bottom lip trembles.
He feels just a little awful, and relents. "Ginny, trust my judgment on this, alright? Think of it as... I'm helping out an old family friend. For my Mum. Okay? It's not because... it's not that I don't want to be here."
"I'm really sick of this argument," Ginny tells him, arms crossed.
"Then let's stop having it, alright?" he suggests helpfully.
She throws him a dark look and trudges up to her room alone.
By Christmas Eve nothing has changed, and Harry feels like pulling his hair out. He wonders if Mrs Weasley would mind if he opened her cupboards and started flinging crockery. He wants to lob her big serving platter with the partridges on it right at the pantry door where Snape pushed up against him and made him come.
He wonders what the man's doing, if he's miserable, lonely or worse. He wonders if he somehow knew this would happen, and that's why he stayed in America. He wonders if Snape's wondering about him being happy and then wonders why he thinks Snape would care. Then he wonders why he's wondering about Snape wondering about him wondering and wonders why he's giving himself such a headache.
Ron rescues him. "Harry! Hey, do you have a minute? Or, maybe two. Do you have two minutes?"
Harry gives him an odd look. "Um, I guess."
Ron grabs his arm and hauls him into his bedroom. He closes the door behind them and rubs his hands on the sides of his robes, looking nervous. "So, I need to ask you something. I know I could've owled you, but it just didn't seem right, putting it in writing. You have to tell me what you think."
Harry regards him expectantly.
Ron goes pink. "Okay. Right. Hold on a mo..." He opens his top drawer and starts rummaging through the socks. Swearing and tossing a few pairs over his shoulders, he eventually comes out with a vile orange pair rolled into a tight ball. Rolled inside is a small black box. He opens it and holds it out to Harry.
Inside is a diamond ring.
"Why Ron," Harry grins, "I don't know what to say. I'm flattered."
"I know it's not great," Ron says, ignoring his jibe. "I mean it's rather small and not so impressive, but Krum's been writing again and do you remember that Ravenclaw, Boot, from the DA? He's been wanting to discuss Protean Charms with her, which sounds really dodgy to me, and I wanted to, you know, get my name in first. On her, ah, list."
Harry stares.
Ron clutches at the ring and throws Harry a hopeful look. "You're my best mate, tell me I haven't completely lost my marbles!"
Harry laughs, feeling at a loss. "I'm sure your marbles are all around here somewhere. I'd take it out of the sock first, though. She's not likely to want it if it stinks like feet."
Ron grins, and then goes distinctly greenish. "I'm going to ask her tonight."
"Tonight?" Harry asks in shock. "That's... rather soon, isn't it? Don't you want to, I don't know, take her out someplace special, or..." he scratches his head, pondering the possibilities. "Are you sure it has to be tonight?"
Ron looks as though he's about to vomit slugs. "I don't even know what a Protean Charm is, Harry!" he says in a sick voice.
"Calm down, it'll be fine," Harry reassures him. "She's been with you for this long, so she's obviously off her nut anyway."
"Oh, I hope you're right, Harry!" Ron exclaims, and hides the ring in his pants drawer.
Harry feels sick.
This entire trip has gone completely wrong, nothing is like he remembered it, and everyone is happy but him and Ginny. Though actually, he thinks she's secretly pleased with herself for putting him through so much trouble and making him feel guilty. If she weren't, why would she be going to all the effort? Maybe she thinks she's punishing him.
All he knows is, he's had enough.
The International Floo Network is surprisingly busy tonight. He supposes everyone's trying to get home to their loved ones for the holiday last minute. Standing in front of the North American grate, he lets a family-- mother, father and two small girls with puppy in a red and green jumper-- ahead of him in the queue. The man thanks him and then shakes his hand, and Harry smiles weakly.
Will Snape even let him in when he gets there?
The streets of Muggle Salem are still full of shoppers when he arrives, due to the fact it's still only early evening here. Shop windows are lit and decked with holly, and piles of snow are ploughed onto either side of the pavement. Harry shivers, pulling his fingers up inside his jumper. People give him odd looks, and it takes him several blocks to realize he's still in his robes.
The flat is mercifully unwarded, and it is warm and bright, a candle lit on the kitchen cupboard and a fire burning in the fireplace. Harry lines his trainers up neatly beside Snape's old boots.
Snape is slouched on the sofa, a book in one hand and glass of mead in the other, the fire flickering against his pale skin. He doesn't look up when Harry enters.
"You're drinking?" Harry says, eyeing the bottle on the coffee table with unease.
"What are you doing here, Mr Potter?" Snape asks mildly.
"How much have you had?" Harry demands.
"Apparently not enough," Snape informs him, knocks backs the rest of his glass, and pours himself another. He sets down his book.
Harry regards the bottle, still nearly full, warily. "Have you started burning essays yet?"
"I am not sharing," Snape tells him, "so do not ask."
Harry sighs and slides down onto the sofa beside him.
Snape looks alarmed.
Harry sighs. "Yeah, I know. Go ahead, tell me how pathetic I am, I won't say you're wrong. Everyone was just so... cheerful. I couldn't stand it. It was all... What's wrong with me?" He stares into the fire, which pops and shifts with the settling logs.
When he looks up, a glass of mead is hovering just above his nose.
"Drink," Snape says, "and then be silent. If one more maudlin word escapes your mouth, I shall not be held responsible for my actions."
Harry's lips slip into a slight smile, and he empties the glass.
He thinks he hears Snape mutter something about wasteful Gryffindors and not appreciating decent liquor when they manage to get their ham-handed fingers on it, but at this point, Harry could frankly give a boggart's shifty arse. His mouth tastes good and his head is soon blissfully light, and he rests it against the back of the sofa, taking a deep, cleansing breath.
"I don't understand women," he says in a quiet voice, not quite sure why he's talking. "D'you reckon they're all a bit insane?"
Snape snorts disgustedly. "I hardly think I am the one to ask."
Harry smiles, feeling warm and drowsy from the mead and the fire, and leans his head against Snape's shoulder. "I was worried about you."
"Silence," Snape reminds.
"I wish you'd just talk to me so I can stop. I'm no good at worrying," he admits. "Takes too much effort. I can't read minds like you can, you know. Why can't we just talk?"
Snape interrupts his verbal meanderings by pouring them each another glass of liquor, which Harry takes his time with and decides is delicious. He settles back into the sofa's soft cushions, closes his eyes against the glow of the fire, and sips his drink. His brain feels warm and muzzy, and his body restful against Snape's still form.
He thinks this was the comfort he was looking for at the Burrow with Ginny, and for a moment he imagines he's with her. They're lying on the soft rug on the floor of Sirius's sitting room laughing about Gryffindor's victory over Slytherin and eating slices of Kreacher's chocolate gateau. Ginny dips her finger in the frosting and slides it over his lips, and then dips her mouth down to lick it off.
That makes him feel warmer still, though in slightly different places, and he pulls his robes into his lap to hide it.
Snape clears his throat and sits up to set his glass on the table.
Harry closes his eyes and stretches out across the sofa, mindful of his drink, thinking it might be nice if Snape sat back and let him reach an arm around his thin shoulders. It's Christmastime, after all. It's obviously too much to ask though, for the man to lay his hostility aside for five whole seconds and--
Something is rubbing his cock.
Harry's eyes fly open, and he sees Snape perched on the edge of the sofa staring down at him, his right hand in Harry's lap, moving against his tented robes. He starts to protest, because what the bloody hell is this, but Snape squeezes, and all thoughts of disagreement flee. Harry gasps and presses himself against Snape's palm, the man's sudden intake of breath at the movement sharp in his ears.
Harry licks his lips, remembers his liquor, and swallows down the rest. He feels hazy but not so much so that he doesn't realize what's going on, with Snape looking at him like that, his fingers digging in through the fabric of Harry's clothing to grasp his cock, his thumb pressed hard to the tip.
He wants to tell him he doesn't understand this, any of it, that he wants it to stop and never, ever happen again. Or that he wants Snape to slide his hands under his robes and bring him off right here on the sitting room sofa. All he manages is a dull moan and a jerk into Snape's fist that makes the man squeeze even harder, which confuses matters even more.
The thing about the robes though, and Snape's hand being under them, Harry needs to mention it because as awful and wrong as this is, it would be so much more awful and wrong with Snape's hand against his skin and that's somehow just what he needs. "P--Professor--" he manages, gasping at how debauched it sounds.
Snape slides off the sofa and between his knees, and Harry's eyes widen as he feels a hand run itself up against the skin on the inside of his leg. That hand is sliding between his thighs and up over the straining bulge of his pants, and Harry feels short nailed fingers slide themselves under the band. He jerks as they slip against the heated skin of his cock, calloused and rough like his own. "Ah--"
"Silence, Mr Potter," Snape murmurs, lifting Harry's robes and ducking his head beneath them, "I shall not remind you again."
Harry jerks at the hot, slick feel of a tongue against the soft skin on the inside of his thigh, and he lifts his hips when he feels Snape mouthing at his cock through the fabric of his pants. He hisses something obscene, empty mead glass tumbling from his fingers when Snape hooks his thumbs over the top of them and tugs them down.
Snape's tongue is hot and hard against Harry's cock, licking wetly up the length and to the head, where Harry feels his lips encircle him, tongue pressing into the slit. There is no teasing, or posturing, or pointless dry lip pressing like with Ginny. Snape's mouth slides down, lips firmly encircling the base of Harry's cock, with an intent that makes his stomach tighten.
His mouth slides back up, covering just the head, and Harry feels a pull, and the tiniest nip of teeth, and he's arching up off the sofa, hands gripping at the cushions, gasping and squeezing his eyes shut and it's too much, too good, too awful, too wrong and just perfect. It's everything he ever wanted from Ginny and Cho and anyone else whose throat he ever thought of shoving his cock down and before he can stop himself, his stomach clenches, balls tighten and hips jerk, and he comes into Snape's mouth.
The force of it leaves him breathless as the last time, and with his brain fuzzy from the alcohol, he barely notices Snape sliding out from under his robes and onto the sofa beside him.
Harry's body is limp like noodles. He feels like noodles-- overcooked, gooey ones-- sprawled there on the cushions with his wet cock hanging half out of his pants and Snape sitting beside him very soberly sipping mead.
"Mmm," Harry manages, throwing the man a pout.
"Silence," says Snape.
Harry smacks weakly at him with a noodle arm.
"Go to sleep," Snape says accusingly.
Harry snorts and wriggles down into the sofa and does just that.
CHAPTER FIVE