Hush (HP/SS)

Gah.  Well, here it is.  My last minute entry into Wave VIII of Dusk til Dawn.  Shall I bash it now, or shall I bash it later?  Now would probably be for the best.  Just a word of warning: it's more of a mood piece than anything.  There really isn't as much plot as I would have liked, but sometime around the beginning of June, my muse just stopped working for me.  She was all like "Hey, the weather's getting nicer, and school's out, and that emo girl with the lip ring over there keeps offering to buy me candy apple martinis... I think I'm going to take some time off. That isn't a problem, is it Mia?" So I don't like the way the story ultimately turned out (and neither did my beta, FYI) but I'm happy to have something finished.  So there.  Any constructive criticism is always welcome.  I swore I was going to take a break from challenges for awhile, and just write what I want to, when I remembered that I've ALREADY signed up for the IDOS "Poetry into Prose" challenge.  Yeah.  Brilliant.  Due on the 30th.  Hopefully my muse will recover from her hangover in time.

Title: Hush
Author: Mia Ugly
Rating: soft R (sorry everyone...)
Pairing: HP/SS
Disclaimer: These characters and their world are the property of J.K. Rowling and several other rich and powerful corporations. But I'm sure this is how it all really turns out.
Feedback: yes please
Beta: the fabulous Fast 9's. Thanks for the input; sorry I didn't make better use of it.
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm
Challenge: La Petite Morte: Sex and Sensuality

Days are easier; Snape knows this now.

During the day there are things that need to be done - potions to be made, errands to be carried out - occasionally even visitors that need to be attended (Albus, more often than not, the meddling old beggar.) During the day, Snape's hands are kept busy - they can touch, and lift, and write; Snape lets his body follow along behind them, lets his mind drift aimlessly through layers of blue and grey - thoughtless, weightless, still.

During the day there is the soft scrape of wood beneath his long fingers, the shine of cold sunlight reflected off his laboratory supplies; there is a bed to be made and carpets to be swept. There are dozens upon dozens of books to be read - slowly, consideringly - and pages of notes to be taken. (Albus suggests that he write a novel, an educational text, even a children's book - just as long as he finds something that suitably occupies his time.) But Snape does not write a novel (or a children's book either - The Little Death Eater that Could, that sort of nonsense.) No. Instead, Snape takes notes, and he takes notes exceedingly well. Perhaps one day the notes will amount to more than just an idle task to occupy his hands. Albus also suggests gardening, but that has never appealed to Snape; he always associated it with old women in wide-brimmed hats ("You could use a nice wide-brimmed hat," Albus says with an infuriating grin) and the sun has never been kind to his white skin. Not that there is much sunshine in this corner of Northern England. The garden would be uprooted by the wind within a week, at any rate. Best not to waste the effort.

Yes, days are definitely easier. And if the wind crying outside his door becomes more than he can bear, or the sound of singing floods out through his memory to fill his ears ("L is for the way you look at me...") Snape can play music, or immerse himself in his reading ("O is for the only one I see...") or even leave his small cottage, walk into town and make idle conversation with strangers. Which he rarely does. But still - there are numerous forms of escape.

At night, though, there is nothing. There is just his body, and his house, and the wind that rattles against the windows, wailing like some wretched, broken-hearted creature. Snape lies on his back in bed, begging the wind to be silent - begging his eyes to close, his body to sleep, his mind to stop, stop, STOP ("V is very very extraordinary...") Often he is forced to rise, to pace his empty house, to read and clean and write, but these distractions do not help as they do during the day. It is as if the gusty darkness pervades his body - runs like ink across his skin, his hands. He cannot wash it off, he cannot block it out, he cannot drown the stupid songs that whisper against the back of his neck ("E is even more than anyone that you adore...")

"You have a spectacularly awful singing voice," Snape murmurs to himself, tonight, in bed. It is a small comfort that even in his memories he can put the boy in his place. But life is composed of small comforts, Snape learned a long time ago, and he will gladly accept this.

It isn't as if he lost anything, at any rate. He never had anything to begin with. And for all the physical contact, for all the skin and sweat and gasped obscenities, it never amounted to affection. Snape is surprised that the boy's loss should affect him at all. The entire bloody thing was a farce, and everyone knew it. Everyone.

Snape lies awake in bed, sheets twisted rope around his legs. He will not sleep tonight, he hasn't slept in days, and already he can hear his memories clicking against the bedroom walls, small and sharp like spiders. He will not sleep tonight.

Outside the wind gasps out its sad greeting, and then is quiet for a few sweet moments.

It is a small comfort.

* * * * *

He misses sex, when he misses anything at all.

Disappointing, really. You'd think he would long for quiet conversations, small moments of peace, brief respites from the war that for so many years went on outside his bedroom door. But this is not the case (and at any rate, there were no moments of peace in the boy's company; during his early twenties he picked up the completely infuriating desire to sing constantly. Snape almost lost his mind.) Besides, Snape had not wanted quiet conversations, or moments of peace. He had wanted contact, clean and simple, fierce touch that could make him forget who he was for just a second. And so, when he allows himself to miss anything at all about their so-called "relationship," Snape misses sex. His long starved body cries out for contact; his memories jostle against eachother, an even thrust of hips and snaps of teeth, so steady you could dance to it. Sometimes Snape feels his body might shatter, pulled so tightly with want, blown so thin like heated glass.

Disappointing, really.

And it's not always about the boy (Snape feels a brief stab in his gut, something like guilt, which it certainly cannot be.) Occasionally, his memories are of Lucius Malfoy, blond-haired and vicious and gasping beneath him. It seems like a hundred years ago (another time, another place, another life) and most of the moments they had together have been pushed aside, gradually and subtly been coloured a brilliant green - grown smaller and skinnier, grown dark-haired and full-lipped. But there are still occasional fragments lurking in Snape’s twisted mind, brief flashes of Lucius Malfoy, on his back in the gardens outside his father's estate: night time, clutching handfuls of white-blond hair and soil and the occasional petunia, biting his own lips to keep from crying out ("shh, someone will hear - oh -") and Lucius really looked like magic then, not like a wizard or witch but like magic itself, hot and jagged and cutting straight through flesh and bone to tangle around the heart ("for god's sake, Severus, yes -")

It's not always about the boy. Not always.

But then, sometimes - it is. Snape wonders if he should have seen it coming, should have - sensed it somehow. Should have felt it in his bones (the joints of his knees and hips, which get older and older and older), should have smelled it (ghosting over his skin like jasmine, like coriander, like the sea.)

Somehow he should have seen it coming. He should have seen it in the eyes of an 18 year old boy, that night at Grimmauld Place, seen it in the glances from across the table covered with maps and plans and papers. Snape can remember looking up casually and catching the boy's eye; and then again, and again, so frequently that it could not have been a coincidence. Harry Potter had been looking at him. And even when he was found out, the boy still did not look away. Snape stopped looking away, as well. It was as if everything else in the room flickered and went out, like a weak candle flame. The entire meeting Snape did not drop his eyes, and Harry did not drop his. And the Order members around them supplied information and schemed and planned, and Snape may as well have been in another country. He did not hear them.

(Somehow he should have seen it coming.)

And that night, as he was leaving - turning in the doorway to find those same eyes resting on him once again ("I don't blame you anymore. For Sirius. I don't blame you.")

Just those few small phrases, from the mouth of a boy young enough to be his son, standing there (just there) at the bottom of the staircase. He had looked rumpled, and weary, and not entirely sure of himself. And Snape had never before felt anything other than contempt towards the boy, had never found himself admiring the shape of that small mouth, or the frame of black lashes that surrounded his large eyes. But for some reason, that night -

("Mr. Potter, did I ever give you the impression that I cared one way or the other?") The boy's eyes did not flicker; his body did not move, and Snape stood there in the doorway, with the doorknob clenched so tightly in his hand that it could have turned into a diamond - white hot and brilliant, compressing in his fist.

* * * * *

There are deep circles beneath Snape's eyes the next morning, when Albus comes to visit.

"Merlin, my boy. How long has it been since you slept?"

(7 days, 6 hours, and 34 minutes.) Snape says that he does not know. Albus raises an eyebrow sceptically, and adds more sugar to his tea.

"Retirement does not seem to agree with you." The sugar makes a hissing sound as it slides off the spoon and into Albus' teacup. Snape wonders idly if the boy would understand it, would speak to it with his soft elegant tongue, would charm it as he charmed everything in his path. ("L is for the way you -")

Enough.

"Perhaps you should do some travelling, since you are on your own," Albus suggests, when it becomes clear that Snape is not going to respond to his previous comment. "The coast is always nice this time of year. Or France - I do believe you once expressed an interest in -"

"No," Snape interrupts, tone slightly more harsh than he had meant it to be. He scowls at Albus, in lieu of an apology. "I have no desire to travel at this time. I am really much too busy."

"It cannot be healthy, or even pleasant for you to be shut up all alone in this cottage. I know that you felt the boy's loss terribly, but it has been -"

(7 months, 18 days, 5 hours, 12 minutes -) "I am quite aware of how long it has been," Snape trails off and curls his lip disgustedly, although whether the disgust is directed towards Albus or himself, he cannot say.

"I would imagine that you are. And that is why you should not be alone, Severus. Professor Singh is, of course, well established at the school by now, but she has mentioned plans for a sabbatical. And since You-Know-Who is no longer a threat, perhaps you would appreciate the opportunity to - come out of retirement."

"I do not think so."

"At least at Hogwarts you were obligated to socialize with actual human beings. You had to leave your chambers if only occasionally, in order to instruct the children -"

Snape's mouth curls in what he can only assume must be a smile. Or as close to a smile as he has ever gotten, and will ever get. Albus seems to notice and abruptly stops speaking.

"Severus?"

"Ah. Thank you Albus, for reminding me exactly why I loathed that position in the first place. You put my mind at ease."

"Oh. Well. That is - something, I suppose." Albus shakes his head slightly, and returns his attention to the tea cup in his hand. Snape waits in horrible anticipation for the offer of a 'willing ear', for Albus to attempt some sort of comforting speech. It does not come, and Snape allows himself a brief moment of contentment. Outside the cottage, the wind rages - beats against the windows like a jealous lover.

* * * * *

The first time Potter touched him, it was raining.

It had been raining for two weeks straight, day and night and all the spaces between. Snape had been travelling with Potter's small group of Aurors as a medi-wizard, having left Hogwarts a long time ago ("You must understand, Severus, the children are not safe around you. Voldemort will come looking for you, and he will come here." Albus' eyes, always so blue and so sad and so goddamn sympathetic. Enough to make you ill.)

It had been raining, and Snape had not been sleeping. And to his intense displeasure, he had also been staring at Harry bloody Potter (certainly the boy had a middle name; he had a faint recollection that it was James, but he would certainly not acknowledge that little testament to history.) He had been staring at Harry bloody-certainly-not-James Potter like a man obsessed; he did not even know why - why his eyes sought out that small figure, why his body flinched at each new scar that criss-crossed the boy's thin arms and legs, why his stomach tightened, his lungs twitched, his world stopped bloody turning every time the boy was in danger, every time the boy was hurt, every time the boy -

Looked back.

And the boy did look back. More often than not, green eyes locked upon Snape's, green eyes narrowed in concern or suspicion. He had barely seen the boy since that night at Grimmauld place, nearly three years ago, and then suddenly - he could not look away from him. Potter's mouth never smiled (he made no pretence of friendship) but those eyes, those eyes - they followed Snape. And at times he pretended he didn't notice, and at times he pretended he was unaffected. But he always noticed. And he was always affected. Perhaps infected was a better (though less appetizing) word. Harry Potter was in his blood. Harry Potter was in his head. (Snape would not say that the boy was in his "heart"; the very notion was ridiculous. Obscene.)

It was the night before battle, and it was raining. Snape lay awake in his small tent, trying to convince himself that the patter of raindrops was soothing, and would lull him into a deep and dreamless sleep. Trying not to feel each raindrop against his skin, throbbing in his skull, cold and sharp beneath his bloody eyelids.

And then the flap of his tent opened. ("Professor.")

The first word out of the boy's mouth, not a question, not a hand casting for light in the darkness, just a small word, insignificant and alone (and that's wretchedly familiar, isn't it.)

The boy's shape in the darkness, moving closer, crawling across the nylon tent floor (and he was hardly a boy then, gods - he must have been twenty-two or twenty-three at the very least.) Snape could see the nightclothes clinging against the small frame, weighted down with rain, his dark hair plastered unevenly against his head. Shivering.

Snape can remember being terrified - the first thought rushing cold and sharp into his brain was that something had gone horribly wrong, that Potter was hurt, or the Death Eaters had come, or - a million fears crashed into one another, chiming like broken glass. And Snape may have said the boy's name, may have whispered it like a hot gust of breath against cold fingers ("Potter?") but that much is lost to him. What is not lost to him is Potter's small hand uncurling in the dim light (he can see it in his mind, even now, even still) reaching out slowly like a bridge to some strange and foreign country. Snape knows he looked at that hand for a long time, palm-up and trembling, and the rain fell, the rain always fell -

Snape knows that at one point in the night, he took that hand in his. Small fingers wrapped around his own; a cold, damp body climbed beneath his welcoming blankets.

After that, many things become blurred - smudged like watercolour and out of focus. There were cold hands on the buttons of his night-shirt; there was the slide of cloth against skin, moving past hips, over knees and calves. There were wet robes in his hands, being clutched, held, squeezed until Snape's own fingers were damp and frozen. And then those wet robes were gone, and there was heat, blooming from tongues and lips - as if their mouths were the only source of warmth in the entire world, as if there were licks of flame following each kiss. And then (he's almost certain of it) Harry was on top of him, body illuminated by moonlight and darkness; Harry was on top of him, moving, sinking down, his mouth open (Snape half expected light to come pouring out of it, the colour of honey or wine.) Harry was taking him in slowly, and Snape could not have moved if he wanted to, could not have drawn breath or spoken, could only lie there dumbly while that boy rose and gasped and hissed out long slow breaths of warm air. Cold fingers dug into Snape's shoulders, mapped the scars across his chest, and eventually Snape summoned the strength to squeeze his eyes shut, because he could not look, he could not look -

Some time later in the evening, there were words (weren't there) there were words spouting up into his mouth, spilling past his lips ("oh fuck - oh -"), words that showed Snape how completely undone he could be by the smallest touch, how completely devastated he could be by the slightest brush of skin. There were words hissed between kisses and bites, spoken quietly, so as not to wake any of the Aurors sleeping nearby. And after it all, Harry lay beside him only for a moment, a long warm body anchoring Snape to the hard ground. Then Potter rose and dressed silently, before heading back out into the rain and darkness (brief glance over his shoulder, standing at the entrance of the tent: "I'm twenty-two today.") And Snape nodded.

He was not cold for the rest of that night. For awhile he believed he would never be cold again.

* * * * *

The next day is better. Albus deigns to leave him alone, and thus Snape does not spend the entire afternoon quietly defending his choices, and determinedly refusing the proffered biscuits or sweets that Albus usually brings with him. Yes, much better. And Snape lasts almost until two o'clock before the wind becomes too loud, the silence becomes too familiar, and he has to leave the cabin, set rapidly out for town (but he does not run; he may walk quickly, may stride along with his heart pounding, but he certainly does not run. Certainly not.)

Snape has tea in a small local eatery, a location he would have paid handsomely to avoid in another life. But at present, it is the only place where he can escape the wind, where he can let his mind be filled with the conversations of other, if simpler (Snape allows himself a twinge of self-importance) people. Apparently Hannah and Edward are finally getting a divorce, apparently the Abbotts' rebellious daughter has returned home, apparently Gregory is thinking of selling the shop. The people and words hold no special significance for him, but at least they are there - occupying the empty places in his mind so that his own demons are kept at bay. At least they are there.

That night, however, Snape's cottage is filled with Harry Potter; the boy is at his kitchen table, and on his sofa, and in his bed. Snape cannot so much as open his bloody eyes without seeing the boy, and with his eyes closed the memories become that much more real.

If only he could fall asleep. If only the wind would stop pleading to be let inside. If only there wasn't a soft voice in his ear, the ghost of a warm body pressed all along the length of his (for god's sake Severus, you are being ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself, man.)

If only -

It sometimes seems as if Snape's entire life revolves around that small phrase - a phrase that neither accomplishes nor resolves anything. Useless, really. But Snape still clings to it, holds it tightly between his thin fingers, holds it in the hollow of his stomach, beating like a second heart. He holds it, and he holds on.

And he certainly does not sleep.

* * * * *

The First Time and the Last Time (Snape capitalizes them in his mind, for significance, and then immediately regrets it) are clear. They are distinct moments, with beginnings and endings, they are whole and round and polished. Not so with the times in between - and there were times in between, make no mistake about that. Whenever he had fifteen bloody minutes free, whenever Potter was nearby just for the night, no matter what they were doing, no matter where they were staying - they found eachother. It was unspoken, really. There was a war going on, at any rate; sometimes words merely wasted time.

A Muggle hotel room. One of the poorer areas of Manchester.

There were cracks in the walls and stains on the sheets. The curtains and carpets and bloody furniture had reeked of cigarette smoke, and despite his long absence from such a pastime, Snape felt the delicious pull of nicotine on his body. At that point he had been a liability to the Aurors as well; his life was spent moving from place to place, brewing potions and sending information to the Order when he could afford it, but usually just attempting to stay alive (not that such a state was important to him. Not at all. But Dumbledore seemed rather upset about his personal safety, and Snape had acquiesced, lapsing into a state of uselessness that genuinely crippled what dignity he had left.)

There were cracks in the walls and stains on the sheets, and on one particularly rainy evening, there was Harry Potter in the doorway. It was the first time he had seen the boy in six months.

Of course, Snape began the meeting with outrage and indignance ("What in the name of Merlin's bloody beard are you doing here? You absolutely imbecilic reckless little -") but he was not allowed to finish. They were kissing before he even managed to pull Potter into his rooms, before he even managed to finish his string of obscenities, or at least close the door behind them. And then the boy was pulling off his clothes, was tearing Snape's robes off with a violent kind of passion, and they were tangled together on the filthy carpet (Snape can still remember its texture against his shoulder blades, greasy and rough and probably infested with Merlin-only-knows-what.) And there were whispered spells and hissed obscenities, and Harry was thrusting into him, again and again and again; there was nothing dignified about it, it was raw and primal and Snape loved it, loved it, loved it ("oh fuck oh jesus oh sweet sweet sweet -")

Then Grimmauld Place.

Snape had been staying nearby, desperately trying to concoct healing draughts without garnering the attention of the landlord he was renting from. When he found out that Potter was going to be reporting to the former home of his godfather (which infuriated Snape to no end; if he knew where Potter was going to be, then certainly some of the Death Eaters would know that too, and Merlin's beard, the Order's covert operations had been severely affected by Snape's departure, it was painfully obvious.) But regardless, when he found out where Potter was going to be, Snape behaved - badly. He floo'd to Grimmauld Place in the Invisibility Cloak (still in his possession after confiscating it from the bloody boy in sixth year). He climbed the stairs. He opened the door to the room where Potter slept, and the boy woke immediately, his soldier's reflexes honed to react to even the slightest noise. But even just out of sleep, the boy's eyes recognized the silhouette in his doorway, and then Snape was creeping across the floor, slipping beneath cool sheets next to warm skin, and they were so so quiet (breathing, gasping into eachother's open mouths) so so quiet, moving slowly, languidly, and Potter's hands squeezed his shoulders fiercely leaving rows of purple bruises -

And then an alleyway. Just out back of the Crown And Anchour Pub.

They had met there by accident; it was not intended, and it was the last location Snape had expected to see the boy. Of course, Potter was wearing a glamour but Snape could see through it instantly; he knew the cadence of Potter's speech, his grace in movement, his taste, his scent. Snape himself had been wearing a glamour (currently he looked like a dishevelled old man with a wicked scar over his left eye.) But Potter must have recognized him too (unless the boy was just attracted to the dangerous, unwashed vagrant sort) because a mere fifteen minutes into his arrival he was tugging on Snape's sleeve, and they were weaving through the crowd around the bar, weaving through the smokers standing near the entrance, and making their way out into the rain and mist and cold, cold air.

Then Snape's back was against brick, and Potter's hands were everywhere (everywhere) and the air reeked of urine and smoke and alcohol but it didn't matter, nothing mattered; Harry was on his knees and Snape was helplessly thrusting into his warm mouth, making sounds that could not have come out of him, making moans and gasps and pleading cries that he did not know he was capable of making. And the rain fell ("oh god, please - please -") the rain fell ("jesus, Harry oh-")

The rain always fell.

* * * * *

The next day, Snape rises in a particularly foul mood. The colours and shapes of his world are beginning to seem distorted and out of focus (in the name of all that is holy, let me get some sleep...) and his body aches from a night spent thrashing around in the darkness. It has gotten to the point where he doesn't know if he should bother lying down.

Albus comes to visit, bearing a plate of chocolate covered biscuits that only serve to worsen Snape's mood. He eats a few anyway, hatefully and sulkily, after remembering that he hasn't consumed anything other than tea for the past two days. He always looked appallingly undernourished; he cannot imagine what he will look like if he continues to starve himself.

It will certainly not be pretty.

Snape manages to scare Albus away after only a few hours (which is only reasonable; for God's sake, doesn't the old codger have a school to run?) with a healthy dose of not quite veiled sarcasm He sits inside his cottage for awhile, listening to the rain drum against the windows, listening to the wind hiss outside the front door. Now that he thinks of it, this really was a terrible location in which to retreat into solitude. Given the opportunity to rethink his decision, Snape would choose to hide sullenly away in the south of Spain. It undoubtedly couldn't be any worse than this.

As Snape undresses for bed that night, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror (a vision he usually does his best to avoid.) He has always hated the sight of himself, and he hates it all the more now; his body looks awfully white, unsightfully pale in the cool moonlight. And he has always looked hideous and pale, that is nothing new, but for some reason tonight - the bareness of his skin disturbs him. Besides a great army of silvery scars, his skin is completely unmarked. No bruises. No scratches. No - colour.

A few months ago his skin was continuously speckled with bruises, purpled with the imprints of Harry Potter's mouth, his teeth, his tongue. At times Snape thought he could write a history of his body by the marks Potter left against his skin. He could recall what caused the small redness beneath his collarbone, the indentations of teeth against his ribs - he could remember the date, and the time, and the scent in the air during which such marks were imprinted on him (like fingerprints, really, Potter left his unique likeness on everything he bloody touched.) But now his body is white, and bare, and unmarked by neither passion nor violence.

At this point, he would take either.

Snape tries to read, in the hopes that his eyes will become tired and perhaps he will be able to sleep. Finally finally finally, he will be able to sleep. It is unlikely, but it is a real and warming hope, and that is what Snape has come to nourish himself on.

He tries to read, but the words on the page change (he's not coming back.) He tries to think, but something sinister whispers in his brain ( he's not coming back.) He tries to lie absolutely still and thoughtless and silent, but he can feel the words against his skin, breathing down the back of his neck (he's not coming back, he's not coming back.)

"Goddamn you," Snape hisses in bed. What should he care? He can find other outlets for his pent up sexual energy. It wasn't as if there was any other sort of connection between them. ("L is for the way you -")

"Goddamn you," Snape says again softly, speaking over the protest in his head. Outside the wind howls, and rain rattles angrily against the roof. It meant nothing. It meant nothing.

He misses sex, when he misses anything at all. He misses contact, and touch, and skin, and sweat. He misses a body beside his, he misses small hands against his skin, he misses green eyes and a soft voice and quiet conversations and small moments of peace and -

Snape stops himself with a shudder. No. He misses sex. Because that is all it was.

He most certainly does not miss Harry Potter.

(It meant nothing.)

Snape does not sleep, of course he does not sleep. He lies awake. He squeezes his eyes shut. His body cries out for succour, for relief that Snape cannot give. Hatefully (and inevitably) his thoughts turn to other things. Other times. Other places.

(He's not coming back.)

Snape thinks about the last time.

* * * * *

Most of the memories of Potter lie in Snape's mind like stones - some have faded, some have worn down, but most of them remain (flat, and heavy and smooth to the touch.) Not so with their last time together. This memory is not a stone, it is not dull and rounded. This memory is clear like water; sharp like shattered glass. It catches the light and hurts Snape's eyes when he is careless (and he is not careless often.)

It was morning. And they were in this bed, the bed that Snape now spends night upon night lying awake in. It was morning, and they were in this bed, and for some reason the wind was quiet, the air was soft and still. And it was morning.

("Early one mo-or-ning, just as the sun was ri-i-sing...")

A voice had woken him from a feverish sleep, a soft low voice, warm like sunlight against his back. Not that he had said as much ("For Merlin's sake, Potter, can't you be quiet for one bloody second?") And then there was a mouth, peppering kisses against the back of his neck, moving along his bare shoulders, sliding up to nip at the lobe of his ear. Heat uncurled like slender fingers in the pit of Snape's stomach, he can remember that. It seemed Harry Potter had that affect on him. Between kisses and licks to his shoulder blades, the soft low voice continued ("I heard a maiden singing in the valley below...") Snape had smiled despite himself (but in the foggy depths of his sad mind, he tells himself he did not smile, he could not have. He probably just scowled in irritation.)

And they knew that they didn't have much time, even then. They never had much time. Voldemort may have been slain (only a few weeks ago, by the boy's very hand) but Potter was still an Auror, and Snape was still wanted by all the surviving Death Eaters with a few minutes of free time. Snape fancied he could hear a constant ticking in the background, whenever he and Potter were together - the slow winding down of a clock, the slow hissing of sand through an hourglass.

They never had much time. They had both known it.

("Oh don't deceive me; oh never leave me...")

Light was streaming in the window, honey-coloured and clear, and Snape had been so unexpectedly filled with some painful sort of emotion, that he had to roll over and kiss the young man in his bed. He had to twist his awkward body (tangled in sheets, as always - he was never an easy sleeper) so that he could see Potter's rumpled hair, his green eyes still fogged with sleep, his small mouth curving softly.

"Hi," the boy murmured, and whatever emotion had been tightening in Snape's stomach now threatened to tear out of his narrow chest. Their mouths found eachother almost unconciously, and their bodies followed suit - pressing skin against skin, slow and soft and patient in the early morning light.

This was strange. Their love-making had never been anything other than desperate - heated and quiet and brief. But this was patient. This was soft.

When he finally slid into Harry, face to face, chests pressed slickly together, the strange intensity was almost enough to make his breath catch in his lungs. And neither of them knew that this would be the last time they would be together - but on some primal level, Snape's body must have seen it coming. And so it moved slowly for him, prolonging the moment, stretching it tightly like some sort of pale ribbon. Nothing had seemed real then - everything in the whole world was damp and out of focus and trembling underneath him ("jesus -") and his hand was on Harry's cock, fisting it with each slow thrust, and Harry's small hands were on either side of Snape's face, forcing him to look, to see that his lover's eyes were open, he was there, it was real, it was -

It was morning.

It could not last forever, of course, nothing could, and though it was so soft and so slow, the pleasure finally clenched its lovely fingers around Snape's body, and the boy beneath him arched his back (glistening with sweat, shining, brilliant, nearly painful to look at) and came silently, shaking, groping for Snape's mouth with his own.

And the boy really looked like magic then. Not like a wizard or witch but like magic itself, hot and jagged and cutting straight through flesh and bone to tangle around the heart. To weave through strands of greasy hair, to wind around fingers, across ribs. To tie. To bind.

"Severus," Harry had whispered, and Snape had found it difficult to touch him. He was sure his hands would burn. And it was only sex, of course it was only sex, there was no emotional or spiritual relationship between the two of them, and it was only a matter of time before this useless memory crumbled in his mind, before it broke down and went to pieces like an ancient castle wall, before it turned to dust in Snape's own hands, before it - oh, fuck it all.

He would keep that memory until the day he died.

* * * * *

The next morning is one of the worst Snape has experienced for a good long while. It is the first morning that he regrets the fact that Albus has not come to visit. It is the first morning that he accutely feels his solitude, his isolation, feels it like a blade cutting through the palm of his hand (and this sensation is not as unfamiliar to Snape as one might think.)

It is the first morning that he accutely feels - an absence. Feels phantom pains, like the prickling of an amputated limb. Feels a space in the hollow of his ribs, just below his heart, where something has been quite violently removed. Feels - ridiculous.

Which, of course, he is.

He tries to read and write on several occasions during the day, but it always ends with Snape sitting hunched over in an armchair (head in his hands, shaking) or his product being ripped into ribbons and hurled across the room. (Pull yourself together, for god's sake.) What has become of him, Snape wonders? He used to be the terror of a tolerably reputable school of Wizardry, he used to be a spy and a warrior and a soldier, someone respected, someone feared and hated, someone - useful, at the very least. And now what was he doing? Sitting alone in a ridiculous little cabin, bemoaning his sad and sorry fate, and lying awake all night half in love with Harry bloody -

Oh.

God.

Damn it.

That night the wind howls and the rain pours, but Snape finds that he cannot breathe within the walls of his small home. So he sets off into the night and the rain and the cold, sets off through the trees, as if some small foray out into the inclement weather will purify him, will exorcise his demons (one demon in particular.) It is not at all pleasant. The wind whips his hair into his eyes; Snape is quite certain he will have lash marks on his face. He has to walk leaning forward in order to make any progress whatsoever, and even then it's extremely slow. He spends at least an hour traipsing around the foliage outside his cabin, and is none the better for it. When it becomes apparent that there are no answers waiting for him behind the curve of the nearest elm tree, no wise magical creature hidden in the undergrowth and ready to set things right - when this becomes apparent, Snape finally decides to turn back. This trek is no more easy nor pleasant. When he finally reaches the unwelcoming shelter of his cold little cabin, his legs ache (older and older, everyday), his robes are soaked through, and his ears are beginning to ring from the wind. As he steps inside, pulling the reluctant door shut behind him, the first thing he notices is how still the air is compared to the raging wind outside. It feels almost suffocating for a moment. He remembers why he felt the need to get out.

The second thing he notices is that he is not alone. The soft creaking behind him gives the intruder away, and Snape (ever the optimist) is all too willing to let the end come. He's had a good run. It has been a long time coming, at any rate.

"Hello."

Or perhaps not.

The voice knocks the breath out of Snape's lungs for one brief moment, for one brief moment does he allow himself to stand speechless and gaping before the slim figure in his armchair. Just a moment.

"You were out when I got here. Sorry. Had to let myself in," his visitor continues.

Snape tries to assume as much dignity as he can possibly muster, given that he is staring open-mouthed, and dripping rainwater all over his scuffed wooden floor.

"Just - another one of my many pressing social engagements," he manages, trying to will indifference into his sharp features.

"Oh yeah?" Green eyes sparkle even in the dim light.

"Do you doubt for a moment my prestige and popularity?"

"Of course not." And there's that mouth, curling into a shy ironic smile, and Harry Potter untangles his long limbs and rises. Snape remains absolutely still as the young man approaches him, the smile still sliding across his face, and gods - he looks five years older, he looks tired and happy and absolutely bloody beautiful -

They stand a few feet away from eachother, just out of arm's reach. Snape bites back every ridiculous word that threatens to spill out of his ridiculous mouth.

"How have you been?" Harry murmurs, after a moment. His slow smile returns. "Besides, of course, popular and preoccupied."

"Quite well, thank you. And yourself?"

"All right, I guess." Harry takes a step closer, and Snape flinches unconsciously. "You look so tired. Your eyes -"

"It's just the shadows. You needn't concern yourself." His wet robes lie damply against his skin. Harry moves closer still, and Snape blames his shiver on the cold. "And when did you get back?"

"Just now. About half an hour ago."

"I must confess surprise at being the first one honoured with your presence. Surely you have a great, writhing mass of Weasleys that require your immediate attention?"

"Not my immediate attention, no." Harry steps so close to Snape that their bodies are almost touching. "Actually, right now you're the only one who knows I'm back. It was all done rather spur of the moment." He is quiet for a minute, staring at the ground. "I'm sorry about - about before. I did not know I would have to leave so suddenly. I hope that you weren't -"

"I wasn't, I assure you."

Harry presses his lips together before speaking again. "I - I would have written you, you know. Of course we weren't allowed to send messages home - would have given away our location, and all that. But I would have -"

"I did not expect you to."

Harry returns his gaze to Snape, measuring, assessing. There is another small silence.

"But I would have," Potter says again, firmly. Snape does not reply.

The boy lifts his hand then, and hesitates for a moment - his fingers frozen in the still air. After waging some sort of internal moral war, his hand continues its journey, and ghosts down the front of Snape's sodden robes almost idly. Snape tries to suppress another shiver, but is unsuccessful. He blames it on his treacherous body, having gone so long without touch. His body betrays him further, by beginning to speak.

"Your presence here is somewhat of a - shock. I thought you were not able to return from Egypt for another two months."

"Yeah, well." Harry rolls his shoulders, and grimaces. "I told them I needed to go home."

"And how did the Aurors take it?"

"You know. The usual. Shock, outrage, job offers, melancholy, lust poorly disguised as -"

"Potter, I - job offers?"

Harry smiles again now, slowly, his hand clutching the front of Snape's robe.

"Yeah. A post in England. Northern England, more's the pity. But I suppose slaying the Dark Lord can only get a boy so far in life."

There is a silence after this. Not so much because Snape does not know what to say, but more because his tongue is lying paralyzed within his mouth. More because his lips have decided to stop moving. And Harry watches him through all of this, his green eyes shifting across Snape's frozen face. Harry watches.

(It was as if everything else in the room flickered and went out, like a weak candle flame.)

And once that small dramatic pause is over, it is no longer a question of whether or not Snape will speak, because the answer is that he will not. His mouth will be too busy brushing against Harry Potter's (both of them flinch, even at this slight contact because it has been so long) will be too preoccupied with exploring the soft skin behind the young man's ear, moving down to taste the hollow of the boy's throat. His teeth will be more concerned with tearing buttons from a rumpled white shirt, his hands will be more interested in tangling in fabric, in hair, and eventually ("god, I missed you -") in sheets and blankets and damp, glistening skin ("oh fuck oh jesus oh sweet sweet sweet -")

Later that night, Snape holds Harry while he sleeps - their arms twined, their legs entangled, even their fingers laced together, in a way that is not particularly comfortable but that Harry seems to love. And there are no memories slipping across his sheets, crawling up the foot of his bed to haunt him - there is only a warm body against his own, the steady rhythm of another's heart against his chest, and -

"I think I should move in," the young man in his bed murmurs, voice slurred, mouth damp against Snape's shoulder.

There is a small silence.

"I - beg your pardon?"

"I think I should move in. Here. With you." Harry burrows his head into the crook of Snape's neck, and inhales deeply. Snape feels shivers run to the very soles of his feet, and refuses to squeeze his eyes shut. He will not be content. No. He will not.

"This is - rather sudden." He tries to put the apropriate amount of scorn into his tone, but finds it rather difficult. "We should - we can discuss this in the morning."

"Brilliant. Most of my stuff's in storage, anyway. I can go get it after breakfast."

"Harry -"

"It's just -" a small mouth brushes kisses against Snape's neck, up to the line of his jaw, "I don't know. I haven't been sleeping very well. You know? Without you."

"I must say that my sleeping habits have become a great deal better, without your incessant needs for conversation and reassurance, and your constant toneless singing and-"

Harry silences him with a kiss. "I know. Bloody endearing, aren't I?" he murmurs, and Snape can feel the boy's smile against his lips. He realizes that his opinion is becoming increasingly meaningless.

"I - Harry - I do not know how I will bear your being constantly underfoot. We need to discuss -"

"Absolutely," Harry kisses him again, and rolls onto his side, sighing softly. "Knew you'd understand." Snape is surprised to find that, even after this long absence, he still recognizes the sounds the young man makes: the quiet exhalations when he does not want to talk anymore, the soft murmurs that escape his lips when he begins to dream, the occasional cry or gasp when his old nightmares come back to haunt him.

He does not find this familiarity - particularly - unpleasant. In fact, it makes the corners of his mouth curl, in what could almost be mistaken for a smile. Almost.

The boy lies like a warm weight within his arms, breathing slowly. Outside the cottage, the rain has stopped falling. The wind whispers something briefly, possibly a few snatched phrases of a song ("oh, never leave me...) and is quiet. For a moment, the world is still.

Snape sleeps.

* * * * *