Fic: Seeing Stars
Title: Seeing Stars
Author: GMTH
Pairing: Severus/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's Narcissa's birthday, and Lucius has a wonderful surprise planned for her.
A/N: Written for the Dawn to Dusk Harry/Snape Fuh-Q-Fest. Response to challenge scenario 105: Harry and Snape are slowly easing into a relationship. They are incredibly attracted to one another, but they don't have that much in common - at first glance - and they disagree on a lot of things, but ... slowly they come to realize what they *do* have in common, which is more than what you might think... (Kira). For information regarding the mythology of the constellations mentioned in this story, click here. And many, many thanks to Dorie for the beta read. Written before OotP was published.
I'm cold.
I'm so bloody cold. It was madness to climb to the top of the Astronomy Tower on such a frigid night as this, but I couldn't help myself. Clear nights always draw me here, and tonight the only clouds marring the sky are the ones I create myself with my billowing exhalations.
The stars are so bright they almost hurt my eyes. Countless pinpricks of light stinging my retinas, tiny brilliant punctures in the dark void separating this world from the next. They seem so close, I feel as though I could reach out my hand and pluck one from the sky.
Their patterns are familiar to me. Over my right shoulder Cassiopeia winks at me, still arrogant in her opinion of herself even after all these millennia. To my left I catch a glimpse of Gemini, the heroic twins. Touching story, that. I have grown to appreciate it even more since I fought my own war and saw many fall who would never be granted immortality in the heavens.
Ursa Major. Taurus. Pegasus. Cygnus. The sky is painted with legends.
And one more. As always, I have avoided seeking out the most personally meaningful of the constellations until last. I turn so it is directly overhead, tilting my head back to view it in all its glory. I still remember the names of the stars. I learned them on this very tower, almost 40 years ago now. Betelguese, his right shoulder. Rigel, his left foot. And Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka, the three stars that comprise his belt.
Orion. The Hunter.
I've been looking at this grouping of stars all my life. I remember lying in bed as a child, looking at it through my bedroom window before I even knew its name. In my late teens here at Hogwarts, when I first began dreaming my ambitious little dreams about my place in Voldemort's circle, I spent many insomnia-plagued nights hidden away in the window seat near the Great Hall, watching Orion rise, trace its path across the sky and finally set as morning dawned. But other than being a signpost of the passage of autumn into winter, the Hunter never meant anything personally significant to me until the night of the final battle.
The night Potter finally fulfilled his destiny and rid us all of Voldemort forever.
*~*~*~*~*
It was cold that night as well, the air so crisp and raw it hurt to take a deep breath. There was snow on the ground, and the moon was full. It was a tactical error on the Dark Lord's part to plan his attack on Hogwarts during the full moon, but then he always thought he was invincible. He didn't count on the werewolves getting involved, not after the way the wizarding world had reviled them for so long. With Remus Lupin as their alpha, the huge pack of slavering beasts drove back the lines of Death Eaters, killing and devouring the lot of them. They never stood a chance. Lucius Malfoy alone escaped their grisly fate, only to be felled by a flash of green light thrown from the tip of his own son's wand. Draco had finally redeemed himself. And then he, too, was set upon by one of the werewolves whose bloodlust had not yet been sated.
I would find them both the next morning as I stumbled my way across the gore-splashed plain of white. And I would mourn the younger Malfoy's death with bitter tears. Draco may have performed his penance, but he would not be absolved. His sins were too great to be forgiven by anyone else.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I was not there to see the Malfoys fall. I was running across the grounds toward the Quidditch pitch at the time. I knew Voldemort was there, the Dark Mark told me so. It drove me in that direction, a desperate call from the Master to gather his servants around him, unaware that they all lay dead on the other side of the castle. It was the only time I have ever been glad to bear that detestable brand on my arm.
Potter was there with him, and he was alone, cut off from the rest of the Order by the line of werewolves. The two adversaries exchanged a few hostile words - I never understood Voldemort's need to speak at length before he struck, but on that night I was grateful for the extra time it gave Potter to formulate his attack - and then the curses began to fly.
By the time I got there, the blindingly bright light of the Priori Incantatem had already engulfed them both. I was too late. I skidded to a halt at the edge of the pitch, struggling to regain my breath. And I waited with my heart in my mouth, fist tightly curled around the hilt of my wand as I held it out in front of me. If Potter failed and Voldemort emerged victorious from that magical golden bubble, I was a dead man. The best I could hope for was to take the miserable murdering bastard down with me.
I thought I was drawing my last few breaths. It's untrue, what they say happens when you believe you're about to die - my life did not flash before my eyes. All I could think about was Potter and pray that he would be strong enough.
I didn't have to wait long to find out. A shriek of agony suddenly rent the air, a horrifying, reverberating scream that made my entire body crawl with gooseflesh. "Potter," I whispered, stumbling a few steps forward like a newborn colt. Then I found my feet and began to run again, yelling the boy's name at the top of my voice as I advanced.
Before I had taken a dozen steps, the Priori Incantatem shattered into a thousand shards of shimmering light. Bursts of magic surged over me, through me, picked me up off the ground like a leaf on a breeze and slammed me down again on my back.
I thought I was dead. I had to be. Dead and in hell. The Earth had never seen such light of such intensity, had never echoed with the tormented cries of a dying soul like the ones now filling my ears. I closed my eyes and consigned myself to eternity.
I don't know how long I lay there, waiting for the kiss of the flames, but it was long enough for my robes to become soaked through with the snow which was melting beneath me. A pair of strong hands gripped my shoulders and shook me roughly. "Professor," a hoarse voice rasped. "Wake up. Please! Professor, are you all right?" Another rough jostle and my eyes flickered open.
It was Potter, kneeling in the snow beside me. His eyes were wide and wild, his cheeks streaked with dirt and blood. And his scar - his scar glowed so brilliantly that it illuminated his entire face, a true lightning bolt at last.
I drew in a long, shuddering breath. Miraculously, he appeared uninjured. Other than the blood on his face, the only sign of the violence he had experienced was a long, thin crack in one lens of his glasses.
"Voldemort?" I asked quietly, reaching up to gently trace that mesmerizing mark with the tip of one bony finger.
"He's gone," the boy replied, grasping my wrist tightly. "He's gone. He's dead. I -"
I pulled him down on top of me in a rough embrace, and he continued to babble into my robes as I wrapped my arms around him. He was trembling from the cold and from the residual effects of the magic that still pulsed weakly around us, and I stroked his hair and held him against me tightly, murmuring his name again and again with my lips moving against his temple.
Far above us, I could see the stars of Orion bearing mute witness to our simple joining, and in that moment, Potter and Orion became as one in my mind. They were both Mighty Hunters. The only difference between them was Potter had actually succeeded in killing his prey, while Orion was doomed to spend eternity with his sword poised above his head, preparing to strike.
When the boy finally quieted, he raised his head from its place against my shoulder and looked down at me. The moonlight shining on one side of his face and the glow from his scar on the other bathed his features with a luminescence that seemed to come from another world.
Gods, he was beautiful. The first beautiful thing I had ever known in my life.
For an instant, I was sorry that he had no one better than I with which to share his triumph. Albus had been worthy of it, even Black, perhaps. But neither the Headmaster nor Potter's godfather had lived long enough to see it, and I had.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world when he brought his open lips down on mine in a slow, deep kiss. I could taste the remnants of his fear and his horror at having killed, all wrapped up in an overwhelming sense of relief that his job was finally finished. There was nothing of passion in that kiss, it was a simple act of celebration between two people who were profoundly grateful to have survived a common ordeal, yet I have never felt more inextricably linked to another person as I did just then. Our tongues played together like two small children released from school for the summer holidays, first in my mouth, then in his. His lips were cracked and dry from the cold, but I didn't care. Their very roughness assured me that what was happening was real.
The rest of the world could claim him later. For that fleeting eternity, Harry Potter was mine, and mine alone.
Two days later he left Hogwarts, whisked away by a triumphant Ministry determined to make as big a fuss over him as possible. He didn't return. There was no reason for him to do so. He was the most powerful wizard in the world, and we all knew it. He didn't need a handful of NEWTs to prove it.
He ended up in America, from what I understand. Minerva kept in touch with the Granger girl over the years, and from time to time, the Headmistress would relay bits of information about his activities gleaned from that source. Not to me directly, of course, but it was a simple enough matter to stay abreast of the news by keeping my ears open in the staff room. I thought about him more often than I wanted to, cursing the weakness that impelled me to the top of the Astronomy Tower even as my bootheels clacked on the stone steps. Gazing up at Orion was a bittersweet thing in those days. I thought I would never see Potter again aside from viewing his image in the stars.
I was wrong.
*~*~*~*~*
He's back at Hogwarts now, teaching Defence and acting as Head of Gryffindor. Lupin had held those positions during the dozen or so years of Potter's absence, but he'd been forced to retire at the end of the last school year. I still remember the wolfish howl of delight he loosed the day I told him an experimental cure for lycanthropy had been found. The treatments were horrifically painful - I know, because at his request I was there, and I watched him suffer - and they left him permanently disabled, far too weak to continue teaching. I've no doubt he finds the trade-off acceptable. In any case, when Lupin announced his resignation, Minerva wasted no time in recruiting Potter for the job, and four months ago he walked back into our lives once again.
The years have been kind to him, far kinder than they have been to me. He's tall and lean and compactly muscled, his dark hair tied in a neat ponytail that falls halfway down his back. His mother's green eyes are even more arresting than they were in his youth, now that he no longer hides them behind those rounded spectacles. And he moves with graceful confidence, finally comfortable with his power, refusing to allow the world to define him solely by the faded zigzag he still bears on his forehead. The students revere him. It rankles sometimes to see the respect he commands, yet I find I cannot hold it against him. He fascinates me.
One afternoon a few weeks into the term, we bump into each other in the staff room. Bursting with an uncharacteristic desire to leave the solitude of the dungeons, I venture upstairs with a stack of parchments waiting to be marked, and when I enter the staff room Potter is there alone, drinking a cup of tea. He looks up with a friendly smile and strikes up a conversation, an amiable, slightly offhand "how-have-you-been?' type dialogue, quite appropriate for two acquaintances who have not seen each other for a long time. It happens again the next week, when he approaches me for advice on dealing with one of the students (a situation I find ironic in the extreme), and then again a few days later when we discuss a problem with some of my third-year Slytherins, and before I know it we are chatting on an almost daily basis. At first, I treat him to bouts of my customary sarcasm and scores of my darkest glares, but he overlooks them and presses on anyway. I get the sense he's decided to move past my admittedly horrid treatment of him as a youth and try to relate to me as one adult to another. I soon find myself actually seeking him out for our daily discourse, and the day seems strangely empty to me if for some reason we don't meet up with one another.
He watches me a lot. Once upon a time I would have found that bothersome, but now I find I rather like it when I lift my eyes to find him looking at me. He always smiles when I catch him at it, a shy, almost boyish grin that thrills me more than I care to admit. Something seems to be stirring between us, a spark that could easily be fanned into a bright, hot flame should either of us decide to try pumping the bellows.
I wonder if he thinks about that starry night on the Quidditch pitch as often as I do.
*~*~*~*~*
The sound of footfalls on the stones behind me startles me out of my reverie. I know who it is without turning around. He must have known I was thinking about him.
"I thought I might find you up here," he says quietly as I yank my eyes from their contemplation of the heavens. I feel as though he's caught me doing something I shouldn't.
"Oh?" I reply, glancing at him over my shoulder. "And why is that, Professor?"
Professor. Even after four months of referring to him that way, it still feels odd.
"Minerva mentioned that you come up here a lot."
"Minerva is becoming quite the gossip in her old age," I observe dryly.
He chuckles. "I'll have to keep that in mind." His voice is deeper now than it was in his youth, his accent far more American than British. It suits him better, somehow.
He moves to the parapet where I am standing and leans back on it, crossing his ankles and folding his arms across his chest. His face is a blend of contrasting shadows in the moonlight.
"Beautiful night," he remarks casually.
"Yes. It is." I raise my face to the stars once again.
The wind kicks up a bit then, riffling the hem of my robes around my feet and causing one of the telescopes mounted nearby to creak on its tripod. Potter shivers audibly. "Merlin, it's cold up here," he says, gathering the front of his robes closer to his chest. "You must be freez-"
"Did you want something, Professor?" I interrupt. I'm not quite sure why I'm being so short with him, other than force of habit. Now that he is here, I realize how much I was hoping he would come to me.
He clears his throat. "I just wanted to talk to you," he replies tentatively.
Interesting. He's nervous.
He turns so he is looking out over the castle grounds, resting his hand on the parapet next to mine. "I - I thought about you a lot," he says softly. "While I was gone."
I have no reply to this. I can think of nothing to say that will not make me sound foolish, so I opt to say nothing at all. But my heart skips a beat to hear his soft-spoken confession, and then another when he places his hand gently on top of my own. I don't normally like to be touched, and he knows that. But this is different somehow, and I think he knows that, too.
"My God, Severus. Your hand feels like ice." It has also, I realize belatedly, gone numb from the cold.
He circles around me, and for a moment I am afraid he has decided to go back inside and leave me out here alone. Instead, he surprises me by gently wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, settling his robes around both of us and pressing the full length of his long, lanky form against mine. Unsure how to react, I stiffen at first. But when he doesn't pull away, I relax a bit and lean back against his chest, bringing my hands inside the cocoon he has created for us and settling them atop his so they can be warmed, as well. He's tall enough now that he can rest his chin on my shoulder, and I can feel the humid touch of each of his deep, even breaths against the side of my neck. He holds me for a long time, his body heat diffusing into me slowly, thawing my skin and melting my blood and firing my spirit.
I feel strange. Not uncomfortable - no, to the contrary. I feel sheltered and cared for and... safe. I'm unaccustomed to it. It's something I never realized was missing from my life, and even if I had, I would never have thought to find such a thing in the arms of Harry Potter.
"Let's get you inside," he murmurs. "We need to get you in front of a fire."
"No," I respond firmly, turning in his arms. "Not yet." And cupping my hand around the nape of his neck, I dip my head and graze his lips with my own.
Instantly, his hands crawl up my back and we pull each other yet closer. He traces my upper lip with the slick, pointed tip of his tongue, mutely asking for permission to enter, and when I grant it by parting my lips he slips it between my teeth. It sweeps through my mouth once, twice, three times, gently at first and then more forcefully as the kiss deepens, exploring me, filling me. He tastes of something spicy, I realize as I tug at the band securing his ponytail and entwine my fingers in the locks at the base of his neck. Then he retreats and it is my turn to delve into his warm, accepting mouth, sucking on his ripe lower lip, mapping the ridges of his palate with the point of my tongue.
This kiss, unlike the one we shared all those years ago, is filled with meaning, and when he leans into the contact I can feel the moist heat from his mid-section throbbing against my hipbone. Amazing that he could want me, this Man Who Saved Us All. He could have his pick of any witch or wizard in the world, and he has chosen me.
I decide that I deserve it.
"Come," he says at last, pulling back from the kiss with a tiny lick at the corner of my mouth. His voice is rough-edged with want. "I'm freezing my arse off out here."
*~*~*~*~*
Gryffindor Tower is closer than the dungeons, and as neither one of us is feeling particularly patient just then we head toward his chambers by unspoken agreement. My heart is twitching in a strange, arrhythmic pattern as the adrenaline courses through my system, the combination of an aching erection and knees that feel almost too weak to support my weight making it difficult to walk.
Almost there. I wonder if his seed will taste as tangy on my tongue as his mouth did.
As we approach the Gryffindor common room, the Fat Lady's portrait suddenly bursts open and Steven Hopkins tumbles out. "Professor Potter!" the sixth-year prefect shouts breathlessly when he sees his Head of House. "Come quickly! Magnus and Oswald are fighting again!"
Potter curses under his breath. He glances at me quickly and I wave him off. "Go on, Potter," I say reluctantly. I know better than most the kinds of sacrifices this job requires.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, giving me one last longing look before spinning on his heel to duck through the portrait hole. His face is already settling into angry lines.
I'm alone in the corridor, disappointed, bereft. These are familiar feelings, but they sting even more harshly than usual in the face of what could have been. I sigh deeply and head off toward the dungeons, knowing that even the blazing fire I will build in my chambers will not warm me nearly as much as he did.
*~*~*~*~*
When I ascend the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower the following night, he is already there. He stands in the same spot where I stood the night before, head tilted back in silent regard of the awesome panorama above us. The bluish cast of the moonlight robs his robes of their color, transforming the vibrant Gryffindor red into muted shades of grey. In the darkness he looks the way I imagine I must look in the daylight, a tall, still figure swathed in shadows from head to foot.
The air is bitterly cold when I step out onto the flagstones, made worse by a sharp gust of wind that make my robes flare out around me like a bell, but I find I have no fear of the cold tonight. I know there is warmth to be found here.
He turns at the sound of my footsteps, a slow, deliberate pivot that lets me know my appearance is not a surprise. He has been waiting for me.
"Hello, Severus." His hair is loose, and a passing blast of icy air blows it horizontal for a moment. "I'm glad you came," he says simply as it settles down around his shoulders again.
I want to tell him that very little short of a sudden and painful death could have kept me away, but I realize immediately that this would be undignified. "How did you know I would be here?" I ask instead.
"I took a shot," is his reply, and I can hear the smile in his voice. I gather he and Minerva have had another talk.
He holds out his hand to me, beckoning me to him, and I am glad he has decided to be the one to initiate the contact between us once again. I crave the intimacy of these gentle touches, but it is not something that comes easily to me. It is the only area of my life in which I have never been able to lead. It is the only area of my life in which I will allow Harry Potter to be my guide.
The wind lifts our hair again as we kiss, tangling it about our faces until it is difficult to know where I end and he begins. The kiss is tender, almost chaste, with none of the urgency of the night before. There is no need to hurry. The older students in both of our Houses are worn out from their day in Hogsmeade, and the troublemakers who interrupted our tryst last night are busily serving their detentions. We have the whole night ahead of us in which to discover one another.
"This is terribly cliched, you know," he informs me when we pull back from the kiss. "Coming to the Astronomy Tower to snog like a couple of teenagers, that is."
"Yes, well, things have changed a bit since you were a student," I respond dryly. "I believe my constant presence here over the years has discouraged the students from using the tower for such illicit purposes."
"Why do you come up here so often?" he asks, carding his fingers through my hair. It is knotted from the wind, and his progress is slow and gentle as he eases his way through the snarls.
I am unsure how to respond. It seems foolish now, all the nights I have spent looking at the stars and thinking back on an innocent kiss that happened so many years ago. I feel weak enough as it is, giving in to my need for him as I have. I refuse to make myself any more vulnerable than I must, not this early in the game.
So I choose to answer his question with a half-truth. "The stars hold many memories for me," I say finally.
"Good or bad?"
"Equal measures of both, I suppose."
"They do for me, too," he replies, lifting his face heavenwards. "Especially the winter constellations."
I look up, as well. Orion is directly overhead, so large in the sky that it appears to stretch for miles across the dark canopy. He seems to be - good gods, he is looking right at it. Can it be that the Hunter holds the same meaning for him that it does for me? Is it possible he has been gazing up at the sky all these years and thinking of me as I have been thinking of him? What a strange and wonderful thought that is. How oddly comforting to imagine it might be true.
"I miss him," he says quietly, a sad undertone to his voice.
It takes me a moment before I understand what he means. And it is then that I realize he is not looking at Orion at all, but rather at the grouping of stars at the Hunter's feet - Canis Major, one of Orion's hunting dogs, and home of the brightest star in the winter sky.
Sirius. The Dog Star.
So. He has been looking skyward and thinking of Black. I feel a perfect fool.
"It's still hard for me to believe he's gone, even after all this time," he sighs. "Sometimes, when something good happens to me I find myself thinking, 'I have to remember to tell Sirius about this next time I see him.' And then it hits me all over again that I can't, and I never will again." He pauses and draws me nearer, eyes never leaving the sky. "He was a great man."
This quiet assertion takes me by surprise and I stiffen, dumbfounded. "A great man?" The words feel as though they will choke me as they tumble out of my mouth. I disentangle myself from his embrace and step back a few paces, shaking my head incredulously. "I sincerely hope you are joking, Potter. Black may have been many things, but 'great' was not among them."
"I know you didn't like him, Severus, but - "
"No. That's where you're wrong. I didn't just 'not like him.'" I turn away. "I loathed him."
He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly. "When are you going to get past this ridiculous grudge?" he asks in low, serious tones.
"Never."
"But he's has been dead for thirteen years!"
"And if he had his way, I would be dead for more than thirty." I hate that the genial atmosphere between us is dissipating so quickly, leaving only these sparks of hostility in its wake. Amazing how Black can continue to destroy my happiness even from beyond the grave.
"Must we get into this now?" he asks plaintively, reaching out for me once again.
But this time I won't have it. "You're the one who brought it up, Potter," I snap, unwilling to let the matter rest. "Let me disabuse you of your romantic notions about Black. He sent me into that tunnel under the willow knowing full well what awaited me at the other end. If your father hadn't pulled me back, Black would have had not only my blood on his hands, but Lupin's, as well. In those days, the Ministry showed no mercy to werewolves who were known killers. He would have been executed as soon as the moon had set."
"But the fact remains that my father did save you," he replies hotly. "Neither you nor Remus were hurt. In his entire life, the only thing Sirius was ever guilty of was thoughtlessness, yet he spent more than thirteen years in prison! Don't you think that was punishment enough?"
"No, because he would never have gone to Azkaban if he hadn't been a coward," I hiss, whirling about to face him again. Without knowing it, he has touched the very core of my anger regarding Black. I have always hated the sodding bastard for trying to kill me, but there is so much more to it than that.
"What are you talking about? Sirius didn't have a cowardly bone in his body!"
"He most certainly did. He was a coward when he bullied me here at school, and he was a coward when he refused to be your parents' Secret Keeper. That cowardice is what killed your parents, Potter. Black didn't have the balls to face the idea of standing up to Voldemort, so he hid behind that pathetic little rat and offered your parents up like sacrificial lambs, instead."
"He thought he was doing the right thing. He was trying to protect my parents."
I loose a derisive snort. "Don't be fooled, Potter. He was only trying to protect himself."
"But he didn't know Pettigrew was a Death Eater!"
"Does that matter? The fact is, he shirked his responsibility because he was afraid!" I am pacing now, stalking back and forth across the flagstones with quick, furious strides, my face burning with both the chafing cold of the wind and the scalding heat of my rage. "I don't understand how you can continue to defend him. Don't you realize how differently your life would have turned out had Black done what he should have done and accepted the Fidelius Charm himself?"
"You don't know that that's true." His voice is quiet, but there is an undercurrent of intensity to it that causes a thrill of fear to run down my spine. I had almost forgotten that he is likely the most powerful wizard I will ever meet. When one is standing with his head in the jaws of a lion, it is unwise to poke it in the side with a stick.
"Perhaps not," I concede. "But I do know Black's fear of facing Voldemort ultimately forced you to do it in his place. He robbed you of your childhood, and very nearly robbed you of your life." Throwing caution to the wind, I stop directly in front of him and lean in close, delivering my next words straight into the face I was kissing only moments earlier. "And despite all of that, you choose to call Black a 'great man'? A 'great man' would have done everything possible to save his friends, up to and including giving his life for them, if necessary."
"He did," Potter says vehemently, his face twisting into an ugly mask in the moonlight. "Or have you forgotten that Sirius died trying to protect Albus from a Death Eater attack?"
The sudden turn in the conversation makes me uncomfortable, straying as it has into an area in which I am now vulnerable. I step back and turn away, my eyes unconsciously darting upwards to the north as I seek out yet another constellation, one which brings back nothing but painful memories.
Draco. The Dragon.
"No. I haven't forgotten." I can't forget. The Headmaster's death is a constant reminder of my own wretched failure, my inability to guide the younger Malfoy's feet to the right path until it was too late.
"Not that it mattered," he continues bitterly. "They both ended up dead, thanks to Draco."
I close my eyes for a moment, suddenly awash in memories. To this day, I am unsure how Draco found out about Albus and Black's plans to leave the safety of Hogwarts on a mission for the Order, but I have never been able to get past the feeling that I should have known he was up to something. I knew he had accepted his Mark the day he turned 17, just as I knew he was determined to make a name for himself with Voldemort the same way his father had. I can vividly recall the cold, proud smile on Lucius's face when he informed me that Draco was responsible for providing Voldemort with the intelligence regarding Dumbledore's movements, information which led to the dispatch of several high-ranking Death Eaters to eliminate him.
I still feel the grief that swept over me the night I learned of the Headmaster's death, still twist with the guilt of not finding out about the plan in time to put a stop to it. Horror. Fear. Rage. These are my constant companions when I look back on those dark days.
"Malfoy made a few bad choices, I will grant you that," I say after a long, tense silence. "But in the end he did the right thing. He gave up his life for the Order in that final battle. He killed his own father." Precisely what prompted that change of heart is something else about which I am unsure, but I sometimes flatter myself that the many long talks I had with Draco about the Light and the Dark and his place in the world played some small role in bringing it about.
"And that excuses his earlier actions? His betrayals?" He shakes his head violently. "No. Not to me, it doesn't. I don't care what he did in the end. His actions as a Death Eater can never be forgiven. Or forgotten."
The harshly spoken words sting like daggers cutting into my flesh. So often, I have flagellated myself with that very same sentiment with regard to my own past, but how much more devastating it is to hear it coming from the lips of another person. Especially when that person is someone to whom I was foolish enough to think I actually meant something.
Stiffly, I square my shoulders and straighten to my full height, gathering the shreds of my dignity around me as best I can. "That would go for me too then, Potter," I proclaim firmly.
His sudden gasp confirms my suspicion that he did not previously recognize his gaffe. He rushes toward me, hastily mouthing the beginnings of an apology, but it is too late. I turn on my heel and march away across the flagstones, leaving him and his damnable accusations behind to the cold and the wind.
*~*~*~*~*
A group of students congregated around the door to the Slytherin common room scatters when I storm by, my face dark as a thundercloud. One of them, a 7th-year girl bearing an unfortunate resemblance to Vincent Crabbe - only even less attractive, if such a thing is possible - looks at me as though she wants to say something, but the menacing glare I shoot her way quickly changes her mind.
I round the corner and stop short in front of the portrait of Albus Dumbledore seated in a high-backed armchair that guards the entrance to my potions lab. As usual he's asleep, snoring quietly with his chin propped up on one hand.
"Wake up, Albus," I growl, and his head drops out of his hand as he awakens with a startled snort.
"Oh, it's you, Severus," he says sleepily. "Password?"
"Decapitation."
The door doesn't budge. "My goodness, you're in a mood tonight," Dumbledore's likeness remarks, squinting in the half-light to catch the expression on my face. "Anything you'd like to discuss, dear boy?"
I sigh my irritation. "Just open the door, Albus," I command sharply.
"Very well," he replies and begins to swing slowly open. "But if you'd like to talk, you know where to find me."
I sweep through the doorway, muttering epithets about nosy portraits and addle-brained old men addicted to sweets under my breath. "I heard that, Severus," he informs me loudly, swinging shut behind me with an offended bang.
Lovely. Now I'll have to find some way to make it up to him if I ever want to gain access to my lab again. Times like this make me regret the sentimental impulse that made me replace the portrait of Salazar Slytherin that used to hang there.
The experimental potion I have been working on is still bubbling away quietly in one corner. I peer into the cauldron, sniffing tentatively at the tendrils of smoke that curl from its surface. It seems to be progressing well. It's still too early to add the powdered bicorn horn, but I knew that. It has to simmer for at least another week before it will be time.
I glance around the room quickly, looking for something else that might require my attention, *anything* that will help me forget the sting of Potter's words. The cabinets that house my personal stores are all neatly organized, each phial labeled and free of dust. My books are arranged alphabetically on the bookshelves, my research notes stacked in an orderly pile in the middle of the worktable, just where I left them earlier. Everything is in perfect order.
Blast.
I sit on one of the high stools and pull my notes toward me, thumbing through them without seeing the words. I should be used to this by now. I've always known that I will never be able to live down my reputation as a former Death Eater. Even now, over a decade since Voldemort's demise, I still hear the children whispering about my past when they think I'm not listening, still see the distrustful glint in their parents' eyes when they think I'm not looking. I thought I didn't care anymore. I *don't* care anymore. Nothing I can do or say will change their minds about me, and I resolved long ago to stop concerning myself about it.
So why does it bother me so much that Potter should give voice to that very sentiment? Why am I disappointed to learn he is no different from anyone else?
Because he was there, a little voice in my head says. He saw what you did for the Order. He knows the risks you took and the sacrifices you made. He has to know that without your help, he might have been the one reduced to a pile of ashes that night on the Quidditch pitch. Even he can't be so arrogant as to think he did it all by himself.
He wasn't talking about you tonight, another little voice reminds me. He was talking about Draco.
"I am Draco," I say aloud to the empty room. "We made all the same mistakes." An indictment of Draco's life is an indictment of mine.
I brood for a long while, listening to the voices in my head argue back and forth about the precise meaning of Potter's words on the rooftop. Part of me wants to believe he knows I'm not the same man I was when I decided to become a Death Eater, but the other part seems determined to wallow in self-pity and resentment. The ambivalence disgusts me.
So does the fact that, in spite of everything, I still want him.
When I finally look up, the long hand on the clock sitting atop my bookshelf is slipping down to the line marked "Past your bedtime." Sighing wearily, I put my notes in order and push the stool back, wincing at the sound it makes as the feet scrape across the stone floor. I check on the potion one last time, setting wards around it in case it should boil over during the night. Then I make my way across the lab to my chambers beyond, snuffing out the torches with a wave of my wand as I go.
Twenty minutes later I am sliding into bed, shivering at the feel of the cool sheets against my freshly-showered skin. I usually enjoy the sensual feel of the cotton as it warms against my bare chest and belly, but tonight I hardly notice it. The voices take up their argument where they left off earlier and I know sleep will be elusive.
A sudden sharp knocking at the door to my outer chambers interrupts my thoughts. What is it now? I'm tempted to ignore it and hope whoever it is decides to go away, but there is always the chance it is one of the Slytherin prefects in need of my assistance. When the rapping repeats, more insistently this time, I groan with disgust and throw back the duvet. "This better be important," I mutter to myself as I thrust my arms into the sleeves of my dressing gown, "or someone is going to find himself hexed into the middle of next week."
I stalk to the door, mentally preparing a stream of invective that will let my caller know in no uncertain terms exactly how I feel about being disturbed at this hour. But the words die on my lips when I throw the door open to reveal the visitor's identity.
For a moment, I am shocked into speechlessness. "What are you doing here, Potter?" I demand when I finally find my voice. He is the last person I ever expected to see.
"I want to talk to you," he says firmly, shouldering his way past me before I can reply.
"If you've come to apologize, I can assure you I'm not interested," I spit. I should order him out of my chambers. I know that's the right thing to do. Instead, I slam the door shut and turn to face him.
He plops down on my sofa without so much as a "by your leave" and fixes me with a steely glare. "I'm not here to apologize, Severus," he says. "I know the word 'forgiveness' is not part of your vocabulary, and besides, if you don't already know that I stopped thinking of you as a Death Eater years and years ago, then nothing I have to say on the subject now will do any good. Sit."
This last command surprises me, coming as it does with a gesture toward the seat next to him. What cheek! How dare he barge in here and begin issuing orders as though I were nothing more than a house elf! Hot words bubble up on my tongue, threatening to boil over and scald him to within an inch of his life. I want him out of my chambers, I want him gone from Hogwarts, I want him out of my life, I -
I want him.
I sit. "Very well then," I say gruffly. "What did you come here for?"
He takes a deep breath. "I came here to tell you what I've been trying to tell you for months now." His face softens as he reaches out to scoop up my hand. "I'm in love with you, Severus. I've loved you for years." Ignoring my bewildered expression, he raises my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. "I want us to be together."
To say I am stunned would be an understatement. A sudden swirl of conflicting emotions surges through me, feelings of fear and happiness so violent they make my head spin. "Potter, I - "
"You can call me Harry," he interrupts lightly, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. "I promise not to tell anyone."
"Harry." The word tastes strange in my mouth. I don't think I've ever called him by his given name before, not even in my thoughts. "I don't know what to say."
"There's a first," he replies with a chuckle. "I reckon there are a lot of folks around here who would pay good money to see Severus Snape speechless."
"Be serious," I command sharply.
The smile flies from his face. "I am serious," he says earnestly, tightening his grip on my hand. "I've never been more serious in my life. I think we could have something great together."
I snatch my hand away, suddenly angry for reasons I don't quite understand. "You're mad. We have absolutely nothing in common, Potter. Two people with such diametrically opposed personalities could never be happy together. We'd argue constantly!"
"But that's part of the appeal, you great git," he insists heatedly. "I'm tired of everyone kowtowing to me just because of this bleeding scar on my forehead. That's one reason I went to America after the war. I had to get away from all that 'Boy Who Lived' bollocks, but it was almost as bad over there as it is here. You're the only one who has never been impressed by any of that. Can't you see what a gift that is for me?" When I don't respond, he curls his fingers around mine again, reaching up to stroke the side of my face with his other hand. "Do you care for me at all?" he asks softly.
"Yes. I do." It feels somehow shameful to admit that I am capable of the same feelings as every other human being on the planet.
"Then will you give us a try?" he whispers, leaning in close. "Please, Sev. I want you. I've wanted you since I was 17." He kisses me then, a gentle kiss that deepens into passion so quickly that it robs me of my breath. I have never been kissed like this before. His tongue is practically in my throat, flexing and stroking and fucking my mouth... so, so deep, so, so good. I can hardly breathe. I'm drowning in him, but this taste of death is sweet. The blood pounds into my cock as he presses me into the back of the sofa and pushes my head down and back so he can thrust his tongue yet deeper.
The decision has been made for me. I'll go mad if I don't possess him soon.
"On one condition," I reply with mock severity when we finally come up for air. "Don't *ever* call me 'Sev' again."
His smile is so genuinely happy it makes my heart ache to see it. "Yes, sir," he responds, leaning forward again to trail kisses down the line of my jaw. He plucks at the belt of my dressing gown, unraveling the bow that holds it closed. The feel of his hand on my bare chest makes me quiver.
"Bed. Now." My voice is harsh with desire as I stand up and pull him to his feet. He nods and takes the hand I offer, following me wordlessly into the bedroom.
*~*~*~*~*
He is lying on his side in front of me, one leg hoisted in the air and anchored with his hand behind his bent knee, crying out as the head of my cock pierces through the relaxed ring of muscle guarding his entrance. Inch by slippery inch, I glide slowly into the intense, satiny heat.
"More, damn you. More!" he demands breathlessly as he arches back against me, splitting himself open, sucking me deeper inside. I gasp as his opening yields, devouring me like a greedy mouth until I am buried within him to the hilt. The heavy weight of his balls rests atop my own sac for a moment, a tantalizing rustle of silk on coarse hair. Then he is moving again, his arse cheeks flexing around me as he draws his hips forward, then relaxing as he pushes back to impale himself again.
I don't even have to move. He is doing all the work, bucking backward and forward against me, skewering himself on my swollen cock. On each backward stroke, he lifts his leg higher in the air, dropping it down again as he flexes forward, each movement massages my shaft like a tightly coiled fist.
Too soon, I feel the familiar buzzing growing in my belly. I keep still as long as I possibly can, wanting this to last, but I know I will soon be passing the point of no return. Finally, my pelvis begins to move, thrusting forward harder and harder until my belly is pounding against his lower back, driven faster by the high keening sounds being torn from his throat. I reach around to twist my hand around his weeping prick, tugging on the stiff flesh in time with the rhythm of my hips, grunting and panting and pistoning into him again and again until he screams my name and I feel the warm gush between my fingers. The mind-blowing pressure of his muscles rippling around my sensitized length nearly sends me over the edge. A few more shallow thrusts and the head of my prick swells and bursts deep within his grasping, writhing body.
At the moment of my orgasm, I cannot speak, I cannot breathe. Wave upon wave of the most intense pleasure I have ever felt sweep over me, pulse after sweet, sweet pulse. I press into his back to ride through it, my hips still grinding against him of their own volition until the last drop of my climax has been wrung from my sated balls.
My entire body is tingling as I finally begin to draw breath again. When I close my eyes to savor the afterglow, dozens of tiny points of light flash in the darkness behind my eyelids, resolving themselves into comfortable, familiar patterns.
I smile to myself when I realize what he has done. Once again, Harry Potter has me seeing stars.
Epilogue
Later, he rolls toward me and lies still in my arms, a small, dreamy smile lighting up his face. "All right, Severus?" he asks softly, running one hand along my side. My skin is still sensitive from my climax and his touch makes me quiver.
"Never better."
He sighs contentedly. "Same here," he says, closing his eyes.
I steal the chance to study his face. He truly is beautiful, never more so than now with the firelight playing gently across his relaxed features. His resemblance to his father has always been remarkable, but as I look at him now it occurs to me how much he favors Lily, as well. His face is a striking combination of both James and Lily's best features.
"Has anyone ever told you how much you look like your mother?" I ask, chuckling quietly as his eyes fly open in surprise.
"No, never," he replies, cocking one eyebrow. "Well, except for my eyes, that is."
"I can see much of her in your face," I inform him. "And I believe you'll grow to look more and more like her as you grow older."
"How can you be sure? My father was dead long before he reached my age. Maybe this is what he would have looked like."
"Never," I assert fiercely. "Your father never had cheekbones like these. You most definitely get them from your mother." I stroke one of the cheekbones in question with the pad of my thumb.
He closes his eyes again, sighing happily. "That feels nice," he says, and I am quite sure that if he were a cat he would be purring. After a moment, he asks, "Did you know my mother well?"
"As well as could be expected, given the circumstances. The Slytherin/Gryffindor rivalry was in place long before you graced the halls of Hogwarts with your distinguished presence, you know."
He ignores my gentle teasing, refusing to rise to the bait. "What was she like?"
I pause to consider my answer. It has been so very long since the last time I thought about her. "She was kind, I remember that. She had a lot of friends. And she was smart. Very smart. I sometimes used to wonder why she didn't sort into Ravenclaw." Another pause as I try to dredge up more solid reminiscences. I want to tell him everything I can about her. He deserves to know. "She was a good person," I say finally. "I wish I had known her better."
He opens his eyes and smiles at me wistfully. "Well, that's one thing we have in common, at least," he whispers, leaning forward to give me another kiss.
~Fin
Author: GMTH
Pairing: Severus/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's Narcissa's birthday, and Lucius has a wonderful surprise planned for her.
A/N: Written for the Dawn to Dusk Harry/Snape Fuh-Q-Fest. Response to challenge scenario 105: Harry and Snape are slowly easing into a relationship. They are incredibly attracted to one another, but they don't have that much in common - at first glance - and they disagree on a lot of things, but ... slowly they come to realize what they *do* have in common, which is more than what you might think... (Kira). For information regarding the mythology of the constellations mentioned in this story, click here. And many, many thanks to Dorie for the beta read. Written before OotP was published.
I'm cold.
I'm so bloody cold. It was madness to climb to the top of the Astronomy Tower on such a frigid night as this, but I couldn't help myself. Clear nights always draw me here, and tonight the only clouds marring the sky are the ones I create myself with my billowing exhalations.
The stars are so bright they almost hurt my eyes. Countless pinpricks of light stinging my retinas, tiny brilliant punctures in the dark void separating this world from the next. They seem so close, I feel as though I could reach out my hand and pluck one from the sky.
Their patterns are familiar to me. Over my right shoulder Cassiopeia winks at me, still arrogant in her opinion of herself even after all these millennia. To my left I catch a glimpse of Gemini, the heroic twins. Touching story, that. I have grown to appreciate it even more since I fought my own war and saw many fall who would never be granted immortality in the heavens.
Ursa Major. Taurus. Pegasus. Cygnus. The sky is painted with legends.
And one more. As always, I have avoided seeking out the most personally meaningful of the constellations until last. I turn so it is directly overhead, tilting my head back to view it in all its glory. I still remember the names of the stars. I learned them on this very tower, almost 40 years ago now. Betelguese, his right shoulder. Rigel, his left foot. And Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka, the three stars that comprise his belt.
Orion. The Hunter.
I've been looking at this grouping of stars all my life. I remember lying in bed as a child, looking at it through my bedroom window before I even knew its name. In my late teens here at Hogwarts, when I first began dreaming my ambitious little dreams about my place in Voldemort's circle, I spent many insomnia-plagued nights hidden away in the window seat near the Great Hall, watching Orion rise, trace its path across the sky and finally set as morning dawned. But other than being a signpost of the passage of autumn into winter, the Hunter never meant anything personally significant to me until the night of the final battle.
The night Potter finally fulfilled his destiny and rid us all of Voldemort forever.
*~*~*~*~*
It was cold that night as well, the air so crisp and raw it hurt to take a deep breath. There was snow on the ground, and the moon was full. It was a tactical error on the Dark Lord's part to plan his attack on Hogwarts during the full moon, but then he always thought he was invincible. He didn't count on the werewolves getting involved, not after the way the wizarding world had reviled them for so long. With Remus Lupin as their alpha, the huge pack of slavering beasts drove back the lines of Death Eaters, killing and devouring the lot of them. They never stood a chance. Lucius Malfoy alone escaped their grisly fate, only to be felled by a flash of green light thrown from the tip of his own son's wand. Draco had finally redeemed himself. And then he, too, was set upon by one of the werewolves whose bloodlust had not yet been sated.
I would find them both the next morning as I stumbled my way across the gore-splashed plain of white. And I would mourn the younger Malfoy's death with bitter tears. Draco may have performed his penance, but he would not be absolved. His sins were too great to be forgiven by anyone else.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I was not there to see the Malfoys fall. I was running across the grounds toward the Quidditch pitch at the time. I knew Voldemort was there, the Dark Mark told me so. It drove me in that direction, a desperate call from the Master to gather his servants around him, unaware that they all lay dead on the other side of the castle. It was the only time I have ever been glad to bear that detestable brand on my arm.
Potter was there with him, and he was alone, cut off from the rest of the Order by the line of werewolves. The two adversaries exchanged a few hostile words - I never understood Voldemort's need to speak at length before he struck, but on that night I was grateful for the extra time it gave Potter to formulate his attack - and then the curses began to fly.
By the time I got there, the blindingly bright light of the Priori Incantatem had already engulfed them both. I was too late. I skidded to a halt at the edge of the pitch, struggling to regain my breath. And I waited with my heart in my mouth, fist tightly curled around the hilt of my wand as I held it out in front of me. If Potter failed and Voldemort emerged victorious from that magical golden bubble, I was a dead man. The best I could hope for was to take the miserable murdering bastard down with me.
I thought I was drawing my last few breaths. It's untrue, what they say happens when you believe you're about to die - my life did not flash before my eyes. All I could think about was Potter and pray that he would be strong enough.
I didn't have to wait long to find out. A shriek of agony suddenly rent the air, a horrifying, reverberating scream that made my entire body crawl with gooseflesh. "Potter," I whispered, stumbling a few steps forward like a newborn colt. Then I found my feet and began to run again, yelling the boy's name at the top of my voice as I advanced.
Before I had taken a dozen steps, the Priori Incantatem shattered into a thousand shards of shimmering light. Bursts of magic surged over me, through me, picked me up off the ground like a leaf on a breeze and slammed me down again on my back.
I thought I was dead. I had to be. Dead and in hell. The Earth had never seen such light of such intensity, had never echoed with the tormented cries of a dying soul like the ones now filling my ears. I closed my eyes and consigned myself to eternity.
I don't know how long I lay there, waiting for the kiss of the flames, but it was long enough for my robes to become soaked through with the snow which was melting beneath me. A pair of strong hands gripped my shoulders and shook me roughly. "Professor," a hoarse voice rasped. "Wake up. Please! Professor, are you all right?" Another rough jostle and my eyes flickered open.
It was Potter, kneeling in the snow beside me. His eyes were wide and wild, his cheeks streaked with dirt and blood. And his scar - his scar glowed so brilliantly that it illuminated his entire face, a true lightning bolt at last.
I drew in a long, shuddering breath. Miraculously, he appeared uninjured. Other than the blood on his face, the only sign of the violence he had experienced was a long, thin crack in one lens of his glasses.
"Voldemort?" I asked quietly, reaching up to gently trace that mesmerizing mark with the tip of one bony finger.
"He's gone," the boy replied, grasping my wrist tightly. "He's gone. He's dead. I -"
I pulled him down on top of me in a rough embrace, and he continued to babble into my robes as I wrapped my arms around him. He was trembling from the cold and from the residual effects of the magic that still pulsed weakly around us, and I stroked his hair and held him against me tightly, murmuring his name again and again with my lips moving against his temple.
Far above us, I could see the stars of Orion bearing mute witness to our simple joining, and in that moment, Potter and Orion became as one in my mind. They were both Mighty Hunters. The only difference between them was Potter had actually succeeded in killing his prey, while Orion was doomed to spend eternity with his sword poised above his head, preparing to strike.
When the boy finally quieted, he raised his head from its place against my shoulder and looked down at me. The moonlight shining on one side of his face and the glow from his scar on the other bathed his features with a luminescence that seemed to come from another world.
Gods, he was beautiful. The first beautiful thing I had ever known in my life.
For an instant, I was sorry that he had no one better than I with which to share his triumph. Albus had been worthy of it, even Black, perhaps. But neither the Headmaster nor Potter's godfather had lived long enough to see it, and I had.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world when he brought his open lips down on mine in a slow, deep kiss. I could taste the remnants of his fear and his horror at having killed, all wrapped up in an overwhelming sense of relief that his job was finally finished. There was nothing of passion in that kiss, it was a simple act of celebration between two people who were profoundly grateful to have survived a common ordeal, yet I have never felt more inextricably linked to another person as I did just then. Our tongues played together like two small children released from school for the summer holidays, first in my mouth, then in his. His lips were cracked and dry from the cold, but I didn't care. Their very roughness assured me that what was happening was real.
The rest of the world could claim him later. For that fleeting eternity, Harry Potter was mine, and mine alone.
Two days later he left Hogwarts, whisked away by a triumphant Ministry determined to make as big a fuss over him as possible. He didn't return. There was no reason for him to do so. He was the most powerful wizard in the world, and we all knew it. He didn't need a handful of NEWTs to prove it.
He ended up in America, from what I understand. Minerva kept in touch with the Granger girl over the years, and from time to time, the Headmistress would relay bits of information about his activities gleaned from that source. Not to me directly, of course, but it was a simple enough matter to stay abreast of the news by keeping my ears open in the staff room. I thought about him more often than I wanted to, cursing the weakness that impelled me to the top of the Astronomy Tower even as my bootheels clacked on the stone steps. Gazing up at Orion was a bittersweet thing in those days. I thought I would never see Potter again aside from viewing his image in the stars.
I was wrong.
*~*~*~*~*
He's back at Hogwarts now, teaching Defence and acting as Head of Gryffindor. Lupin had held those positions during the dozen or so years of Potter's absence, but he'd been forced to retire at the end of the last school year. I still remember the wolfish howl of delight he loosed the day I told him an experimental cure for lycanthropy had been found. The treatments were horrifically painful - I know, because at his request I was there, and I watched him suffer - and they left him permanently disabled, far too weak to continue teaching. I've no doubt he finds the trade-off acceptable. In any case, when Lupin announced his resignation, Minerva wasted no time in recruiting Potter for the job, and four months ago he walked back into our lives once again.
The years have been kind to him, far kinder than they have been to me. He's tall and lean and compactly muscled, his dark hair tied in a neat ponytail that falls halfway down his back. His mother's green eyes are even more arresting than they were in his youth, now that he no longer hides them behind those rounded spectacles. And he moves with graceful confidence, finally comfortable with his power, refusing to allow the world to define him solely by the faded zigzag he still bears on his forehead. The students revere him. It rankles sometimes to see the respect he commands, yet I find I cannot hold it against him. He fascinates me.
One afternoon a few weeks into the term, we bump into each other in the staff room. Bursting with an uncharacteristic desire to leave the solitude of the dungeons, I venture upstairs with a stack of parchments waiting to be marked, and when I enter the staff room Potter is there alone, drinking a cup of tea. He looks up with a friendly smile and strikes up a conversation, an amiable, slightly offhand "how-have-you-been?' type dialogue, quite appropriate for two acquaintances who have not seen each other for a long time. It happens again the next week, when he approaches me for advice on dealing with one of the students (a situation I find ironic in the extreme), and then again a few days later when we discuss a problem with some of my third-year Slytherins, and before I know it we are chatting on an almost daily basis. At first, I treat him to bouts of my customary sarcasm and scores of my darkest glares, but he overlooks them and presses on anyway. I get the sense he's decided to move past my admittedly horrid treatment of him as a youth and try to relate to me as one adult to another. I soon find myself actually seeking him out for our daily discourse, and the day seems strangely empty to me if for some reason we don't meet up with one another.
He watches me a lot. Once upon a time I would have found that bothersome, but now I find I rather like it when I lift my eyes to find him looking at me. He always smiles when I catch him at it, a shy, almost boyish grin that thrills me more than I care to admit. Something seems to be stirring between us, a spark that could easily be fanned into a bright, hot flame should either of us decide to try pumping the bellows.
I wonder if he thinks about that starry night on the Quidditch pitch as often as I do.
*~*~*~*~*
The sound of footfalls on the stones behind me startles me out of my reverie. I know who it is without turning around. He must have known I was thinking about him.
"I thought I might find you up here," he says quietly as I yank my eyes from their contemplation of the heavens. I feel as though he's caught me doing something I shouldn't.
"Oh?" I reply, glancing at him over my shoulder. "And why is that, Professor?"
Professor. Even after four months of referring to him that way, it still feels odd.
"Minerva mentioned that you come up here a lot."
"Minerva is becoming quite the gossip in her old age," I observe dryly.
He chuckles. "I'll have to keep that in mind." His voice is deeper now than it was in his youth, his accent far more American than British. It suits him better, somehow.
He moves to the parapet where I am standing and leans back on it, crossing his ankles and folding his arms across his chest. His face is a blend of contrasting shadows in the moonlight.
"Beautiful night," he remarks casually.
"Yes. It is." I raise my face to the stars once again.
The wind kicks up a bit then, riffling the hem of my robes around my feet and causing one of the telescopes mounted nearby to creak on its tripod. Potter shivers audibly. "Merlin, it's cold up here," he says, gathering the front of his robes closer to his chest. "You must be freez-"
"Did you want something, Professor?" I interrupt. I'm not quite sure why I'm being so short with him, other than force of habit. Now that he is here, I realize how much I was hoping he would come to me.
He clears his throat. "I just wanted to talk to you," he replies tentatively.
Interesting. He's nervous.
He turns so he is looking out over the castle grounds, resting his hand on the parapet next to mine. "I - I thought about you a lot," he says softly. "While I was gone."
I have no reply to this. I can think of nothing to say that will not make me sound foolish, so I opt to say nothing at all. But my heart skips a beat to hear his soft-spoken confession, and then another when he places his hand gently on top of my own. I don't normally like to be touched, and he knows that. But this is different somehow, and I think he knows that, too.
"My God, Severus. Your hand feels like ice." It has also, I realize belatedly, gone numb from the cold.
He circles around me, and for a moment I am afraid he has decided to go back inside and leave me out here alone. Instead, he surprises me by gently wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, settling his robes around both of us and pressing the full length of his long, lanky form against mine. Unsure how to react, I stiffen at first. But when he doesn't pull away, I relax a bit and lean back against his chest, bringing my hands inside the cocoon he has created for us and settling them atop his so they can be warmed, as well. He's tall enough now that he can rest his chin on my shoulder, and I can feel the humid touch of each of his deep, even breaths against the side of my neck. He holds me for a long time, his body heat diffusing into me slowly, thawing my skin and melting my blood and firing my spirit.
I feel strange. Not uncomfortable - no, to the contrary. I feel sheltered and cared for and... safe. I'm unaccustomed to it. It's something I never realized was missing from my life, and even if I had, I would never have thought to find such a thing in the arms of Harry Potter.
"Let's get you inside," he murmurs. "We need to get you in front of a fire."
"No," I respond firmly, turning in his arms. "Not yet." And cupping my hand around the nape of his neck, I dip my head and graze his lips with my own.
Instantly, his hands crawl up my back and we pull each other yet closer. He traces my upper lip with the slick, pointed tip of his tongue, mutely asking for permission to enter, and when I grant it by parting my lips he slips it between my teeth. It sweeps through my mouth once, twice, three times, gently at first and then more forcefully as the kiss deepens, exploring me, filling me. He tastes of something spicy, I realize as I tug at the band securing his ponytail and entwine my fingers in the locks at the base of his neck. Then he retreats and it is my turn to delve into his warm, accepting mouth, sucking on his ripe lower lip, mapping the ridges of his palate with the point of my tongue.
This kiss, unlike the one we shared all those years ago, is filled with meaning, and when he leans into the contact I can feel the moist heat from his mid-section throbbing against my hipbone. Amazing that he could want me, this Man Who Saved Us All. He could have his pick of any witch or wizard in the world, and he has chosen me.
I decide that I deserve it.
"Come," he says at last, pulling back from the kiss with a tiny lick at the corner of my mouth. His voice is rough-edged with want. "I'm freezing my arse off out here."
*~*~*~*~*
Gryffindor Tower is closer than the dungeons, and as neither one of us is feeling particularly patient just then we head toward his chambers by unspoken agreement. My heart is twitching in a strange, arrhythmic pattern as the adrenaline courses through my system, the combination of an aching erection and knees that feel almost too weak to support my weight making it difficult to walk.
Almost there. I wonder if his seed will taste as tangy on my tongue as his mouth did.
As we approach the Gryffindor common room, the Fat Lady's portrait suddenly bursts open and Steven Hopkins tumbles out. "Professor Potter!" the sixth-year prefect shouts breathlessly when he sees his Head of House. "Come quickly! Magnus and Oswald are fighting again!"
Potter curses under his breath. He glances at me quickly and I wave him off. "Go on, Potter," I say reluctantly. I know better than most the kinds of sacrifices this job requires.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, giving me one last longing look before spinning on his heel to duck through the portrait hole. His face is already settling into angry lines.
I'm alone in the corridor, disappointed, bereft. These are familiar feelings, but they sting even more harshly than usual in the face of what could have been. I sigh deeply and head off toward the dungeons, knowing that even the blazing fire I will build in my chambers will not warm me nearly as much as he did.
*~*~*~*~*
When I ascend the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower the following night, he is already there. He stands in the same spot where I stood the night before, head tilted back in silent regard of the awesome panorama above us. The bluish cast of the moonlight robs his robes of their color, transforming the vibrant Gryffindor red into muted shades of grey. In the darkness he looks the way I imagine I must look in the daylight, a tall, still figure swathed in shadows from head to foot.
The air is bitterly cold when I step out onto the flagstones, made worse by a sharp gust of wind that make my robes flare out around me like a bell, but I find I have no fear of the cold tonight. I know there is warmth to be found here.
He turns at the sound of my footsteps, a slow, deliberate pivot that lets me know my appearance is not a surprise. He has been waiting for me.
"Hello, Severus." His hair is loose, and a passing blast of icy air blows it horizontal for a moment. "I'm glad you came," he says simply as it settles down around his shoulders again.
I want to tell him that very little short of a sudden and painful death could have kept me away, but I realize immediately that this would be undignified. "How did you know I would be here?" I ask instead.
"I took a shot," is his reply, and I can hear the smile in his voice. I gather he and Minerva have had another talk.
He holds out his hand to me, beckoning me to him, and I am glad he has decided to be the one to initiate the contact between us once again. I crave the intimacy of these gentle touches, but it is not something that comes easily to me. It is the only area of my life in which I have never been able to lead. It is the only area of my life in which I will allow Harry Potter to be my guide.
The wind lifts our hair again as we kiss, tangling it about our faces until it is difficult to know where I end and he begins. The kiss is tender, almost chaste, with none of the urgency of the night before. There is no need to hurry. The older students in both of our Houses are worn out from their day in Hogsmeade, and the troublemakers who interrupted our tryst last night are busily serving their detentions. We have the whole night ahead of us in which to discover one another.
"This is terribly cliched, you know," he informs me when we pull back from the kiss. "Coming to the Astronomy Tower to snog like a couple of teenagers, that is."
"Yes, well, things have changed a bit since you were a student," I respond dryly. "I believe my constant presence here over the years has discouraged the students from using the tower for such illicit purposes."
"Why do you come up here so often?" he asks, carding his fingers through my hair. It is knotted from the wind, and his progress is slow and gentle as he eases his way through the snarls.
I am unsure how to respond. It seems foolish now, all the nights I have spent looking at the stars and thinking back on an innocent kiss that happened so many years ago. I feel weak enough as it is, giving in to my need for him as I have. I refuse to make myself any more vulnerable than I must, not this early in the game.
So I choose to answer his question with a half-truth. "The stars hold many memories for me," I say finally.
"Good or bad?"
"Equal measures of both, I suppose."
"They do for me, too," he replies, lifting his face heavenwards. "Especially the winter constellations."
I look up, as well. Orion is directly overhead, so large in the sky that it appears to stretch for miles across the dark canopy. He seems to be - good gods, he is looking right at it. Can it be that the Hunter holds the same meaning for him that it does for me? Is it possible he has been gazing up at the sky all these years and thinking of me as I have been thinking of him? What a strange and wonderful thought that is. How oddly comforting to imagine it might be true.
"I miss him," he says quietly, a sad undertone to his voice.
It takes me a moment before I understand what he means. And it is then that I realize he is not looking at Orion at all, but rather at the grouping of stars at the Hunter's feet - Canis Major, one of Orion's hunting dogs, and home of the brightest star in the winter sky.
Sirius. The Dog Star.
So. He has been looking skyward and thinking of Black. I feel a perfect fool.
"It's still hard for me to believe he's gone, even after all this time," he sighs. "Sometimes, when something good happens to me I find myself thinking, 'I have to remember to tell Sirius about this next time I see him.' And then it hits me all over again that I can't, and I never will again." He pauses and draws me nearer, eyes never leaving the sky. "He was a great man."
This quiet assertion takes me by surprise and I stiffen, dumbfounded. "A great man?" The words feel as though they will choke me as they tumble out of my mouth. I disentangle myself from his embrace and step back a few paces, shaking my head incredulously. "I sincerely hope you are joking, Potter. Black may have been many things, but 'great' was not among them."
"I know you didn't like him, Severus, but - "
"No. That's where you're wrong. I didn't just 'not like him.'" I turn away. "I loathed him."
He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly. "When are you going to get past this ridiculous grudge?" he asks in low, serious tones.
"Never."
"But he's has been dead for thirteen years!"
"And if he had his way, I would be dead for more than thirty." I hate that the genial atmosphere between us is dissipating so quickly, leaving only these sparks of hostility in its wake. Amazing how Black can continue to destroy my happiness even from beyond the grave.
"Must we get into this now?" he asks plaintively, reaching out for me once again.
But this time I won't have it. "You're the one who brought it up, Potter," I snap, unwilling to let the matter rest. "Let me disabuse you of your romantic notions about Black. He sent me into that tunnel under the willow knowing full well what awaited me at the other end. If your father hadn't pulled me back, Black would have had not only my blood on his hands, but Lupin's, as well. In those days, the Ministry showed no mercy to werewolves who were known killers. He would have been executed as soon as the moon had set."
"But the fact remains that my father did save you," he replies hotly. "Neither you nor Remus were hurt. In his entire life, the only thing Sirius was ever guilty of was thoughtlessness, yet he spent more than thirteen years in prison! Don't you think that was punishment enough?"
"No, because he would never have gone to Azkaban if he hadn't been a coward," I hiss, whirling about to face him again. Without knowing it, he has touched the very core of my anger regarding Black. I have always hated the sodding bastard for trying to kill me, but there is so much more to it than that.
"What are you talking about? Sirius didn't have a cowardly bone in his body!"
"He most certainly did. He was a coward when he bullied me here at school, and he was a coward when he refused to be your parents' Secret Keeper. That cowardice is what killed your parents, Potter. Black didn't have the balls to face the idea of standing up to Voldemort, so he hid behind that pathetic little rat and offered your parents up like sacrificial lambs, instead."
"He thought he was doing the right thing. He was trying to protect my parents."
I loose a derisive snort. "Don't be fooled, Potter. He was only trying to protect himself."
"But he didn't know Pettigrew was a Death Eater!"
"Does that matter? The fact is, he shirked his responsibility because he was afraid!" I am pacing now, stalking back and forth across the flagstones with quick, furious strides, my face burning with both the chafing cold of the wind and the scalding heat of my rage. "I don't understand how you can continue to defend him. Don't you realize how differently your life would have turned out had Black done what he should have done and accepted the Fidelius Charm himself?"
"You don't know that that's true." His voice is quiet, but there is an undercurrent of intensity to it that causes a thrill of fear to run down my spine. I had almost forgotten that he is likely the most powerful wizard I will ever meet. When one is standing with his head in the jaws of a lion, it is unwise to poke it in the side with a stick.
"Perhaps not," I concede. "But I do know Black's fear of facing Voldemort ultimately forced you to do it in his place. He robbed you of your childhood, and very nearly robbed you of your life." Throwing caution to the wind, I stop directly in front of him and lean in close, delivering my next words straight into the face I was kissing only moments earlier. "And despite all of that, you choose to call Black a 'great man'? A 'great man' would have done everything possible to save his friends, up to and including giving his life for them, if necessary."
"He did," Potter says vehemently, his face twisting into an ugly mask in the moonlight. "Or have you forgotten that Sirius died trying to protect Albus from a Death Eater attack?"
The sudden turn in the conversation makes me uncomfortable, straying as it has into an area in which I am now vulnerable. I step back and turn away, my eyes unconsciously darting upwards to the north as I seek out yet another constellation, one which brings back nothing but painful memories.
Draco. The Dragon.
"No. I haven't forgotten." I can't forget. The Headmaster's death is a constant reminder of my own wretched failure, my inability to guide the younger Malfoy's feet to the right path until it was too late.
"Not that it mattered," he continues bitterly. "They both ended up dead, thanks to Draco."
I close my eyes for a moment, suddenly awash in memories. To this day, I am unsure how Draco found out about Albus and Black's plans to leave the safety of Hogwarts on a mission for the Order, but I have never been able to get past the feeling that I should have known he was up to something. I knew he had accepted his Mark the day he turned 17, just as I knew he was determined to make a name for himself with Voldemort the same way his father had. I can vividly recall the cold, proud smile on Lucius's face when he informed me that Draco was responsible for providing Voldemort with the intelligence regarding Dumbledore's movements, information which led to the dispatch of several high-ranking Death Eaters to eliminate him.
I still feel the grief that swept over me the night I learned of the Headmaster's death, still twist with the guilt of not finding out about the plan in time to put a stop to it. Horror. Fear. Rage. These are my constant companions when I look back on those dark days.
"Malfoy made a few bad choices, I will grant you that," I say after a long, tense silence. "But in the end he did the right thing. He gave up his life for the Order in that final battle. He killed his own father." Precisely what prompted that change of heart is something else about which I am unsure, but I sometimes flatter myself that the many long talks I had with Draco about the Light and the Dark and his place in the world played some small role in bringing it about.
"And that excuses his earlier actions? His betrayals?" He shakes his head violently. "No. Not to me, it doesn't. I don't care what he did in the end. His actions as a Death Eater can never be forgiven. Or forgotten."
The harshly spoken words sting like daggers cutting into my flesh. So often, I have flagellated myself with that very same sentiment with regard to my own past, but how much more devastating it is to hear it coming from the lips of another person. Especially when that person is someone to whom I was foolish enough to think I actually meant something.
Stiffly, I square my shoulders and straighten to my full height, gathering the shreds of my dignity around me as best I can. "That would go for me too then, Potter," I proclaim firmly.
His sudden gasp confirms my suspicion that he did not previously recognize his gaffe. He rushes toward me, hastily mouthing the beginnings of an apology, but it is too late. I turn on my heel and march away across the flagstones, leaving him and his damnable accusations behind to the cold and the wind.
*~*~*~*~*
A group of students congregated around the door to the Slytherin common room scatters when I storm by, my face dark as a thundercloud. One of them, a 7th-year girl bearing an unfortunate resemblance to Vincent Crabbe - only even less attractive, if such a thing is possible - looks at me as though she wants to say something, but the menacing glare I shoot her way quickly changes her mind.
I round the corner and stop short in front of the portrait of Albus Dumbledore seated in a high-backed armchair that guards the entrance to my potions lab. As usual he's asleep, snoring quietly with his chin propped up on one hand.
"Wake up, Albus," I growl, and his head drops out of his hand as he awakens with a startled snort.
"Oh, it's you, Severus," he says sleepily. "Password?"
"Decapitation."
The door doesn't budge. "My goodness, you're in a mood tonight," Dumbledore's likeness remarks, squinting in the half-light to catch the expression on my face. "Anything you'd like to discuss, dear boy?"
I sigh my irritation. "Just open the door, Albus," I command sharply.
"Very well," he replies and begins to swing slowly open. "But if you'd like to talk, you know where to find me."
I sweep through the doorway, muttering epithets about nosy portraits and addle-brained old men addicted to sweets under my breath. "I heard that, Severus," he informs me loudly, swinging shut behind me with an offended bang.
Lovely. Now I'll have to find some way to make it up to him if I ever want to gain access to my lab again. Times like this make me regret the sentimental impulse that made me replace the portrait of Salazar Slytherin that used to hang there.
The experimental potion I have been working on is still bubbling away quietly in one corner. I peer into the cauldron, sniffing tentatively at the tendrils of smoke that curl from its surface. It seems to be progressing well. It's still too early to add the powdered bicorn horn, but I knew that. It has to simmer for at least another week before it will be time.
I glance around the room quickly, looking for something else that might require my attention, *anything* that will help me forget the sting of Potter's words. The cabinets that house my personal stores are all neatly organized, each phial labeled and free of dust. My books are arranged alphabetically on the bookshelves, my research notes stacked in an orderly pile in the middle of the worktable, just where I left them earlier. Everything is in perfect order.
Blast.
I sit on one of the high stools and pull my notes toward me, thumbing through them without seeing the words. I should be used to this by now. I've always known that I will never be able to live down my reputation as a former Death Eater. Even now, over a decade since Voldemort's demise, I still hear the children whispering about my past when they think I'm not listening, still see the distrustful glint in their parents' eyes when they think I'm not looking. I thought I didn't care anymore. I *don't* care anymore. Nothing I can do or say will change their minds about me, and I resolved long ago to stop concerning myself about it.
So why does it bother me so much that Potter should give voice to that very sentiment? Why am I disappointed to learn he is no different from anyone else?
Because he was there, a little voice in my head says. He saw what you did for the Order. He knows the risks you took and the sacrifices you made. He has to know that without your help, he might have been the one reduced to a pile of ashes that night on the Quidditch pitch. Even he can't be so arrogant as to think he did it all by himself.
He wasn't talking about you tonight, another little voice reminds me. He was talking about Draco.
"I am Draco," I say aloud to the empty room. "We made all the same mistakes." An indictment of Draco's life is an indictment of mine.
I brood for a long while, listening to the voices in my head argue back and forth about the precise meaning of Potter's words on the rooftop. Part of me wants to believe he knows I'm not the same man I was when I decided to become a Death Eater, but the other part seems determined to wallow in self-pity and resentment. The ambivalence disgusts me.
So does the fact that, in spite of everything, I still want him.
When I finally look up, the long hand on the clock sitting atop my bookshelf is slipping down to the line marked "Past your bedtime." Sighing wearily, I put my notes in order and push the stool back, wincing at the sound it makes as the feet scrape across the stone floor. I check on the potion one last time, setting wards around it in case it should boil over during the night. Then I make my way across the lab to my chambers beyond, snuffing out the torches with a wave of my wand as I go.
Twenty minutes later I am sliding into bed, shivering at the feel of the cool sheets against my freshly-showered skin. I usually enjoy the sensual feel of the cotton as it warms against my bare chest and belly, but tonight I hardly notice it. The voices take up their argument where they left off earlier and I know sleep will be elusive.
A sudden sharp knocking at the door to my outer chambers interrupts my thoughts. What is it now? I'm tempted to ignore it and hope whoever it is decides to go away, but there is always the chance it is one of the Slytherin prefects in need of my assistance. When the rapping repeats, more insistently this time, I groan with disgust and throw back the duvet. "This better be important," I mutter to myself as I thrust my arms into the sleeves of my dressing gown, "or someone is going to find himself hexed into the middle of next week."
I stalk to the door, mentally preparing a stream of invective that will let my caller know in no uncertain terms exactly how I feel about being disturbed at this hour. But the words die on my lips when I throw the door open to reveal the visitor's identity.
For a moment, I am shocked into speechlessness. "What are you doing here, Potter?" I demand when I finally find my voice. He is the last person I ever expected to see.
"I want to talk to you," he says firmly, shouldering his way past me before I can reply.
"If you've come to apologize, I can assure you I'm not interested," I spit. I should order him out of my chambers. I know that's the right thing to do. Instead, I slam the door shut and turn to face him.
He plops down on my sofa without so much as a "by your leave" and fixes me with a steely glare. "I'm not here to apologize, Severus," he says. "I know the word 'forgiveness' is not part of your vocabulary, and besides, if you don't already know that I stopped thinking of you as a Death Eater years and years ago, then nothing I have to say on the subject now will do any good. Sit."
This last command surprises me, coming as it does with a gesture toward the seat next to him. What cheek! How dare he barge in here and begin issuing orders as though I were nothing more than a house elf! Hot words bubble up on my tongue, threatening to boil over and scald him to within an inch of his life. I want him out of my chambers, I want him gone from Hogwarts, I want him out of my life, I -
I want him.
I sit. "Very well then," I say gruffly. "What did you come here for?"
He takes a deep breath. "I came here to tell you what I've been trying to tell you for months now." His face softens as he reaches out to scoop up my hand. "I'm in love with you, Severus. I've loved you for years." Ignoring my bewildered expression, he raises my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. "I want us to be together."
To say I am stunned would be an understatement. A sudden swirl of conflicting emotions surges through me, feelings of fear and happiness so violent they make my head spin. "Potter, I - "
"You can call me Harry," he interrupts lightly, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. "I promise not to tell anyone."
"Harry." The word tastes strange in my mouth. I don't think I've ever called him by his given name before, not even in my thoughts. "I don't know what to say."
"There's a first," he replies with a chuckle. "I reckon there are a lot of folks around here who would pay good money to see Severus Snape speechless."
"Be serious," I command sharply.
The smile flies from his face. "I am serious," he says earnestly, tightening his grip on my hand. "I've never been more serious in my life. I think we could have something great together."
I snatch my hand away, suddenly angry for reasons I don't quite understand. "You're mad. We have absolutely nothing in common, Potter. Two people with such diametrically opposed personalities could never be happy together. We'd argue constantly!"
"But that's part of the appeal, you great git," he insists heatedly. "I'm tired of everyone kowtowing to me just because of this bleeding scar on my forehead. That's one reason I went to America after the war. I had to get away from all that 'Boy Who Lived' bollocks, but it was almost as bad over there as it is here. You're the only one who has never been impressed by any of that. Can't you see what a gift that is for me?" When I don't respond, he curls his fingers around mine again, reaching up to stroke the side of my face with his other hand. "Do you care for me at all?" he asks softly.
"Yes. I do." It feels somehow shameful to admit that I am capable of the same feelings as every other human being on the planet.
"Then will you give us a try?" he whispers, leaning in close. "Please, Sev. I want you. I've wanted you since I was 17." He kisses me then, a gentle kiss that deepens into passion so quickly that it robs me of my breath. I have never been kissed like this before. His tongue is practically in my throat, flexing and stroking and fucking my mouth... so, so deep, so, so good. I can hardly breathe. I'm drowning in him, but this taste of death is sweet. The blood pounds into my cock as he presses me into the back of the sofa and pushes my head down and back so he can thrust his tongue yet deeper.
The decision has been made for me. I'll go mad if I don't possess him soon.
"On one condition," I reply with mock severity when we finally come up for air. "Don't *ever* call me 'Sev' again."
His smile is so genuinely happy it makes my heart ache to see it. "Yes, sir," he responds, leaning forward again to trail kisses down the line of my jaw. He plucks at the belt of my dressing gown, unraveling the bow that holds it closed. The feel of his hand on my bare chest makes me quiver.
"Bed. Now." My voice is harsh with desire as I stand up and pull him to his feet. He nods and takes the hand I offer, following me wordlessly into the bedroom.
*~*~*~*~*
He is lying on his side in front of me, one leg hoisted in the air and anchored with his hand behind his bent knee, crying out as the head of my cock pierces through the relaxed ring of muscle guarding his entrance. Inch by slippery inch, I glide slowly into the intense, satiny heat.
"More, damn you. More!" he demands breathlessly as he arches back against me, splitting himself open, sucking me deeper inside. I gasp as his opening yields, devouring me like a greedy mouth until I am buried within him to the hilt. The heavy weight of his balls rests atop my own sac for a moment, a tantalizing rustle of silk on coarse hair. Then he is moving again, his arse cheeks flexing around me as he draws his hips forward, then relaxing as he pushes back to impale himself again.
I don't even have to move. He is doing all the work, bucking backward and forward against me, skewering himself on my swollen cock. On each backward stroke, he lifts his leg higher in the air, dropping it down again as he flexes forward, each movement massages my shaft like a tightly coiled fist.
Too soon, I feel the familiar buzzing growing in my belly. I keep still as long as I possibly can, wanting this to last, but I know I will soon be passing the point of no return. Finally, my pelvis begins to move, thrusting forward harder and harder until my belly is pounding against his lower back, driven faster by the high keening sounds being torn from his throat. I reach around to twist my hand around his weeping prick, tugging on the stiff flesh in time with the rhythm of my hips, grunting and panting and pistoning into him again and again until he screams my name and I feel the warm gush between my fingers. The mind-blowing pressure of his muscles rippling around my sensitized length nearly sends me over the edge. A few more shallow thrusts and the head of my prick swells and bursts deep within his grasping, writhing body.
At the moment of my orgasm, I cannot speak, I cannot breathe. Wave upon wave of the most intense pleasure I have ever felt sweep over me, pulse after sweet, sweet pulse. I press into his back to ride through it, my hips still grinding against him of their own volition until the last drop of my climax has been wrung from my sated balls.
My entire body is tingling as I finally begin to draw breath again. When I close my eyes to savor the afterglow, dozens of tiny points of light flash in the darkness behind my eyelids, resolving themselves into comfortable, familiar patterns.
I smile to myself when I realize what he has done. Once again, Harry Potter has me seeing stars.
Epilogue
Later, he rolls toward me and lies still in my arms, a small, dreamy smile lighting up his face. "All right, Severus?" he asks softly, running one hand along my side. My skin is still sensitive from my climax and his touch makes me quiver.
"Never better."
He sighs contentedly. "Same here," he says, closing his eyes.
I steal the chance to study his face. He truly is beautiful, never more so than now with the firelight playing gently across his relaxed features. His resemblance to his father has always been remarkable, but as I look at him now it occurs to me how much he favors Lily, as well. His face is a striking combination of both James and Lily's best features.
"Has anyone ever told you how much you look like your mother?" I ask, chuckling quietly as his eyes fly open in surprise.
"No, never," he replies, cocking one eyebrow. "Well, except for my eyes, that is."
"I can see much of her in your face," I inform him. "And I believe you'll grow to look more and more like her as you grow older."
"How can you be sure? My father was dead long before he reached my age. Maybe this is what he would have looked like."
"Never," I assert fiercely. "Your father never had cheekbones like these. You most definitely get them from your mother." I stroke one of the cheekbones in question with the pad of my thumb.
He closes his eyes again, sighing happily. "That feels nice," he says, and I am quite sure that if he were a cat he would be purring. After a moment, he asks, "Did you know my mother well?"
"As well as could be expected, given the circumstances. The Slytherin/Gryffindor rivalry was in place long before you graced the halls of Hogwarts with your distinguished presence, you know."
He ignores my gentle teasing, refusing to rise to the bait. "What was she like?"
I pause to consider my answer. It has been so very long since the last time I thought about her. "She was kind, I remember that. She had a lot of friends. And she was smart. Very smart. I sometimes used to wonder why she didn't sort into Ravenclaw." Another pause as I try to dredge up more solid reminiscences. I want to tell him everything I can about her. He deserves to know. "She was a good person," I say finally. "I wish I had known her better."
He opens his eyes and smiles at me wistfully. "Well, that's one thing we have in common, at least," he whispers, leaning forward to give me another kiss.
~Fin