Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Mum and Dad.

Why did you have to do it? Why did you have to trust the wrong people, and nark off the wrong people, and get yourselves killed? Why did you have to get married and have me in the first place? Why couldn't you have just gone on hating each other, like you'd done in school? Wouldn't that have been simpler for everyone?

I don't even know what made you decide you loved each other. I mean one day Dad's a stupid show-off who only thinks of himself, and Mum's a scornful know-it-all who thinks he ought to be horsewhipped, and the next thing I know, you're happy together, and dancing around and around in the falling leaves, like you've never ever imagined an ending that wasn't happily ever after.

And then you're both gone, and the stupid picture's all that's left. There's no happily ever after. There's only me.

I'm sorry. I know you gave up everything for me, but some days... some days I almost wish you hadn't done. I just keep on messing it up, you see? I can't love like you did, I can't make it work with someone who makes me feel like whirling around in the stupid leaves, and laughing endlessly. I've tried, you know? I really have done, but I'm just... I don't know how. I keep on arsing everything up, and then it's all gone before there's even a ghost of a happy ending.

And I keep wondering if maybe you cheated, you know? Maybe there was some potion Mum whipped up in Potions class while Slughorn wasn't looking. Or maybe there's some kind of transfiguration for 'turn idiot to husband'... but then I look in the mirror, and I see that stupid scar, and I have to admit it's more likely that the only love I'm ever going to know is the love that saved me from Voldemort all those years ago.

I should be satisfied with that... but it's really hard. Is it so selfish of me to want a love like that, but one I can actually keep?

I guess I should stop whinging about it though. I mean, alive and alone is better than dead and all together, right? That's what your sacrifice was all about. But I just... guess I needed to get it off my chest. And right now it seems like you're the only people I have left to tell it to.

Pathetic. I know. Especially since I know good and well that Hedwig isn't going to take this letter anywhere...

There's someone at the door again. Dobby's tired of turning people away, I suppose. I ought to go and do it myself. The way they're pounding, I don't think they're going to just get tired of it and leave this time... I wish they'd just let me sleep.

I miss you, Mum. I miss you, Dad.
I wish you were here... or maybe that I was there. I don't know for sure.
Harry

"Hang on a minute," Harry grumbled, watching his letter crumble to ash in the grate. When it was done, he wrapped his rug more securely around his shoulders, and went to un-ward the door.

Remus actually looked a little surprised when Harry appeared on the threshold. He covered it quickly though, and his raised eyebrows and brief frown might have been prompted by the state of Harry's unwashed hair and clothing. "Well. I'd say good morning," he observed with a hesitant smile, "only you don't much look as though you're having one."

Harry shook his head and swiped at his nose as he stepped back out of the doorway. "I'm sick. I told McGonagall I was sick," he grumbled. "And I am. She gave me the week off. I wasn't just sitting about and sulking, you know, I really do feel like hell."

Remus' smile warmed, and he brushed a hand across Harry's arm in mute apology. "I can see that. Have you gone to see Pomf-"

"No." Harry sighed, and flung himself back into the easy chair which had become his nest over the past three days. "It's just a cold. Or flu or something. I've got potions..." He nodded at the row of bottles lined up on the table beside him, each one emptied to precisely the expected level of three days' dosage. Not one of them brewed to deal in any way with fever, aches, or the astonishing amounts of phlegm Harry's head was producing. But Remus didn't have to know that. "And anyway," Harry coughed, "Pomfrey's always said sleeping was the best cure for this kind of thing."

Remus laughed, and took the other chair. That other chair. The one Snape fucked him over the back of, the one Harry had promised himself twenty times since Friday, that he would burn, just as soon as he was well again. Harry fidgeted, and hoped that Remus wouldn't notice the smell of sex all over the upholstery.

"She generally says that to stop every sprog with a sniffle from trying to skive off classes, you know," Remus said, as if he hadn't noticed Harry's blush. "But there actually are some potions and charms that help it pass more quickly. I could firecall her, if you've got some floo powder-"

"No!" Remus froze, alarmed when Harry all but lunged out of his seat. Abashed, Harry put his wand down, and rubbed his sore neck. "I... It's closed. The floo, I mean. Not working right now." Remus' eyebrow lifted, and Harry shrugged. "People kept firecalling me when I was trying to sleep, so I shut it down." If his voice sounded tight and wavery, well that was due to all the snot, right?

"We were only worried about you, Harry," Remus said in that calm, unprovocative voice that Harry remembered from Sirius' worst times at Grimmauld Place. "Nobody had seen you since Friday, after all. You wouldn't even let Minerva in when she came down on Saturday morning-"

"I didn't want to cough on her, and get her sick!"

Remus held up a hand. "I understand. But you can see why we'd all be worried, can't you?"

Harry couldn't, really. He'd bloody well killed Voldemort, after all. Twice! Or seven times, if you counted all the horcruxes separately, which, on some days, Harry was entirely inclined to do. Surely he could be trusted to look after himself during a trifling little cold!

But Harry knew that if he said so, it would bring that thoughtful sadness back into Remus' eyes. That, he didn't want to face, so Harry coughed twice, reached for his tea, and thought up a peace offering. "Yeah. I'm sorry. But I still really don't want the floo open, okay? The green flame really hurts my eyes, and the floo powder smoke makes my head ache. I'll send Dobby to ask Madam Pomfrey for something later on, I promise."

Remus nodded, though he didn't look convinced. He made his own peace offering though, by way of a change of subject. "So," he ventured, "Snape came to visit me."

Harry coughed to hide his dread. Remus didn't much look as though he was missing a pound of flesh, but then again, werewolves were strong, and Remus was a crack duelist. It could also account for Snape's complete absence since Friday if he were dead in a ditch somewhere… "He, er, did?"

"Mm." Remus nodded. "I'd told Minerva this weekend that I meant to return back home tonight. I suppose she contacted Snape, wherever he'd got to, and let him know, because apparently he decided that the two of us had some business to conclude before I lef-"

"You're leaving?" Harry's voice cracked as he cut in. "But you were meant to stay another week!"

"I know. And I'm sorry, Harry." Remus ran a hand through his hair, making silver shine through gold in the firelight. "It's just... I'd forgot how damp England can be, and how the cold just settles into my bones when the weather changes. It'll be full moon in a few days as well, and I should really prefer to deal with my change at home, instead of that dreadful shack. Surely you can understand why-"

Harry shot him a glare. "God, you must think I'm stupid."

That shut Remus up, and he had the grace to look abashed. "Well, that was a factor in my decision, I'll admit it. But Harry, please try and understand how hard it is for me to come back here at all." He waved a hand, the gesture taking in far more than the cottage around them. "Everything here in England reminds me of something I've lost. Even you do, Harry, with James' hair and Lily's eyes. And though I love you, and I never want you to doubt that, it's a bit much to take all of that together... and then to pile this business with Snape on top of it as well… I don't think I was quite as prepared to come back again as I'd supposed, is all."

Harry dropped his head weakly back against the chair, too tired to even think of an argument. It was all bollixed up, and he didn't blame Remus for wanting out. Harry rather wanted out himself, only he had nowhere left to go, really, did he?

"I'm sorry," he said. It was weak, and it would fix nothing at all, but it was all Harry had to offer.

Remus leaned across the space between them, and slipped his hand over Harry's own. "Harry... I don't blame you for it. Truly." Harry glanced at him, afraid to believe the words. Remus only smiled. "I don't anymore, at least. You thought it would make someone you love happy. How could I hold a grudge against you for something like that?"

Harry could think of a few ways, but he decided to take the pardon at face value anyhow. It was likely to be the last he could expect for a while. "It was kind of stupid of me," he still had to venture.

"Mm. Ill-judged, is more how I'd put it," Remus agreed, and sat back in his chair.

"So... Se-" Harry coughed, and began again. "Snape came to see you, and you're leaving early. I guess it was pretty awful, huh?"

"Surprisingly, no. He was in a foul enough mood, but for once, he didn't seem inclined to take it out on me. We had what passes for a civil conversation, actually." That caught Harry's attention, and he couldn't stop a quizzical blink. Remus laughed. "I know. If I'd realized earlier that insulting him to his face was the way to be treated as an equal, I might have started doing that long ago."

"Didn't work for Sirius," Harry said, not amused.

"Fair point. Still. We came to an agreement about the Wolfsbane potion."

The potions curdled in Harry's stomach abruptly. "He's still going to make it for you, isn't he?" he begged. "He can't just stop because of-"

"Harry. We both feel it's best that he not brew the potion for me any more." Remus held up a hand to forestall Harry's further outburst. "He made a replacement brew that will last me through until spring, but we talked about... things, and. Well. We'd both just feel more comfortable if I paid some other brewer to make his adjusted formula for me from now on. It makes things simpler for everyone, you understand?"

Simpler. Harry closed his eyes. One less reason why Snape would have to talk to Harry. One less entanglement. One more door closed, one more bridge in flames. There came a rustle of cloth beside him, and Harry swaddled his hand under the rugs before Remus could reach out and take it again.

"I talked to Ron too," he blurted out the first thing he could think of, anything to divert the conversation from its current destination. "Him and Hermione. They're still prats, but I... I let them apologize. Properly, I mean..." He trailed off, aware that this conversation might well be worse.

"I'm not actually surprised," Remus said after an eloquent silence. "Considering that he's been at home since Friday, nursing your namesake through just the same sort of cold you seen to have caught. Hermione didn't say anything about you three talking, but the coincidence seemed significant once Draco showed back up without the least sign of illness. It was clear he couldn't have been the contagious one."

Harry's skin went cold all over. "Showed back up?" he asked, in as level a voice as he could manage.

"Well, yes. This morning at breakfast, actually." Curiousity burned in Remus' amber gaze, but he managed not to ask. "He's on thin ice with Sinistra over the absence, actually. Three days gone without permission, and with neither apology, nor a single word of explanation to his Preceptor once he's returned? Tyros have been sent down for far less."

"Oh?" It was all Harry could manage, with hot, acid sick pressing up the back of his throat. His stomach twisted.

"Minerva seemed more than ready to turf him out on his ear," Remus nodded. "But Sinistra seems to have made a case of waiting for Snape's opinion. Solidarity among Slytherins, and all that, I suppose." Remus' tone was joking, but his eyes were grave, perceptive, and more than a little worried.

Harry managed to cough up a smile for him. "What does Slughorn say about it?"

"That Draco mustn't be so bad, if you were willing to speak up for him, and we all ought to trust the Chosen One's judgment ... Good heavens, Harry, you've gone green! Are you going to sick up? Accio ashcan!"

Harry swallowed hard, waved a hand, and the ashcan drifted away. "No, it's all right. I'm fine." He took a deep breath, blinked hard at the fireback, and nodded. "I am. I'm fine. I don't though." He stole a glance at Remus. "Fancy Draco, I mean. Not anymore. Don't even like him. Sure as fuck don't trust him. Not that I really did in the first place. That was just a really stupid phase I got into because I was being an idiot, and I never should have-"

He flinched silent as Remus' hand pressed over his shoulder, landing with innocent accuracy just where the slashing spell had cut through his tattoo. It was still sore, that stretched, pink scar, but that wasn't what made the breath escape between Harry's teeth in a thin, frightened hiss.

"It's all right, Harry," Remus said, rubbing his thumb back and forth against the furry knit rug that covered Harry's shoulders. "We don't control who we fall in love with, or why, or for how long. It just happens, you know? And we deal with it as best we can."

"We don't?" Harry shivered, and tried not to squirm. It was only Remus, for God's sake! Just Remus! Remus wasn't going to hurt him, hit him, cut him up, rape him- Harry shook his head, hard.

"Do you suppose I'd have gone and fallen in love with Sirius Black if I'd had a choice in the matter?" Remus laughed, taking his hand back at last. He strode to Harry's drinks cabinet and fetched out a bottle of rum, along with two teacups. "Merlin, Harry, he was practically born with his headstone already carved: 'Here lies Sirius Black. He probably deserved it.'"

"Did he?" Harry mused, not quite able to care that he probably looked pathetic. "Did he really deserve it?"

And at last the sadness flashed in Remus' eyes as he shook his head and poured tea over the rum. "I don't think anybody really deserves what they get, do they? You just do what you can with whatever comes your way, and hope it turns out to be enough."

"How do you know though?" Harry asked, taking his drink with absent fingers. "If it's good enough?"

Remus thought in silence, blowing gently across the surface of his tea. Then he raised his cup in salute, and fetched out a wry sort of smile. "If I ever work that out," he promised, "I'll be sure to let you know."

Remus stayed for most of the afternoon. Also for two bottles of rum, and most of a bottle of cognac for afters.

Far as he knew, Harry managed to keep up with him, but somehow he didn't quite remember just when his friend had left, or how -- or for that matter, if -- Remus had been sober enough to safely floo home when his international transit pass opened up, all brilliant raspberry pink in Harry's fireplace.

Nor, precisely, did Harry recall how he'd come to be lying naked in his bathroom stall, with his head wedged against the porcelain stool, his arse against the threshold, and his legs straight up against the door. Also, quite cold, and liberally spattered with blue paint.

His head was utterly impacted, and pounding as though there were a dozen trolls practicing grand jeté where his brain ought to be. Thankfully, the tiny room was dark, the only faint light leaking with the icy draught around Harry's hipbones.

In true Gryffindor spirit, Harry tried to sniff, tried to sneeze, then blinked in pain, and decided he was horribly, horribly hung over. Or possibly dead. Either would do, but Harry didn't think being dead would hurt quite so much unless one had been a Death Eater or a Ministry employee in life, and thus really deserved it.

The pounding got louder, and there seemed to be shouting in, but Harry couldn't quite make it out. And he didn't seem to be able to work out how to move either. His legs were utterly asleep; as numb and unresponsive as hunks of blue-paint-speckled meat, dangling in the air above him. He soon learned that the stall was a bit too narrow for him to roll to the side, and his legs too numb to fold down to fit. Scootching farther under the toilet was out of the question, house elf or no, so...

Wait.

House elf. Of course! Dobby would still love him, even if Harry was an utter tit, and did stupid things to arse up every friendship he had! Dobby would love him as long as he could be useful! And God, but Dobby could be useful here...

It took Harry three tries to manage enough of a croak that he could call Dobby's name. Then all at once, there came an explosion of cheery sparks, a blast of light, and a deafening ping that made Harry wish he were still unconscious.

"Mister Severus Snape Sir tells Dobby that he must ask Harry Potter to say Finite Incantatem," the squeaky voice thundered from just above his head. Harry hid behind his arms and begged for mercy with a desperate whimper.

Something cold prodded at his knuckles. Harry flinched and grabbed the thin wooden rod on reflex. Magic buzzed through him, followed by a wave of nausea, and an urge to try and recite every profane word he'd ever learned. His throat managed only a croak though, and when Harry risked a glance through his eyelashes, he found Dobby upside down, and looming over him like an earnest little nightmare in far too many hats.

He swallowed. "Ab I goig to die?"

The house elf made a noise like a teakettle boiling over, shoved both his tiny fists into his mouth, and danced in place on the toilet seat. "Oh, Harry Potter mustn't say that! Dobby is bad to let him think it! Bad! Bad! Bad!"

"Wait, stob thubbing, Dobby, god please stob thubbing..." Harry took a breath, and rubbed at his eyes, wincing as his wand jabbed him in the nose. "You said Snabe wadted sobethig. Whad was it?"

"Harry Potter must say Finite Incatatem," the house elf whispered through his fingers.

"Why the hell would he wad be to say Fidite Idcadtateb?" Harry wondered. In his hand, his wand twitched, as though of its own accord.

Then all around him, Harry felt his his house wards crashing down.

"SHIDE!" he yelped as he heard the front door bash off the wall, and his cloak-tree crash to the floor. He covered his face again, and groaned as Snape's hall-eating stride pounded like a drum across the cottage floor, each footfall precise and furious. "Christ, Potter," Harry groaned to himself. "Vodebort should just have god you drunk. You'd have fuckig hadded hib the war odda plade."

"I'd have killed you first," Snape assured him, voice low and hard from just the other side of the door. "Are you coming out of there now, or am I to fetch you out by force?"

"Er..." Harry shared a silent, desperate look with Dobby, and managed to curl his legs down against his chest. At which point, he realized that he really really needed to have a piss. "It's by bog," he temporized. "I'b sort of usig it."

"Your voice is coming from the floor, Potter," Snape replied. "Either you've been sleeping in your toilet, or else you have some decidedly disgusting sexual inclinations, which you will henceforth be sure never to mention to me."

"Sexual- OW!" Harry tried to sit up, banged his head on the lip of the toilet, and clutched it in both hands. "Fuggig HELL, that hurts!"

"And we venture still farther into the realm of the grotesque," Snape muttered as Dobby hopped from foot to foot, and whimpered in confusion.

'Help me!' Harry mouthed silently at the elf. Too late. The handle by his heel tilted down, and the door shoved hard against Harry's arse, wedging him even more firmly against the toilet.

"FUG!" he yelped, kicking back as hard as he could with his still-numb legs. Not very hard at all, really. The door barely shivered.

Snape, though, got the idea. A moment later, the door disappeared entirely, and Harry's legs flopped out into his bathing room with an echoing slap, missing Snape only by dint of a brisk dodge to the left on his part.

Harry, finally having the traction to do so, rolled to his knees, and scrambled desperately back to the toilet. Dobby pinged out of sight a bare second before Harry flung the lid up, and got about his long-delayed business.

It was several blissful moments before Harry could spare the attention to notice that Snape wasn't laughing. Not out loud, anyhow.

He dared a look over his shoulder, and groaned. Snape was leaning on the doorjamb, one eyebrow cocked, and one side of his mouth twisted in a sneer of delight -- Christmas and all his Birthdays rolled up into an absolute goldmine of humiliation possibilities.

Harry shook the last drops off, and sighed. "Go od thed. You bight as well ged id over wid."

There was a rustle, and then Snape's hands came under Harry's armpits to hoist him to his feet. His robes were scratchy, and still bore the chill of the October morning's mist as he pressed Harry against his chest, and backed them both out of the toilet stall. "Get what over with, Potter?" he asked mildly.

"Shyeah. Lige I believe you ared't godda laugh at be aboudt all this..." Harry tried again to sniff against his blocked-up nose, but made no progress.

Snape walked him over to the bench beside the door, and set him firmly down there. "Of course I am going to laugh at you about this, Potter," he said, fetching a satchel from near the door, and producing a series of bottles, which he set in a row beside Harry's hip. "At this point, even should you miraculously manage to avoid doing a single further idiotic thing for the rest of my lifespan, I doubt I should run dry of material."

"Oh god…"

But no, Snape had no mercy. "You caught and nurtured a common muggle virus instead of going to a mediwitch to have yourself healed; while on pain potions, you got into a drinking contest with a werewolf -- courting profound alcohol poisoning, I shouldn't need to add; you splattered half your lounge, and most of your furniture with blue paint which smells as though it was transfigured from whatever contents of your liquor cabinet you managed not to drink; you are naked, cannot possibly have the first clue what became of your clothes, and you clearly passed out and fell off your toilet at some point last night."

He uncorked the first of the little bottles, and pressed it into Harry's hand. "Tricking you into lowering your house wards, only to find you had not drowned in your own swill, but managed to wedge yourself into your very own bathroom oubliette, I confess I find myself at a loss as to where, precisely, to begin."

"Ha, ha," Harry grumbled, wincing as his feet began to tingle painfully. "I'b so abused."

"Ah yes, that will do for a starting place, I suppose: You sound like an idiot, Potter." Snape prodded at Harry's elbow, and smirked again. "Drink that potion so I can at least pretend we share a language."

Harry did, and Snape had the next bottle in his hand before Harry had even finished gagging at the texture. "It was just a little cold," he gasped to win some time while his ears finished steaming. "And I was kind of lying low anyhow. I didn't know-"

"That you were a wizard, not some helpless muggle?" Snape whirled away, and a moment later, the front door slammed.

Harry cursed, but drank the second potion. "I'm not helpless," he said to himself in the hush that followed. "I'm not."

"Oddly enough, you seem to be the only one who feels the need to prove that over and over again." Snape's voice behind him made Harry jump and yelp.

"I thought you'd gone," he knew he sounded mulish, but couldn't quite help it. Snape was hanging his robe and jacket on the hooks on Harry's bedroom door, feet pale, long and bare, fingers working the buttons of his shirtcuffs.

"You would do," he agreed darkly, and swept his shirt off. "I haven't gone, however, you are not alone, and I have no intention of watching you continue to bumble through this when it's clear you don't know what you're about."

Harry blinked. That sounded like an insult, but… but Snape was taking off his trousers. And he wasn't shouting. And though his eyes were angry, his hands weren't. He wasn't throwing anything. He wasn't hexing anyone. Harry shivered, swallowed down the last of the potions, and rubbed a hand over his scarred tattoo by reflex.

Snape's eyes followed the movement, and he sighed. "Bath, Potter. You look like a wild Pict, and you smell like a goat."

"You said the rest of your life," Harry croaked, and even he wasn't certain what he meant.

Snape merely smirked, and hoisted him to his feet again. "You needn't worry, Potter; we both know you'll do something far more idiotic than this before I shuffle off this mortal coil," he said, and oddly, his voice was comforting as he led Harry down the steps into the steaming water and settled him back against his chest.

And that made it easy to let go. To just float in the steam, let those long, solid fingers rub the paint from his skin, and the ache of fever from his bones. To let the potions' acrid flavours and the smell of citrus soap clear the cobwebs and complications and confusion from his mind.

Snape's hands were simple things. Just fingers, thumbs and palms. Trim nails, stains, and bony knuckles that knew where he hurt, but also where he ached for touch. Snape's hands didn't have to fumble, didn't have to ask permission when they made Harry gasp, or forgiveness when they made Harry whimper. They knew what they were doing to him, they knew with every pinch to Harry's nipples, with every rolling caress to his bollocks, with every stroke along his thighs that left him breathless and adrift in wanting.

Snape's lips were simple things as well. Suckling the sensitive hollows behind Harry's ear, caressing his brow, cheek and jaw with silent kisses, so much simpler than words could ever be. Clever lips… not afraid of the simple things. Not afraid of the hard things. Not afraid to taste Harry's hard pebbled nipples, or to press hot and tight around the erection Harry had before he realized he was getting one. Not afraid to suck Harry's jittery fears deeply, wetly down into a quiet, white vortex of release.

Something broke inside Harry's chest then, something ragged and sharp, that echoed like sobs from the steam-clouded walls. Something far too complicated, far too easy. Something that felt as if dying would hurt less to do.

He clung to the arms that folded around him, shook against the lean, hard chest, and let himself be curled under Snape's chin like a child; held close and warm, one hand smoothing his hair down in slow, gentle strokes. But there were no soft shushings, no hushabye it'll be all right, no there, there, there. No lies.

Harry couldn't recall when he'd been more grateful for silence.

"Please," he hiccupped, when Snape stood, and pulled him out of the water too. "Please don't leave."

"Not today," Snape promised, and summoned towels from the basket beside the bench. "I've not had my breakfast yet, and I daresay you've not had yours, nor yesterday's, or the day before's, either." The brusque tone was just what it took to shake Harry out of his fugue, and if Snape's smirk was a little smug when he handed Harry the towel, Harry figured he could afford to ignore it.

Dobby went overboard, as usual. The amount of food he brought could have fed Snape, Harry, Dudley's favorite Rugger team, a Thestral or two, and a crew of very hungry road menders besides. Harry was more than a little bit dubious about putting eggs, bacon, porridge, beans on toast, sausage, fried potatoes, tomatoes, and mushrooms, custard, tea, scones, and clotted cream into a stomach which had tasted nothing but alcohol and assorted potions for the better part of three days, however he wasn't quite ready to fight Snape over it. And of course, once he began to eat, his body sorted the matter out with a will.

The road menders, at least, would have gone hungry.

Harry would have been embarrassed, only Snape ate just as much as he did, and didn't seem the least bit abashed by his appetite.

Dobby fussed about the cottage while they ate, mending, clearing, setting this or that upright, removing the garishly blue spatters from the rugs and furniture, windows and woodwork as he went. Snape watched the elf work with a ferocious intensity which Harry didn't have to work too hard to sort out. After awhile, the unspoken question simply grew too heavy, and he put down his teacup with a sigh.

"I wanted things… clean, I guess," he said, thinking of Petunia, and how the lounge got a new coat of paint whenever she and Vernon rowed. "It was all such a mess, everything overturned and gone off, and … and I didn't know what else to do, so…" He shrugged. "Guess it made more sense when I was drunk."

Snape nodded soberly. "Indeed. As did your choice of colour, no doubt. Out of curiousity, will you be allowing the elf to paint over it, or do you intend to complete the dousing of your wallspace with that particular cerulean nightmare?"

Harry tilted his head, and peered at the walls. "I dunno. Isn't blue meant to be 'restful?"

"Restful." Snape's head adopted the exact angle of Harry's, and his voice dripped with scorn.

"Yeah, I guess not," Harry grinned. "But it could have been worse, I suppose…" He stopped, startled when Snape's hand caught his, pulled his chaffing fingers away from where they were rubbing at his tattoo.

"Far worse." His dark eyes simmered with anger as he leaned near. "Crimson of that particular hue does not even suit Gryffindor idiots. I'll thank you not to subject me to it again."

"I was thinking of green, actually," Harry lied, but let himself be kissed anyway.

Dazed, breathless, and flushed with lust, Harry still flinched when he felt cool fingers brush his entrance. He didn't want to flinch, didn't think about what had happened, what had almost, not quite, but very very nearly happened, but hadn't, but might have done so, so easily. He flinched, and caught his breath. When Snape made to pull back, Harry cursed himself for it immediately.

"No," he cried, and caught Snape' arm. "It's okay. He didn't. We. I'm okay. I want-"

Snape cut him off with a whelming kiss, rolling over Harry, entangling them both into a knot of bedclothes already musky from the first time he had rubbed them both off that morning. His cock was rigid as a bar of iron against Harry's thigh, and it made him arch up against it with a groan -- eyes open wide, so as to burn every harsh angle of Snape's face, every black, greasy strand of hair into his hammering heart.

"I do not care what he did," Snape's voice was gravel and greed, and blazing heat in Harry's ear. He rocked his pelvis down, pinned Harry's to the bed as he reached his long arm to the nightstand behind them, pulled the drawer free, and dumped it across the bed. Harry heard the jar of lube pop open, and whimpered as Snape kissed his shoulder, and then bit gently at the trailing end of the scar that Friday night had left across his right shoulder. "Do you hear me, Potter? I do not care."

"I-" Harry swallowed a giddy, panicked noise, and bit at Snape's throat to calm himself. "I hear you. God, I hear you!" He arched up again, not trying to still his cry when those fingers returned, wet and slick now, to test him again. "I hear you, I hear y-"

Snape growled, and kissed him silent. A finger slid inward, retreated.

"I can-" Harry gasped, clutching. "You-" Another fierce kiss, another inward press that made his toes curl. "Severumph-" he was silenced again, opened again, stroked to wordless, sloppy volume again.

This time, when the mouth lifted off his, Harry managed not to say anything, biting his lip, bearing eagerly toward Severus' hands, and waiting, waiting, waiting. A twist of smile was his reward, and a blaze of hunger in those black eyes.

"One word, Potter," Severus said, pressing deep, cupping his fingertips just there, so that Harry couldn't draw breath to speak any words at all. "That is all I care to hear from you. One word." His fingers slid, pressed, blasting fire up Harry's spine, and stars across his vision. "Tell me no..." the pressure eased, the fingers withdrew, slowly, teasingly, so that they barely tickled the curl of his arse. "Or else tell me yes."

Yes or no? From Snape? The man who had ridiculed Harry for years over not understanding the nuances of grey? The man who never laid eyes on a line without finding a way to blur it? That couldn't be right.

"What do-" he began.

"One word," Severus broke the kiss to growl. His finger circled again, but did not press in.

Alarmed, Harry rutted his hips toward that tickling, promising touch. "Comeomph!"

"One." A bite to Harry's swollen lips. "Word."

Harry took a breath, tasted lust and tea, spunk and bacon grease on his lover's breath. Licked the thin lips soft over those angry teeth. His lover's teeth.

His.

It is that simple...

Harry gave a fierce wriggle, freed both hands, and wound them tight in Severus' hair, pinning his head in place, just where Harry could focus on those blazing black eyes.

"One word," Severus warned, and there was a fathomless, waiting stillness there behind those words. A box closed, a cat inside it, neither dead nor alive. Severus Snape wasn't completely certain what would happen next, Harry realized with a thrill of shock, and for once, he wasn't blustering to hide the fact.

Harry felt the smile begin all the way down in his belly. "One word," he agreed, brushing his thumb across Severus' damp, swollen lips. "More!"

Severus made a sound deep in his throat; a kind of groan, a kind of roar, a fierce benediction snarled through his teeth as they locked onto Harry's throat and clenched hard. Harry held tight, and struggled against the sheets, trying to wind his legs up around Severus' hips, to urge that beautiful, curved cock home...

And someone suddenly pounded on the door.

"FUCK!" It was out of Harry's mouth before he'd even thought the word. Then Severus tore out of Harry's hands and whirled on one knee so fast, he nearly slithered off the bed. Harry grabbed after him with a growl. "Like hell you're opening that door," he hissed. "I don't care who it-"

"I know you're in there, you fucking slag!" Draco Malfoy's voice, shrill with rage, turned Harry's spine to ice, and his tongue to dust.

"Your house wards!" Severus lunged for his wand, and summoned his trousers while Harry struggled for a breath. He hadn't put the wards back up after he'd let Snape in. Neither of them had thought of it. All morning long, the wards had been down. All morning long...

"Fuck!" Harry managed a cracked whisper as Malfoy hammered on the door again. Severus flung a pair of sleep pants at Harry's head, with a furious glare.

"You're not fucking blackmailing me, Potter!" The thuds took on a deeper note, as of boots against the thick wood. "You had better keep your bloody mouth shut about your drunken fucking fantasies, or I swear I will RUIN YOU!"

Harry froze, vest in his hands. "Fantasies?" he heard the word slip out of his mouth; an alien shape, a fathomless meaning through the blurring haze of thick, pounding red that obscured his vision. "Fantasies!"

He hit the door at a run, and flung it wide, wands and curses a world away in his fury. Harry's fist caught him mid-shout, pulping lip, and splitting knuckle against the same row of teeth. A moment later, Malfoy's back hit the door, and all of Harry's weight bore down on his throat by way of a forearm lock.

"I told you to get out of here," Harry hissed, wrenching the thin wrist backward until Malfoy had to release his wand, or feel the bones actually break. "I told you to go away," he said, jabbing the wand hard under the fragile jawbone arch as the blond went slowly red for want of air. "Told you to leave me alone. Told you to piss off out of my life. Why can't you ever fucking listen?"

"Potter." Snape's voice, just behind him. Harry didn't look back. "Potter, let him breathe."

"Really rather not, sir," Harry gritted, gouging deeper with the wand. "Malfoys are like gnomes, you see? Got to kill them when you catch them, or there's no digging them out. Can't let them get a foot."

"Severus," Malfoy wheezed, eyes round and pleading. "Help me! He's... mad-"

"Mad? I'm bloody furious!"

"Sent a note... Said I had to... leave Hogwarts... twenty-four hours, or... he'd..."

"If I'd sent you a note, Malfoy, it would have blown your hand off when you touched it!" Harry shouted. "You tried to--" the word broke off in his throat, and it was all Harry could do to swallow down the shards. "I told you no! Told you never again, and you-"

"He was drunk!" Malfoy, clearly still trying to make his case to Snape, looked right past Harry's shoulder. "He came on to me at the pub in front of everyone, and he wouldn't-"

"I DIDN'T WANT YOU!" It was all Harry could do to stop himself jabbing that wand all the way through his throat. He could picture it; one good shove, and all that soft flesh would give way. Maybe the wand would spear right through that agile, lying tongue before it went on up, through the palate, crunching through paper-thin sinus bones, until it finally pressed into...

A hand brushed softly over Harry's shoulder, cool fingers tracing the tender new scar as Severus pressed close to Harry's back. "Potter, stop," he murmured, low and calm in Harry's ear. "We have an audience."

Malfoy's eyes flickered, and the shadow of a smirk crossed his bleeding lips. Harry followed the glance, and found a bobble floating in the doorway, watching all with mute, glassy patience. Malfoy's shoulders relaxed, his breath curling easier through his teeth. You won't dare kill me while the Sorting Hat looks on! He might as well have crowed it aloud.

Harry's stomach turned. Because the bastard was right. "Banish it," he snarled, knowing Severus wouldn't, and almost not caring.

"I made the adjustment last weekend, after I found you in your kitchen. They're attuned to all bloodshed now, even in the non-apparative areas," Severus leaned close over Harry's back, long fingers trailing up the length of his arm to close over Harry's wand hand. "We might as well thank Mr. Malfoy properly for suggesting the idea..."

"Thank him!" Harry grudgingly relinquished the wand, and scowled as Severus thumbed the trickling blood off Malfoy's pointed chin before stepping away. "For trying to-"

"Snape, I don't know what Potter told you," the blond began, shoving futilely against Harry's arm over his throat, "but I wasn't-"

"The wind is too cold to have this discussion on the doorstep, Potter," Severus cut him off. "And it's clear that Malfoy is operating under the influence of some mood-altering drug, or else he'd have more sense than to come shouting about blackmail on your doorstep, where anybody might hear. I suggest we retire inside, to discuss this like civilized wizards."

It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to refuse. The words were half-formed in his throat, his fists already winding into the fine linen shirtfront, his bare feet braced to hurl him out and slam the door... but Severus was right. Malfoy wasn't acting like he should. As obnoxious as he'd come to be over the past two years, and as vile and violent as he could be in private, he would never have let anyone else see him acting like a prick unless he was not in his right mind.

Abruptly, Harry recalled two things: The look of malicious glee on Kreacher's face when his lie had sent Harry running into Voldemort's trap... and the sound of Dobby's furious tears on Friday night as he'd mopped Harry's blood and broken dishes off the floor. Then he thought of how the spoiled prat was always demanding special dishes when he ate in the Great Hall.

Harry began to smile. "You are wasted..."

"You wish, Scarhead," Malfoy scoffed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his scorn. "As though I'd touch that Muggle rubbish! You're the one sending hysterical notes to my rooms, and trying to blacken my reputation!"

"What reputation? The one where you're a murderer who got away with it? Is that the reputation you mean?"

"I never murdered anyone!"

"You tried! Katie Bell! Ron!" Harry shoved him into the door again, teeth bared. "How many more would you have gone through if Dumbledore hadn't forced Snape's hand? You're not innocent just because you were incompetent!"

"Oh, and you'd know about incompetence getting people killed, wouldn't you, Potter?" Malfoy showed his teeth in an evil grin. "How's dear Ginevra doing these days?"

"Enough," Severus' sharp command was all that stopped the red haze from dropping over Harry's vision again. His hand came down, warm and solid on Harry's shoulder, more an anchor than a tether; one solid point of balance, into which Harry could lean. He did so, literally as well as figuratively, seeing Malfoy's cold leer as he glanced between Severus and Harry, but not caring about it. Let him say what he wanted to. Harry was tired of it. Harry was tired of him.

"Our conversation seems to have wandered off-topic," Snape's voice rumbled from behind Harry's ear. "I believe, Mr. Malfoy, that I have something inside which you ought to see."

Malfoy scoffed, and shoved Harry's arm off his throat. "Believe me, I've seen it. I've seen it all."

"I rather doubt that." Severus soothed a hand down Harry's chilled arm in a possessive show that oddly, made Harry's heart race a bit. He hid his shiver, but he knew Severus noticed, by the gentle squeeze on his scarred tattoo... Never again.

"Still, in the interest of House solidarity, I feel you should see this," he continued. "Before I turn the evidence over to the Aurors, that is..."

The bobble sparkled in the weak sunlight, vigilant, impassive.

Malfoy's throat worked. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and then he frowned, as though confused. "Evidence of what?"

Harry felt Severus' smile against the back of his head, and then the shoulder behind his gave a shrug. "Only a little thing, really; a letter implicating you as an accomplice and facilitator in a failed kidnapping plot..."

"That's impossible," Draco hissed, then caught himself short. "I, that is-"

Harry half turned, startled. "He was DeCastillo's accomplice?" But even as he asked it, the facts were tallying up in his head: a Seeker would set a snitch to trap a Seeker, after all, and Draco had come to Hogwarts that afternoon, despite not being on the game's guest list. "You've done the interrogation already, haven't you? That's where you've been since Friday night!"

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy's sudden movement, and grabbed after him. Severus' hold thwarted his movement just enough though that Harry's hand closed on empty air. "Damn it!"

Severus barked a laugh, the sound freezing both younger men. "You think he's going far, do you, Potter? With neither his wand, nor the evidence that will send him to Azkaban?" Malfoy turned, breath steaming in the October air, as though he'd run much farther than three steps out into Harry's untended garden. "Even with his reasoning clouded by scurvygrass, lovage, and sneezewort, Mr. Malfoy is far more Slytherin than to be that careless."

"I don't want him in my house," Harry grumbled as Severus urged him out of the doorway.

"Indulge me," the murmur warmed his ear, and with a final glower, Harry let himself be led inside.

Like a pale, fuming moth, Mafoy followed. "Severus, this is a mistake," he said as he closed the bobble outside. "I never wrote any letter to any Spaniard, and if I had done, you know I would not have been so careless as-"

"I know," Severus replied, leaning easily on the mantel.

Harry, summoning his wand from the bedroom, nearly missed his grab. "You do?"

"Of course," Severus replied. "The letter self-ignited some thirty seconds after DeCastillo was allowed to open it. And, of course, the charms on it prevented the Aurors guarding him at St. Mungo's from seeing its contents."

Malfoy's lips twisted in victory. "Then you've no 'evidence' after all-"

"However," Severus cut him off. "Sixteen years of teaching lazy brats who would rather cheat than do their own work has given me a comprehensive working knowledge of forgery charms. Recreating the letter was hardly an effort worth mentioning."

"Prove it!" Malfoy charged, stopping short as both Harry's and Severus' wands turned on him. "You don't have anything, or you'd have shown it by now! This is all an attempt to incriminate me. Potter's bought you off, and-"

"No," Severus said, though Harry wasn't certain whether that was a reply to Malfoy's accusation, or an order to stop the wordless curse forming in Harry's mind. Pale, stained fingers reached into his robes, the black fabric parting to show an arc of naked collarbone as Severus drew out a thin roll of parchment.

"Don't let him have it," Harry cried as Severus passed the letter to Malfoy.

"I made the one, Potter," came the sneering reply as he beckoned Harry to his side, "I can make two as easily. Any Slytherin knows that."

And of course, a glance at Malfoy's face as he tracked Severus' arm settling over Harry's bare shoulders, his white skin scorched furiously pink across the ridge of his cheekbones heralded the death of pretense. Malfoy didn't even bother to unroll the letter, and though he held it like delicate china, his trembling fingers couldn't have been more tense if he'd gripped it like a snitch. "What do you want?" he said through his teeth.

Severus' smile curled out, smug and vicious in reply. "I want you to remember two things, Mr. Malfoy; That he," a nod to Harry, "was powerful and resourceful enough to defeat the Dark Lord more times than you yourself even laid eyes on him. That it is only due to the fact that he is a noble, Gryffindor idiot that you survive to draw breath before us today, and that if he were one whit the lesser man, he would have left you and me both to rot in Azkaban, as we richly deserved."

Malfoy opened his mouth, but Severus cut him off, the rumble of his growl making something in Harry's belly purr in response. "And the second: Remember that I myself am largely unaffected by Gryffindorish notions of honour and fair play. That I myself taught you everything you know about duplicity and manipulation, and that I have known most of your family secrets since before you were born." And oh, how Harry enjoyed the way Malfoy's angry flush spread down his throat while his eyes followed the restless circles Severus' thumb was tracing over Harry's tattoo. "I want you to remember that I am a jealously possessive man, and a cruel bastard of unrepentantly vicious temperament, of whom it is a very bad idea to make an enemy."

Malfoy's jaw worked for a moment, clearly struggling to keep back the fury building in every line of his face and frame. But then, after a final, hateful glance at Harry, he managed to nod. "Agreed," he said, and held out the letter in two fingers. "Twenty-four hours, I believe you said?"

Just like that? Harry thought, feeling the pleasure in his belly curdle. You spend two years fucking me over, and now you're meant to leave me alone just because HE warns you off?

Harry curled a fist tight around his wand. "I didn't promise you a single fucking second-"

"Twenty-four hours," Severus said over him, reaching out to take the letter back.

Malfoy smirked, grey eyes glinting. Harry could feel the blood burning in his face, but the restless back-and-forth brush of Severus' thumb over his shoulder held him back, kept his wand pointed at the floor, kept the curses balled up behind his teeth.

It wasn't over. Not like this. It couldn't be over like this...

"Of course," Severus mused as Malfoy half-turned and reached for the door handle, "I have been known to lie..."

Malfoy hadn't even time to squeak before the transfiguration hit him. His tall, lean form twisted in on itself, and dwindled with a sudden raveling sound. Two seconds later, a white ferret bounced, bristling with fury on Harry's entry carpet. For a moment, all Harry could do was stare at the creature, which seemed equally flabbergasted itself. Then a shout of startled laughter burst from his throat.

"You planned this," he cried, turning to punch Severus' ribs as the ferret chattered and fled beneath the drinks cabinet. "You utter shite, you planned this whole thing!"

"Hooligan," Severus gave Harry a shove, and rubbed at his side. But he still managed to look smug as he transfigured a cage from Harry's coalscuttle. "Malfoy has less imagination than even you. It was no impressive feat to anticipate what he would do once I was certain of his guilt."

"So you'd have done none of this then, if he hadn't showed up in DeCastillo's memories?" Harry scoffed, summoning the ferret with a gleeful wand-swish. He might have bounced the creature off the furniture once or twice in getting it into the cage but, well, it was rather thrashing about a bit. "Not that I really care whether he was really guilty or not..."

A brush to his scarred arm brought Harry's face up to find Severus staring at him with hot and sober eyes. "Malfoy was guilty," he said, and reached to trace a tender line of scar that ran down Harry's face from cheek to chin, so carefully healed that though it was still sore, not even Harry could easily see it in his mirror. "He was. Have no doubt of that."

Harry swallowed, unsure whether he wanted more to lean into the touch, or away. "I guess the Aurors have your memories pensieved already then," he said with a frown and a handwave at the ferret, frantically gnawing at its cage. "Why did you need to let him in here at all?"

Severus gave a snort, and tucked the letter back into his robes. "The evidence is far more compelling now that Malfoy has actually handled the letter. Even better that he had blood on his hands when he did."

"Shacklebolt would've turned handsprings just to have any physical evidence, and you know it," Harry laughed. "I think you just wanted to turn Malfoy into a ferret for your own twisted pleasure. All this bollocks about compelling evidence was just a good excuse-" Harry grunted, pleased and startled when Severus caught his shoulders and shoved him back against the fieldstone wall for a deep and plundering kiss.

"Inattention to details," Severus grumbled between kisses, "is exactly why you were always so abysmal in potions..." He trailed off in a groan when Harry bit the swell of his chest.

"Better at transfigurations though," Harry panted, shoving Severus' robes aside to reach his peaked nipple and gently bite. "F'rinstance. I know Malfoy'll only stay like that for a week, tops, then the spell will revert again." He grinned to feel long fingers card deeply into his hair and press him close.

"It will... Merlin, yes, just there... it will last long enough to feed your pet hippogriffs well." Severus hissed when Harry nipped him, but didn't really seem chastened. "No? Well, I suppose we could always use him as a test subject for fine tuning the wards... Ah! Do that again. Harder!"

Harry did. Then he raised his head to catch his breath. "I think adding an 'utter arsehole' barrier to the wards might be a bit tricky..." He nuzzled Severus' tented trouser placket to resist the temptation to ponder aloud how the man would ever get to work if they did.

"Brat," Severus growled as though he'd guessed the thought, then he rutted his hips while Harry worked down his trouser buttons. "You're actually going to talk me out of tormenting Mr. Malfoy, aren't you?"

Glancing over at the scrabbling ferret, Harry shrugged. "It's harder to want to see him suffer now that he's actually as cute as he always thought he was, I guess." The ferret responded to Harry's observation with an enraged hiss, and Harry fanned his hand in front of his nose at the animal's sudden, pungent musk. "Then again, if we recast the spell regularly, we could use him to test the wards against animagi..." He gasped, and lost his train of thought as Severus' tongue slithered into his ear.

"See, Potter?" Severus' fingers ticked gooseflesh along the back of Harry's neck. "You can be taught..."

"Ohh, fuck yes, when you teach things like that..." Harry gasped. "So what happens when we're done with the testing then? We just let him go?"

"No." Harry looked up, startled. Severus' fierce scowl matched his sharp tone perfectly.

Swallowing strangely giddy nerves, Harry let himself be pulled back up to his feet. His every nerve was alive and prickling with want, fear, relief, hunger, trepidation, and confusion. This was important. This was not about Malfoy. Not really. It couldn't be.

Harry forced himself to back away; to lift his hands from Severus' skin; to ask... but not the question he really wanted answered. "No?" He took a step back, thinking the answer just might need more space, or perhaps that he would need more air to take it in. "What, then?"

"The Wizengamot will likely try him in absentia soon after I hand over the letter and finish my pensieve report, when it becomes clear he has fled England," Severus replied, closing the distance between them, but not reaching out to gather Harry in. "I've no doubt that by the time I have satisfied my own baser instincts, Shacklebolt will have a team more than ready to take custody of Draco Malfoy, in whatever form or condition he might come to them."

Heart thudding in his chest, Harry took another step back, Severus' warm, musky scent coiling thickly around his throat, his belly, and his bollocks. He could ask this. He could. "Why?"

Severus stepped forward again, loomed close and hot in the chilly room, but still, he did not touch. "Malfoy does not deserve freedom," he said after a long and searching silence. "Not as a man, not as an animal. Not with the wealth of opportunities and second chances he has squandered with neither thought nor remorse," Harry watched the dark gaze trace down his face again, and shivered. "Not with all he has tried to destroy."

He stepped back once more, brought his shoulders up firm and cold against his bedroom door, though the retreat took more courage than facing Voldemort ever had. He closed his eyes, and prayed to every nameless God that he hadn't misunderstood the whole thing. Not again... Never-

"Why?" Harry heard his voice again, harsh and sudden in the waiting silence. His prick was hard and sore against the seam of his sleep pants, and his spine prickled with nervous sweat as he waited forever. Then he heard the rustle of Severus' robes, the soft 'whump' as they fell to the floor.

"Perhaps..." Harry twitched as Severus' breath stirred his fringe. "Perhaps I have come to believe there is something to be said for people getting what they deserve."

A sound that was absolutely not a sob hitched in Harry's throat at that. Laughter. It had to be laughter, because he was smiling, wasn't he? And his eyes were only closed because they were sore and prickling, not because he was terrified to open them and see what might be lurking in Severus'... in Snape's... in Severus' gaze.

He was a Gryffindor. He was brave enough to stand up to Voldemort, Lestrange, Umbridge, a basilisk, both Malfoys, and Scrimgeour. He could do this. He could. Snape would let him know if he'd fucked it up. Snape always let him know.

Severus wouldn't let him fall.

Harry curled both hands over his aching stomach, took a deep breath. "What do I deserve, then?"

Long hair tickled along his bicep, then his shoulder, and a moment later, Harry felt the gentle brush of lips just where he'd paid to have ink and regret drilled into his skin. The breath escaped him as a hand closed firmly around his elbow, and damn it, this time it couldn't be anything else but a whimper.

"One word, Potter," Severus murmured the words against the sweaty hair at Harry's temple. Harry twitched a moan as a naked chest bore down against his own. "Extrudius!"

His arm seized up in a sudden, burning cramp. Harry hissed through his teeth, and would have folded to the floor, had Severus' weight not anchored him. The pain centered down to an acid sting where the tattoo itself lay. Harry, certain it hadn't hurt quite this badly when he'd had the thing done, grabbed Severus' other arm and clung for all he was worth. Then the burn became a tingle, and a wet feeling, as of sweat or blood dewed on his skin.

Harry blinked his eyes clear, and craned his head to look. The ink was gleaming against his reddened skin; black and bloody scarlet, and just beginning to drip the words Never Again. toward his elbow.

And then Severus' hand slid upward and wiped the whole, ugly souvenir away. Leaning back only enough to bring his stained hand between them, Severus turned it palm up and raised an expectant eyebrow. And there lay Harry's broken heart, bruised and muddled, a gory smudge right in his hand.

niagA reveN.

Harry traced a finger along the outline, feeling the way his breath synchronized with the chest pressed against his, the way his cock, undeterred by the brief pain, had found its way into the cradle of Severus' hip, the way the knot in his stomach began to unravel.

"Just like that?" Harry managed to ask after a moment.

"Must it be more complicated?" Something in Severus' voice caught his attention, and Harry looked up to search that craggy, forbidding, impossible face for a trace of fear. It was there, curled along with uncertainty, and...yes, that had to be hope. It just had to be.

Harry swallowed, traced the heart-shaped stain once again. "You said the simple things were the hardest of all;" he offered an out. It was only fair.

The ravens-wing brows quirked, and amusement veiled the flicker of vulnerability. "I have never been easy in my life, Potter," Severus replied, shifting his balance to press his hip a bit harder, "and I don't intend to begin now. And quite frankly, you're about as simple as they come." Harry couldn't help snickering at that, but the joking tone faded as Severus went on. "I daresay it won't kill either of us to admit to things being what they are, but I'm not about to leave it to you to bollix up all on your own."

Harry felt the goofy smile fighting its way out, like the sting in his eyes, and the urge to roll his hips against his lover's. He looked down again, read the smudged remnants like the future in that creased, stained palm.

"Never again..." he recited, then he curled Severus' hand closed, leaned up on his toes, and pressed a kiss to his lips. "Yes."

One word.

It wasn't all that Harry wanted. It wouldn't undo the scars on his skin, or his soul. It wouldn't stop them fighting, it wouldn't stop them fearing. He knew that. It was only one word. It wasn't even close to everything that either of them needed.

But it was enough to be going on with, and that was more than Harry'd had in a long, long time. More, he suspected, than Severus'd had for most of his life. In the strong circle of their arms, in the cadence of their matched breaths, in the familiar smell of their skins pressed tight, it was a wealth indeed.

"Yes," he breathed again as Severus' hair curtained down around his face, shutting out the rest of the world. "Yes. More...."