***

Until he stepped into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, Harry hadn't really had time to notice how very angry he was. But when he ducked through the fireplace and saw that all of his things from his room had been collected, packed, and neatly piled next to the hearth ready for transport, a quiet kind of cold rage settled over him, standing out in high relief to the rest of the muddle that made up his emotional state.

The idea that Snape and Dumbledore could simply decide to remove him to Hogwarts without even asking him was actually the least part of it. It was the confirmation he saw there in the assorted boxes stacked around his trunk that yes, they both thought that it was wrong, an 'aberration', and somewhere in this very house Snape was probably sitting around and hating himself for what they'd done. For one kiss. For one amazing, wonderful, brilliant... Harry felt almost as if they'd robbed him, because he hadn't felt any sense of wrongdoing, no kind of shame about it at all until he'd been told that he should, which was just terribly unfair.

Snape wasn't in the makeshift lab, so Harry headed for the third floor. Despite his anger he felt oddly calm, and quite prepared to break the door down if necessary--but it wasn't. The door stood open, and when Harry entered the room he found Snape seated at the small table, his hair still wet from bathing, and in front of him was a scattering of various medical supplies from the kitchen's first-aid kit, his wand, a bottle of firewhiskey, and a half-full tumbler. The cut on his face had been cleaned and bandaged, but even though the dressing had to be new there was already some blood seeping through it; dark red blooming on a field of white. Snape met his eyes evenly, and whatever he felt upon seeing Harry stride into his room, Harry got no sense of it.

"Look," Harry said, and then realized he really had no idea of what he was going to say. But part of him evidently knew, because his mouth rolled on without any further guidance from him. "I don't care if you hate yourself for anything else--for being a bad-tempered, sarcastic git; for favouring your own House to a ridiculous extent; or even for wearing gartered socks--but don't you hate yourself for... for this." He gestured with one hand, waving between Snape and himself as if it could be summed up that easily. "You don't get to hate yourself for this. I don't want--you can't... you can't use me that way."

Snape studied him coolly. "Quite an impassioned speech," he said, and from the careful, measured cadence of his words Harry gathered that the dose of firewhiskey in front of him was most likely not his first of the evening. "Been composing that for a while, have you?"

"No," Harry answered. "I just went with the moment."

"I see. How very ingenuous of you." Harry watched Snape lift the glass and take a careful sip, gazing into it as if it were a potion he was grading. "And what, pray tell, is the root of this inexplicable animus towards gartered socks?"

Harry took a breath as something which had knotted tight in his chest eased a bit. "They're ridiculous," he said in a softer voice. "But... but I suppose they could grow on me."

Snape's dark eyes looked into his own. "You're staying, then?"

"Yes."

There was a rather long silence as Snape looked away from him, but finally he sighed and set his glass down. "Well then, I suppose you'd better do something useful and help me with these infernal bandages. The wound seems stubbornly resistant to normal healing methods."

Harry walked to the table and sat down. The scent of whiskey and a trace of soap blended with a sharper, more astringent smell--rubbing alcohol, he thought. That must have hurt. "How'd that happen, anyway?"

Snape frowned. "Bellatrix, perhaps unsurprisingly, has a knife. She seemed to be quite enamored of it, as well as the idea that my scalp would make her a fine trophy and conversation piece." He glanced at Harry. "I'd rather not discuss it."

Harry watched him strip away the bandages to reveal the still-oozing cut, which really did look alarmingly deep. Harry's stomach flip-flopped uneasily, and his heart cramped painfully for a moment, but all he said was, "That probably needs stitches."

A mild snort. "It might, but it won't get any. Unlike many of your generation, I don't contemplate having a needle shoved through my face with any sort of enthusiasm." Snape shuddered visibly.

Harry glanced over the items on the table. "That butterfly tape will work, I think. But you're going to have a scar either way."

Snape glared at him. "I'm quite aware of that, Mr. Potter. It has already occurred to me that, should Albus decide to ever speak to me again, it will only be a matter of time before he tries to persuade me to dress up as a pirate."

Harry had to smile. "You'd make a great pirate," he murmured.

"Not in this world, nor any other, Potter. Now will you please get to work?"

Harry did. He cleaned the cut, and carefully placed an even ladder of tape strips down its length before preparing a fresh gauze dressing and patting it gently into place. He tried to focus only on the wound and not the man who bore it, but when he finished applying the last strip of tape his thumb rested against Snape's temple, and he became suddenly aware of how silken the hair was there, how soft. Before he could think better of it, he leaned forward and kissed that exact spot.

Snape didn't pull away from him, but Harry saw him go rigid with tension. "Don't."

Harry felt his cheeks grow warm. "No? Well... what can I do, then?"

Snape didn't look at him, but a muscle in his jaw twitched visibly. "Nothing."

"Oh." He waited, curled around himself, knowing that, even if he should, he wouldn't be able to just let it go. Not now. "Then... you can do... something. Anything. If you want."

Then Snape turned to look at him, and Harry lasted for about three seconds before his blush intensified, and he was shocked to find himself shivering slightly, feeling like a raw nerve exposed, just from that. "If I want?" Snape asked.

"Please," Harry said, forcing his hands to stay still on the table, when what they really wanted to do was reach out and grab Snape's hair and pull him forward and...

"Those who bargain with the Devil shouldn't be surprised at their empty pockets," Snape murmured, and Harry wondered exactly how much he'd had to drink.

"I... I don't know what that means," Harry said.

Snape's eyes glittered. "No? Then let's hope you never have to find out," he said, and then leaned forward slowly, very slowly, raising his hands to cup Harry's face, the touch warm on Harry's skin even though he already felt so hot. Harry closed his eyes.

Snape tasted of whiskey, and that seemed right because halfway through the first kiss Harry felt quite drunk himself, dizzy and breathless and stunned all over again by how much a kiss could do. Every time Snape's tongue brushed his own he felt something in his belly glow like a small interior sun, and there was a definite sense of melting, of a slow, trickling dissolve that made him feel like he might never be able to move under his own power again.

When Snape's hands tilted his head a bit, when Snape's mouth pressed harder and more urgently against his, Harry embarrassed himself by moaning aloud. Snape didn't seem to notice, however, so Harry let himself go, offering up his mouth to be fed upon until his cock was so hard that leaning forward became actively painful. Snape would probably notice if he fell out of his chair.

Whether Snape knew about his problem or not, Harry had no idea. But when he started squirming in his seat Snape's hands slid from his face to his neck to his arms, tugging him upright, and Harry was glad of the help because he didn't know if he could have stood up on his own at that point. Then there were arms around him and a warm body against him, and the mortification of knowing that he was practically digging a hole in Snape's thigh with his erection didn't make the experience of it any less wonderful.

Snape steered him towards the bed in small increments, short steps taken between blistering kisses, and by the time Snape laid him down Harry felt nearly out of his mind, wracked with tremors he couldn't control and panting like he'd just run a race. Some dim and faraway part of him realized that he'd grabbed onto Snape's shoulders as if he were afraid to fall, and he made himself let go, groping around awkwardly until he found Snape's collar, and the buttons there.

Snape pulled back from him, and Harry gasped at how cold the air was on his lips. The grip that had been fisted into his hair let go, and then Snape pulled Harry's hands away from his throat. "Don't."

Harry gazed into dark eyes that gave nothing away. "But I... I don't know what to do..."

Snape frowned. "I thought we had reached an understanding on that. Do nothing."

Harry swallowed, and licked his tingling lower lip. "You mean I... I have to just lie here?"

"Not at all," Snape said calmly. "You are free to go, if you wish." He leaned back, the wonderful weight that had pressed Harry into the mattress suddenly vanished, and Harry made some sort of incoherent noise of protest. "No?"

"No--please," he said, arching up helplessly. "I won't, I won't. It's just... it's hard."

Snape's eyebrow rose. "Is it?" He moved closer, took Harry's hands in one of his own and stretched them up, pressing his crossed wrists into the pillow. "Will that make it any easier for you?"

Harry tried to speak, but all he came up with was a choked gasp. He nodded.

Snape's eyes searched his own, and Harry felt almost stripped, caught and twisting between embarrassment, lust, and a third, deeper feeling that he had no name for, but he knew somehow that the genesis of it lay in Snape's grip on his wrists, and his own response. Whatever it was that Snape was looking for, he must have found it, because he leaned in and took Harry's mouth again, only this time so lightly, so gently that all of Harry's attention was immediately focused there, waiting only for each soft caress, each tiny electric shivery brush of Snape's tongue. From the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet he felt entirely alive, exquisitely sensitive, nothing but one big tender ache between patient kisses that undid him in some elemental way.

When he felt Snape's hand at his waist, a light touch that he might not even have felt were it not for his heightened sensitivity, he couldn't help but lift up into it. As soon as he did one of Snape's legs hooked over his own, pushing him into the mattress. Harry surrendered noiselessly, stretched out and pinned down above and below and quite ready to let Snape do whatever he liked with him as long as he did something, as long as he never stopped kissing him.

A slight, fast manipulation and Harry felt his trousers loosen, the tight seam that had been grinding against his cock suddenly gone. He gasped around Snape's tongue, and cruelly kept himself from arching up for it, but simply waited, swimming through the slowest, lightest, sweetest kiss yet as Snape's strong, *hot* hand winnowed in and took hold, cupping what seemed to be the tenderest, most vulnerable part of him; such a soft touch and yet Harry felt it everywhere, everywhere, and for a moment he thought he might just lose control utterly and come all over both of them. Only his certain knowledge that if he did it would be all over gave him the will to hold back.

And Snape certainly didn't make holding back any easier. While his touch was slower and much more gentle than that which Harry used on himself, it was also much more insidiously skilful, searching out paths and patterns of pleasure that had never occurred to him, doing things to him that he'd never imagined could be done, wresting noises from him that he'd never imagined he could make. Harry sucked on Snape's tongue to stifle himself until he realized that his groaning didn't seem to put Snape off at all, and then he just let himself make as much noise as he wanted. It seemed certain that sometime later he'd look back on this and wilt with humiliation at the memory, but for now it was the only avenue open to him to let Snape know how good it was.

Good--such an inadequate, insufficient word for this, for such a deliberate and purposeful erotic revelation. Snape took him from one level to the next with ruthless thoroughness, a subtle complexity of layers that encompassed so much more than the raw fact of Snape's warm hand stroking his hard prick--Snape was teaching him, communicating with him, opening up whole new worlds in him that he'd never suspected were there. His mind was blessedly blank but his body absolutely soaked it up, an intense physical immediacy that he responded to at once.

After a lost, endless, delirious time there was a moment, silent except for his tearing gasps for breath between kisses, when he sensed that Snape was ready to make him come, as clearly as if the words had been spoken. Light and quick strokes speeding, and he could feel Snape wanting him to want it, wanting him to be desperate for it. He had no problem with that. His groans turned to soft cries, and he writhed between the two places where Snape held him down, obedient to the demands of that one point in the middle where he was most needy. He thrust up into Snape's waiting hand, and when Snape let him do that he did it again, and again, and somehow that seemed like the greatest mercy he'd ever received, an overwhelming act of kindness that flooded him with gratitude even as he flooded Snape's fingers, spilling out in release while he shuddered like a racehorse and moaned so loudly it hurt his own ears.

Snape kissed him through all of it, an indefinable rhythm Harry could never predict but which somehow always let him breathe, always gave him voice when he needed it. Now the kisses and touches became even lighter, softer, and Harry finally had the presence of mind to marvel over this, that Snape could be so very gentle, could touch him with such tenderness with one hand even as he kept him firmly pinned down to the bed with the other.

He also took a moment, dozing in the warm flushed glow that followed release, to wonder why exactly he himself seemed to respond so well to that particular combination--but to that he had no answer.

When Snape finally released his wrists Harry reached up at once, tracing one finger over the curve of Snape's widow's peak. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what... 'thank you' seemed... insufficient and oddly cold, and yet he *was* thankful, very much so. He took a deep breath, waiting for his thundering heartbeat to slow, "I... I don't know what to say, now," he confessed, finding it hard to meet Snape's dark eyes.

Snape drew back from him slowly. "You should say good night," he said quietly, "and then you should go to bed."

Oh. Harry swallowed. That seemed even colder than 'thank you'. "But," he whispered, "that was, that was..."

"Extremely ill-advised, among many other things," Snape cut in. "But that particular analysis will wait, I think--"

"That was bloody *amazing*," Harry blurted, feeling like he just couldn't leave without saying something.

To his surprise, a corner of Snape's mouth twitched. "Unfortunately, Mr. Potter, such accolades are somewhat lacking in impact when expressed by the newly initiated. Now go to bed."

"Harry," Harry said.

"What?"

Harry held his head up--about the only part of him that felt capable of that particular task. "I think you should call me Harry. After all, we just... I just... um--"

Snape scowled. "That's enough. Go to bed."

Harry sighed and fastened his trousers, wincing at the damp, clammy mess he'd made of them, and finally rose from the bed on shaking, wobbly legs. Fine. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Snape was as much of a git about this as he was about everything else. He made his way to the door slowly, trying to walk normally but having no idea whether or not he was succeeding. When he reached the doorway, he turned. "Good night, then."

Snape had sat up, and looked surprisingly rumpled given that Harry was quite sure he hadn't touched anything beyond the man's collar. The bandages on his cheek glowed white behind a tangled curtain of black hair. "Good night."

Harry, not really certain of anything anymore except that, yes, he was very tired, went to bed.

***

The next morning, Harry was quite stern with himself as he washed and dressed before heading downstairs. His dreams had been vivid and extremely intense, and all seemed to feature himself looking desperately for something which ought to be there, but wasn't. He didn't need Trelawney, or even Lupin, to enlighten him as to what that was all about.

By the time he entered the kitchen, he felt prepared, well-guarded against the disappointment of having Snape act like nothing had happened--after all, he'd been through that before. But in this case his preparation was in vain, because Snape was already locked away in the first-floor lab. There was, however, a note for him in Snape's spidery handwriting on the kitchen table, propped up against an intimidatingly large and ancient-looking book: _An Analysis of Magi-Political Strategies of Ancient Times_, by Prudelia Bidewell. Oh, joy. Harry sighed, sat down, and opened the note.

_Potter--

Given your ridiculous profusion of leisure time, you should have ample opportunity to attempt to learn something besides bad habits and how to overindulge them. This book has very few pictures, and is entirely lacking in information about Quidditch, but I expect a modicum of application from you nevertheless. Get to work.

S._

Harry stuck his tongue out in the direction of the lab, but he got up anyway and set about making tea and toast--he wasn't about to take on Prudelia Bidewell and her bloody analysis without some kind of fortification. When he was well supplied he lugged the huge volume over to the window seat and made himself comfortable (as comfortable as one could be with a stone-weight book in one's lap, anyway), careful not to get crumbs into the pages (magical books hated that--one of them had actually snapped at his hand a few weeks ago after an unfortunate crumpet mishap).

It took him about five minutes to finish his toast, which turned out to be fortunate because that was about how long it took for him to get completely immersed in the book, and lose any awareness about straying crumbs. It was all about Merlin (Maerlin, actually, but Harry managed to suss out that one for himself); what his powers were, and how he used them. Or, rather, how people influenced him to use them.

The next time Harry glanced at the clock, he was shocked to see that three entire hours had passed--it had seemed like only minutes. But now his head swam, and his eyes had gone dry and itchy from reading, and most of all his stomach was in an uproar again, fluttery and slightly queasy, an uncomfortable combination of amazement, uncertainty, and apprehension. Harry took a sip of cold tea, grimaced, and put the book aside before he got up to fill the kettle.

Maerlin--Merlin, Harry amended, since he really didn't know how to pronounce 'Maerlin'--had been strong enough to defeat armies. Not just one really powerful wizard or witch, although he'd done that too, but actual, entire armies. But there was almost nothing at all in the book about who Merlin was as a person--it was all about who got him to do what to whom, and how they did it.

It seemed that Merlin had been, in his time, a kind of super-weapon, and that he was always smack in the middle of some kind of convoluted political intrigue. Harry had a hard time following all the twists and turns of that, and even his attempt to simply determine who the 'good guys' were met with complete failure; but the situation itself made sense--anyone with that much power would always be sought after by one side or the other, wouldn't they? Of course they would.

He was mulling it all over and chewing on his knuckle when he heard the door down the hall creak open, followed by the sound of Snape's footsteps heading towards the kitchen. Harry's stomach did another loop, and despite all the questions buzzing in his head, he couldn't say that they fully occupied his attention any longer.

Snape entered the kitchen, and paused. He looked as sour and grim as ever, but the white bandage on his face made him appear even more sallow than usual as he regarded Harry coolly. "Is there tea?"

Harry wondered if the man ever said 'good morning'. "There will be, soon," he replied. He left it at that--it wasn't like Snape held the bloody patent on curtness, after all.

"Hm." Snape walked over to the window, gazing out for a moment. "I see you found the book,"

"Yes." And one minute ago he'd been full of questions about it, but he'd be damned if he'd ask them now.

"Here's another." To Harry's surprise Snape pulled a slim volume from a pocket of his robes and offered it to him. "Albus sent this some time ago, with a request that I give it to you when you were ready."

Harry met his eyes and accepted the book. "So, you think I'm ready?" he asked softly.

Snape scowled. "I have no idea," he said irritably, then turned and left the room in a swirl of black.

"Fine," Harry said quietly as he heard the door to the lab slam shut, "more tea for me, then."

Git.

***

An hour later, Harry had forgotten all about his resentment of Snape's attitude, and felt quite ready to suffer through another dose of it if only the man would answer some questions for him--and yet every question that he wanted to ask only made him realize how afraid he was of the answers he might get.

After Snape's abrupt departure Harry had turned to the new book: _The Last Maverick_, by Roderick Blinker. It, too, was about Merlin (plain old Merlin, this time), only there was nothing at all in there about anyone persuading or influencing him to do anything, but rather about how wonderful and powerful he was, and how he was 'the last bastion of the Light' in his time, and how sad it was that he was gone. Many of the dates, deeds, and victories noted in the two books were the same, but everything else was so different, it was almost hard to believe they were written about the same man. The Last Maverick wasn't about a kind of human super-weapon at all, it was about... a Saviour. Roderick seemed pretty strong on that idea.

Harry wasn't so sure.

He flipped back and forth between the two books for some time, thinking things over, a quiet kind of dread stealing over him by degrees until both he and his latest cup of tea had gone cold and he realized that, whether or not he felt ready to hear the answer, there was at least one question that he had to ask. He put both books aside with hands that were perhaps not entirely steady, and made his way down the hall to the closed door of the lab.

His soft knock was met with an irritable snap. "What?"

He turned the knob and opened the door. Snape was, predictably, standing over a large cauldron on a low flame, stirring something that smelled fairly rank. Harry took a deep breath anyway. "I have... I need to ask you something."

Snape's eyebrow arched, but he said nothing.

Harry gathered himself, ignoring the roiling in his belly. "That book. The first one, I mean. That... that wasn't from Dumbledore, was it?"

Snape met his eyes evenly, for what seemed like a very long time. "No."

Harry swallowed. "So, it was... was it from you? That one was from you?"

Snape stopped stirring, and laid his long wooden spoon down on the table. "Yes."

Harry had to close his eyes for a moment against the pain that gave him. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but Snape's response to his one question seemed to answer all the others he hadn't asked, and something in him gave way, touched to the core with a sorrow so great that he could feel the pressure of it sitting on his chest, making him struggle for air.

He thought of Dumbledore, who, despite the fact that they hadn't been on the best terms since Harry's disclosure, was still so important to him. He trusted Dumbledore--he'd said as much the last time they'd spoken, and he'd meant it. 'I know you only want to protect me', he'd said, and that was probably still true, only now he had to think about all the reasons behind it. Now he had to think about what exactly made Light light and Dark dark, and why they could sometimes seem as hard to differentiate as it was to determine where he himself ended and his power began. Now he had to...

Harry opened his eyes. Snape was still staring at him, still silent, still betraying nothing of how he felt. Harry felt a miserable tightness squeeze his throat, wondering if Snape would always be the one to shatter any illusions he held about the world, and the people in it. Probably so. And some distant part of him knew that he should perhaps be grateful for that, but it seemed impossible to feel gratitude when he was in the midst of... when he was holding on by a thread to keep from...

The thread snapped, and Harry turned and left the room before Snape could see the bitter wetness in his eyes.

***

He sought comfort instinctively, flannel pyjamas and soft pillows and the sanctuary of his own bed, but despite their combined influence, he wasn't remotely comforted. All he seemed to be capable of was curling up in a small bundle and telling himself that he wouldn't always feel like this; which might be true, but it certainly didn't do much for him right now. The minutes passed so slowly, and who could tell how many of them he'd have to get through before he could--

A quiet knock on his door startled him, and Harry wiped his eyes self-consciously with the sheet before he sat up. He stared at his hands, fisted on the duvet. "What?"

The door opened, but Harry didn't look up. To his surprise Snape entered the room and sat down on his bed, close enough to touch. Harry stared at the chewed-looking knuckle on his index finger, and waited.

"I shall not waste your time with any pretense," Snape said dryly, "so please extend me the same courtesy, and don't bother to feign ignorance of what I'm talking about. I came to tell you, though I am aware that it is most likely a wasted effort, not to be stupid. Don't make the mistake of thinking that all of Albus' behaviour towards you has been a charade. It has not."

Harry's throat was too full for him to speak. After a few moments, Snape went on. "Your naivete undoubtedly precludes your ability to grasp the complexities of this, but it is quite true that his desire for you to win this war, and his willingness to do what he can to foster that same eagerness in you, is neither paradoxical nor antithetical to his... fondness for you. They coexist quite peacefully in him, I think."

Harry swallowed hard. "Then... why? Why would you... why show me that?"

A long silence, and the bed rocked a little as Snape shifted. "I told you once before--I don't believe in coddling."

It was a terrible thing. He was so hurt, and so angry--at Dumbledore, at himself, at Snape--and yet he couldn't seem to stop himself from leaning over to rest his head on Snape's shoulder. There was no protest, although Harry felt the muscles under his cheek become suddenly rigid and unmoving.

Harry waited to see if Snape would push him away. When that didn't happen, he sighed as the confused jumble of emotions that had been warring within him all seemed to settle and meld, to coalesce into a weary, half-exhausted sorrow that felt far too old for him. "I don't want to be anyone's weapon," he said quietly.

"Hm." Snape paused, then, "It might serve you better were you to guard against being anyone's fool. Although I won't count on it."

When the next wave of sadness crested around his heart, Harry knew that he wouldn't, either. He closed his eyes. "Will you kiss me?"

He felt Snape twitch. "No. Now kindly get off me--"

"But--"

"No. You are distressed and overwrought, and I am not about to--"

Harry turned to press his forehead against Snape's arm. "What was all that about not coddling me, then?"

"Mr. Potter," the voice held an icy note of warning. "If you are attempting to manipulate me--"

"I'm not," Harry said softly, "I just... I'm just sad, and tired, and I... well, haven't you ever wanted to feel something other than the way you were stuck feeling?"

Snape paused. "Yes. Often enough to know that such measures, while they might provide some momentary distraction, are at best only a postponement of the inevitable." He sighed. "It doesn't change anything."

Harry lifted his head from Snape's shoulder and turned to look at him, reaching out with one hand to touch the bandage on his cheek. "It changed me," he said quietly, knowing it was true.

Snape's eyes seemed fathomless. "Then I'm sure you'll live to regret it."

"No." Harry slid his hand around to the back of Snape's neck. "I don't. And I won't. And don't start hating yourself again--I told you, not for this." He leaned forward and kissed Snape's pressed-tight lips softly, just once.

When he pulled away, Snape's eyes had closed, but Harry saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. Impulsively, he leaned forward again to press another soft kiss there. "Please?" he whispered to the curve of Snape's ear.

He thought he might have heard a low growl, but he couldn't be sure. Then: "Lie down."

Harry did, and was about to tug the covers back only Snape had already settled in beside him, on top of the duvet that Harry was bundled up in. It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to complain about that, but he didn't want Snape to have any further excuses to change his mind, so in the end he said nothing.

When Snape's fingers threaded into his hair, when warm, soft lips brushed over his own, Harry shivered. Snape went as slowly as he had before, and it was all too easy for Harry to slip back into that same dreamy, erotic haze that had captured him last time, his hardening cock trapped in a soft flannel prison while his mouth was plundered, exposed and vulnerable. Harry twisted in the confines of his bedcovers--he was so hot, too hot, but the heat only made him yield more, made him succumb to the rhythm of kisses, gasps, and shudders that he hoped would never stop.

A surge of unfocused lust spiked through him when he became aware of Snape's hand under the covers, caressing his stomach and moving slowly down, but he somehow gathered the strength to pull back a bit despite that, biting his lower lip and trying not to pant. Snape's hand stilled immediately.

"No?" Snape asked him, his pale skin slightly flushed.

"Yes!" Harry hissed, arching up into the touch, swallowing and trying to find the words he needed. "Only... this is... well, it's sort of one-way, isn't it?"

Snape's eyebrow lifted. "Indeed? Well then, how many ways do you want it?"

"I want to touch you," Harry said quietly, his face hot as blazes.

"No." Snape said, and Harry felt him start to pull away.

Harry reached up with the one hand that wasn't trapped under the covers, and hooked the back of Snape's neck again. "Don't go," he said, "don't stop, I won't... I won't do anything. I won't." He tugged Snape's mouth to his own and kissed him, then let his hand fall away to curl harmlessly on the pillow next to his head.

But it seemed as if Snape couldn't forgive the transgression quite so easily. He returned the kiss and then kept on kissing him, but everything was much slower now, deliberate and slow and drawn out and if it had been pain instead of pleasure Harry would have called him the cruelest man alive. Snape made him wait, stoked his desire until Harry felt half-crazy, and the next time his hand slid under the covers it was only to brush a patient thumb back and forth over Harry's painfully hard nipples. Even through his pyjama top it seemed overwhelming, at once too much and not enough, and finally Harry found himself writhing in desperation, clutching the pillow fiercely with his free hand so he wouldn't... wouldn't... so as not to do anything that might make everything stop again.

Finally, when he really truly couldn't stand it any longer, Harry worked his trapped arm free enough to skim up to his chest, and with pounding heart and amazement at his own daring, took Snape's hand and pulled it down, under the waistband of his pyjamas, right to where he needed it most. He heard Snape's breath catch, but there was no resistance, only a deepening, roughening of Snape's tongue against his own and hot fingers that curled around him at last. Harry nearly sobbed in relief, but that proved to be premature, because when he let go Snape's hand just stayed there, holding him firmly but gently, good but nowhere near what he needed.

Some part of him wondered if he was supposed to beg now, and another part of him wondered if he'd really mind that so much. But before he could decide anything his body decided for him, and his hand covered Snape's again and squeezed hard before he started stroking.

Now there was relief, but it was offset by a sense of embarrassment so extreme that it nearly stopped his breath. He felt out of control, driven by something much larger than he, some part of him that didn't care at all how fiercely he blushed or how he was ever supposed to look at Snape again--a part of him that just wanted, and took, and didn't give a damn about anything else. In that moment he could imagine begging very clearly, could imagine a level of shamelessness and desperation that would make what he was doing now look tame by comparison, could imagine pleading without reservation to be taken, ravaged, possessed--

He had closed his eyes, and now behind them he saw a slowly unspooling series of images, visions of Snape doing... unbelievable things to him. Each picture was an erotic shock to his system, raw and new and dizzying; there was no time to keep up with any of it as each fresh revelation drove the last one out of his head. He seemed caught in an endlessly-mounting spiral of stunned lust that he thought might never stop, but then his mind seized on one image, one picture: Snape over him, moving with him, hair swinging in his face as he held Harry pinned to the sheets, rough hands on his wrists, on his hips, on his...

Harry cried out, and inside the tight bundle of bedclothes that trapped him his legs struggled of their own accord to spread wide as a new kind of hunger flooded him, deep and urgent and *wanting*, a terrible void of desire that made him ache everywhere even as he ruthlessly used Snape's hand to strip his cock, even as he thrust up and came into their joined fingers; pain mixed with pleasure so indistinguishably that he could no longer tell them apart. He moaned into Snape's open mouth, a low, guttural sound of blended craving and ecstasy, and squeezed Snape's hand tightly, greedily, wringing every last drop of intensity from himself until he collapsed with a gasp into the pillows, heaving for breath and utterly spent.

His next concrete awareness was of a gentle touch, fingers brushing back his hair from his extremely sweaty forehead. Harry managed to gather himself sufficiently to hope that those weren't the same fingers that he'd just come all over, and he opened his eyes.

Snape was staring at him. No, staring wasn't the word for it. Snape's eyes were half-lidded, but Harry wouldn't ever have mistaken them for sleepy--they were *ravenous*, full of some strange darkness he couldn't name, and Harry's heart gave a great lurch in his chest as he responded to it instinctively, turned to meet it fully with *yes* echoing through him, through every part of him--

But then Snape blinked, and the look that had stirred him so deeply vanished as if it had never been. Snape shifted away from him and sat up, moving a little stiffly, but seemingly as calm as if they'd been doing nothing more than discussing potions. Harry felt stunned all over again, and more than a little confused, but as before he felt that he didn't know what words to say, what words might be the right ones, might be the ones that would make Snape look at him that way once more.

He was still trying to figure it out when Snape got to his feet, and then left the room without so much as a glance in his direction.

***

Two days later Harry sat in the kitchen, wracking his brain and gazing at the shaft of sunlight pouring through the window as if it would help him think. "So basically..." he said slowly, "the idea is that Merlin could do a lot more without a wand than anyone else could do with one, right?"

Snape frowned. "That's a drastic oversimplification, but considering the source, I'll accept it."

"And the main theory is that he was... locked to the earth, or whatever that is--"

"His powers were earthbound, you daft idiot," Snape said irritably.

Harry shrugged. "I'm still not sure what that means. And I'm not an idiot--the last time you explained it to me I don't think you used a single word with less than seven syllables in it."

Snape's eyes rolled. "I must have somehow forgotten to whom I was speaking. All right. Put simply: in the only authenticated text known to be written by Merlin himself in which he mentions his abilities, he expressed the idea that his power came not from him, but through him--that it came from the earth itself, and that he was merely a conduit. Not a very popular idea, and it is rather remarkable that the text has survived at all, even in obscurity."

Harry pondered that. "Why wasn't it a popular idea?"

A sniff. "Because we in the magical world don't like to think of our powers as anything other than innate. To think of them as borrowed, as springing from any source besides our marvelous magical selves, is highly intimidating."

"Oh." He supposed that made sense. Sort of. "So he said the power came through him, not from him..."

"Specifically, from 'the dirt beneath his feet', according to the text. That statement has disappointed many a lofty scholar. But in Merlin's own time it was interpreted to mean that he had to be standing on earth in order to access his abilities--which is why the dark wizard Montaigne, after Merlin had rejected his supplication for a political alliance, tried imprisoning him in the uppermost tower of a mountain castle built entirely on an outcropping of rock."

Harry looked at Snape quizzically. "I don't remember that part."

Snape scowled. "Potter, you've read two books. There are others, you know."

Harry sighed, feeling fairly sure that, however many books there were, they'd all get foisted off on him sooner or later. "So, what happened?"

"Merlin shattered the castle to bits, as well as the mountain on which it stood. He did about the same to Montaigne."

Harry shifted in his chair. The one thing that everyone seemed to agree on about Merlin was that he was more or less a killing machine. Harry tried not to think about it too much, but it was kind of hard to get away from. He cleared his throat. "You're not thinking of having me try to pull this house to bits, are you?"

Snape eyed him sourly. "What, and risk losing our enchanting little haven here? What a dreadful thought." He drained his teacup, then placed it on the table in front of Harry. "No, I thought we'd start with something a bit simpler--please move this to the other end of the table. Without your wand."

Harry regarded the teacup as if it might leap up and bite him. "I don't know how."

Snape sighed heavily. "Well, if you ever want to have any kind of control over the power that has been granted you, you had best start figuring it out. Just try."

Harry looked from the teacup to Snape's impatient, disgruntled face. As always (since yesterday when the bandage had finally come off, anyway), the angry, puckered red scar that ran from Snape's temple to chin drew his eyes, and seemed to make something deep in his chest twist painfully. As always, the obscurity of that feeling was immediately followed by others that were a lot more clear. "Um... if I do," he said, knowing he was blushing, "if I can, I mean; d'you think we could... would you--"

"No!" Snape said with a furious scowl, then leaned over the table, holding his head in his hands and murmuring quietly to himself. "I refuse to accept that my life has become nothing more than a tawdry, pederastic rendering of a Nabokovian nightmare..."

Harry didn't know what sort of nightmare that was, but it didn't sound very complimentary. "Is this one of those 'you're-barely-sixteen-what-on-earth-am-I-doing' things? Because if you're back to that again--"

Snape lifted his head to glare at him. "Mr. Potter, I find it difficult to believe that even you could have failed to notice the acute disparity inherent in this... association."

Harry reached out and touched the teacup with one finger. "Hard not to notice. One of the first things Dumbledore said to me, once he got over the shock anyway, was that we weren't equals."

Snape's eyebrow arched. "We are not."

Harry shrugged, and looked down at the table. "I think we're a lot closer to equals than he thinks. Or than you think, for that matter."

Narrowed eyes peered at him. "A certain shared moral laxity combined with a rudimentary level of sexual compatibility does not make us equals, Potter. Now stop wasting my time and get to work."

Harry suppressed a grin, and turned his attention back to the teacup. He stared at it, willing it to move. It didn't. He thought at it, silently yelled at it, and tried mentally shoving it, but it remained stubbornly immobile. He glanced at Snape, wondering if maybe he could simply distract the man for a moment and just pick the damn thing up and--

"I'm foolish, not stupid," Snape said dryly, and Harry blushed again while he cursed his face for always giving away everything he was thinking. He went back to his fruitless mental shoving.

"I don't think I can do this," he said finally, resting his chin on his hands.

A soft growl. "It is my considered opinion that you don't think at all." Snape tapped the table. "Stop trying to use your own magic, your own power. Draw on the earth beneath you--let it come through you."

Harry thought about that, but the only mental picture he came up with was of turning himself somehow into a gigantic straw and sticking himself in the dirt--which, while entertaining, was certainly not what Snape was talking about. But then another image intervened, one he hadn't thought of in what seemed a long time. It was from his dream, the first one he'd had about Snape; when his wand had become a stick that flowered in his hand, when all those weird vines had pushed themselves up out of the earth to surround him, and even Snape's eyes had gone green--

He felt it first in his stomach, and yes, it *was* a feeling of drawing, of pulling up from below. He was... gathering, that was it, gathering up what was there for the taking. The feeling of power that flooded him was overwhelming--it was almost like sharing his body with something entirely other, a live thing buzzing in his veins, pushing outward, wanting an outlet--but there was no panic in it; no fear at all, only calm. The air seemed to be whizzing past him, as if he were flying terrifically fast; he could feel his hair blow back from his brow as he turned his attention to the teacup in front of him...

Which trembled for a moment, slid about a foot, and then shattered like a bomb, spraying porcelain shards everywhere. Harry yelped and threw up his hands, but not one of the shards touched him. Then the power vanished as abruptly as it had come to him, leaving him feeling rather empty and small, gasping in shock and shaking hard with reaction while his heartbeat thundered out of control.

"Oh bloody *hell*," he heard.

Harry looked up. Apparently Snape had also gotten his hands up in time, which had at least saved his face. But the palms of his hands looked... shredded, and there were bits of teacup shrapnel sticking out of them, as well as from his fingers. Harry's mouth dropped open, but in the first stunned moment he couldn't think of anything to say, and in the silence the only sound he heard was a soft patter of drops; the sound of blood raining down from Snape's hands to splash on the kitchen table.

"I... I'm so sorry," he managed finally. "I didn't do that on purpose."

Snape glared at him. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. The pain has been immeasurably reduced now that I've been informed of that vital detail. Now kindly get a pair of tweezers, a towel and some clean bandages, and do try not to blow anything else up."

Harry got up from the kitchen table and went for the first-aid kit, wondering how in the world he was supposed to use tweezers when his own hands were shaking so badly.

"And... and get a cushion, a pillow, something--" Snape growled from behind him, his voice low and tense. "You're not done with practise yet."

Harry paused for a moment, but then simply shook his head and headed for the parlour, hoping he wouldn't end up setting the whole house on fire.

"And bring a fire extinguisher!" Snape's voice drifted from the kitchen.

Harry sighed.

***

Harry's first instinct had been to leave Snape alone for a while. It seemed too risky to approach an injured, grumpy Snape, especially since his basic purpose in doing so was to see if he could start up one of those conversations where Snape yelled and snarled and ranted and eventually had sex with him.

In addition to the risk factor, at first he'd considered Snape's injuries (lessened after repeated healing spells, but still painful according to Snape) to be an impediment to any successful plan of that sort; but the more he thought about it, the more he could see the possibilities there, and not just the obstacles. Snape wouldn't be able to use his hands much, if at all. And that opened up a whole new world of options, simply by limiting a few others.

Not that he didn't enjoy the way Snape touched him--he certainly did, but at the same time he knew he was missing out on a lot of... other things; some of which he wanted desperately to try. And no matter what Snape said, or how snippy or distant he got, Harry thought Snape wanted more as well (he'd be crazy if he didn't, since all he ever got out of it was some kisses and a messy hand). Snape was just... well, Harry really didn't know why Snape acted the way he did--but he was pretty sure it was a stupid way to act. Harry's imagination, which had been unexpectedly freed the other day and which hadn't really shown any signs of wanting to be restrained again, suggested that much.

But, however murky or irrational Snape's reasons might have been, there was no question that he was wary, and all too good at saying 'no'. Which meant that somehow Harry would have to come up with a way to catch the man off-guard, or some way to tempt him past his self-imposed restrictions--or maybe, if he was lucky, a way to do both at once.

Which was how Harry eventually found himself sneaking up to Snape's room at three o'clock in the morning, completely naked.

He moved as silently as he could, his heart leaping to his throat at every unavoidable creak from the floorboards. The air was icy cold against his bare skin, but he was so flushed that he barely felt it, and when he glanced down in the dim light he noticed that the cold certainly hadn't had any effect whatsoever on the part of him that had suggested this radical step in the first place. *That* part had already jumped far ahead of the rest of him, knew what it wanted, and appeared to be quite happy about going to get it; nevermind the attack of nerves the rest of him had to suffer through.

By the time he got to the third-floor hallway the darkness was almost complete, and Harry slowed down, inching forwards with his hands held out in front of him until the fingertip of his left index finger brushed Snape's door. All the hair on the back of his neck stood up. It wasn't until he had groped for and found the doorknob that it occurred to him that it was probably locked--which would undoubtedly make sneaking in silently a lot harder, especially since he didn't even have his wand on him. He swore under his breath, but when he gently twisted he found that no, it wasn't locked at all, only closed. He offered up a silent prayer of gratitude, turned the knob, and stepped into the room.

The window was open and the curtains pulled back, and the whole room was a patterned landscape of darkness and deep blue washes of moonlight. He glanced towards the bed, feeling his heartbeat speed up, but Snape was no more than a formless lump under the covers at this distance. He crept forward two steps, but a gentle snort and a low, irritated mumble froze him where he stood, motionless until he heard deep, regular breathing resume. Then he took another stealthy step.

Of course Snape would be furious--he knew that, he expected it. But his decision to do this starkers had more reasons behind it than simply the practical one--he *wanted* Snape to see him like this, naked and hard and ready. Furious or not, he thought he might see a different truth in Snape's eyes. But if he wanted to be able to see it, he'd have to be a lot closer.

So he got closer. It got harder and harder to stay quiet as he found himself beginning to tremble, air currents over his goosebumped body sending shivers through him that were part cold, part nerves and part arousal, but he kept moving forward anyway. He tiptoed up until he was right at the edge of the bed, where he looked down at last upon Snape's sleeping face--and went suddenly, completely still.

Snape lay on his back, with the duvet pulled up to his chest and his head turned slightly to the right. His skin gleamed blue-white in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the locks of ink-black hair that spread on the pillow. The vicious scar that bisected the left side of his face was an irregular streak of purple, and the sight of it tugged at Harry, as it always did--but despite, or maybe even because of it, Snape's face looked... oddly beautiful.

But not peaceful. Not peaceful at all, though there was no question that he was asleep. Snape's brow was furrowed, his mouth drawn down in an unhappy line--not the way he looked when he was angry, but rather something that suggested the worst kind of misery. Harry's breath caught in his throat, and his open hands curled shut as he realized he could almost feel it radiating off Snape like heat--a deep and powerful unhappiness that seemed to hold out no hope of succour.

'...Those who bargain with the Devil shouldn't be surprised at their empty pockets'. He heard it again, as clearly as if Snape had murmured it into his ear at that moment, only this time, he understood what it meant. It meant... it meant that it didn't matter if Harry forbade him to hate himself because of what they did together--that wasn't something that Harry, or even Snape, probably, had any control over. It meant negotiation, a delicately balanced compromise, a hellish kind of covenant, a bargain with the Devil indeed--Snape did what he could, set what limits he could, to stave off the worst of the recriminations, but despite all that it seemed there was still a terrible, terrible price to be paid. And so Snape paid it.

That leap of intuition and the thoughts that followed it seemed to flicker through Harry's mind in no time at all, and in the next moment he realized what he was doing--standing naked over the man's bed, intending to... flaunt himself like some teenaged siren--and the wave of shame and remorse that rose up in him felt like it might have stopped his heart, but then it went racing out of control again. He took a shaky step backwards, trying to be quiet, to be as close to silent as his inner clamour would allow him to be.

"Harry," said Snape's half-asleep voice, and with that everything crashed down around Harry at once--it wasn't only the sound of his name, or the way he was utterly and immediately caught by rapidly blinking, unfocused dark eyes, but rather that there were no traces of the fury that he'd expected, but only concern; concern for him--"What... Has something happened? Are you all right?"

"No--yes!" Harry said, and his voice sounded shrill and miserable even to himself. "I'm sorry, I made a mistake, I won't--"

Snape sat up in the bed, and rubbed his eyes. "What happened? What are you doing here?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I'm sorry..." he groped around for something, anything, anything rather than to confess what he'd seen. "I'm so sorry I hurt your hands..."

Snape looked at him carefully, peering, seeming to truly see him for the first time, and Harry blanched as Snape's gaze took in his nudity--but even then there was no outburst like the one he'd expected, only a silent blink of surprise. He didn't know why, but this sudden strange placidity in Snape was somehow harder to bear than even the earlier despair had been--if only Snape would yell at him, bellow at him, call him an idiot...

"I'm fine," Snape said quietly, and reached out to take one of Harry's hands in his own. "I'm--Merlin's beard, boy, you're cold as ice! Here, come here--" his free hand tugged back the blankets while the other pulled Harry forward. Harry choked, and resisted at first, but he felt weak, so weak, and he wanted so much... he gave in and followed Snape's lead, and fell into the bed with a sigh that expressed nothing of the cramp of pain around his heart.

And so he found himself held in Snape's strong arms, a whole new world of comfort and closeness opened freely to him as Snape stroked his hair back from his forehead, so gently, so tenderly, that Harry had to squeeze his eyes tight shut against the pain of it.

"What is it?" Snape asked, but Harry could only shake his head, mute under the twin burdens of repentance and desire--and that seemed the worst of all: that as horrible as his remorse was, it was no proof against his growing need, and with Snape's sleep-warm body against his own with nothing but Snape's nightshirt between them he couldn't help but press close, his undiminished erection the focal point of both shame and longing.

Despite feeling half-strangled by all the things he couldn't say, Harry opened to Snape's kisses, low, distressed-sounding moans the only thing he seemed to be able to express. It was a new kind of passivity for him--one born not of uncertainty or inexperience, but from guilt and sorrow, and these built in him along with passion, becoming drugged and heavy, and hard to tell apart from the spreading ripples of pleasure that drenched him as Snape took his time, so very close to him and so very patient, sipping from Harry's mouth with deliberate precision over and over, and then melting them together by slow degrees, sharing breath and life and slick wet tongues until Harry grew dizzy from it.

Snape kissed his throat, his chest, and all over, but other than a soft growl that Harry thought he heard as Snape nuzzled his armpit, he was silent. It was impossibly painful to think of Snape being so generous with him, knowing full well that he'd suffer for it later, and Harry used that pain to help him gather his strength, enough to reach down and cup Snape's face in his hands, trying to ignore the hot tongue that had been edging closer and closer to his aching, erect nipple.

One brief tug, and they were face-to-face again. "Don't... don't do this if it hurts you," Harry whispered, knowing that didn't articulate everything he needed to say, but that it was as close as he could get. He hoped it was enough.

"Hurts...?" Snape gazed into his eyes, looking vaguely puzzled, then shook his head and kissed Harry softly on the forehead. "I told you--I'm fine." Harry had never heard his voice sound so mild. "Idiot."

That last might have helped a little, if it hadn't been such an obvious endearment. Harry had failed, and he didn't seem to have the strength to try again, not when he wanted so much. He ran his thumb gently down the healing scar on Snape's cheek, nodded, and closed his burning, stinging eyes.

Every touch now was a struggle between pleasure and pain, and Harry had no choice but to let both have their way with him, and by the time Snape's tongue flickered over his navel, Harry couldn't tell whether he was sobbing or moaning, or possibly both. His belly fluttered madly when Snape's hair trailed across it; he knew what was coming and his desire for it felt like it might just burn him to a cinder, and yet he didn't know how he was supposed to stand it. He reached down, desperate for another sort of connection, some sort of proof that Snape was *choosing* this, and caught silky hair in his fingers just as hot, tender wetness closed on his cock, wrenching a groan from him that was loud enough to make his whole body vibrate.

For what felt like a long time he couldn't move at all, because the intensity, the intimacy of Snape's mouth on him was something he simply surrendered to instinctively, a perfection that undid him on some basic level, that rendered him incapable of doing anything other than uttering soft, shattered-sounding moans between bursts of panting for air. Snape took him slowly, a thoroughly reverent, half-sleepy caress of lips and tongue and throat; long, welcoming swallows that he felt everywhere: in his fingers, his toes, his cock, his heart.

"Oh God--" he murmured, and heard the sound of his heartbeat in the words, "that's... oh God, please. Please..." he had no idea what he was asking for, or what he was trying to say, but he needed to express *something*, to say something that would let Snape know how very good it was, even if he couldn't say anything about what it meant to him. Snape made a low, rumbling sound in his throat, and Harry shuddered as vibrations from that washed through him, a subtle stoking of pleasure that made him fight to stay still, to not thrust up for more. He arched his neck and pressed his head back into the pillows instead, his eyes rolling up and up until they ached, his throat stretched tight on a desperate gasp.

In his struggle to stay still a new kind of pain was born in him, and in a moment of terrible comprehension he realized that as much as it hurt to take what Snape offered him, he still needed more, and was going to ask for it. There was no withstanding it--his body knew what it wanted, and the rest of him was just going to have to accept the consequences. He let go of Snape's hair and used both hands to cover his flushed, panting face, then relaxed his control just a little, enough so that his trembling thighs could spread wide.

"Please," he whispered urgently, hoping Snape could hear him through the muffle of his hands. "Please, I need... I need you to--" he ran out of words, and simply lifted his hips, quivering between shame, remorse, desire.

Snape's mouth pulled slowly, irrevocably off his cock, and Harry bit down on his palm to stifle a whimper. He heard Snape clear his throat quietly. "You want... you're asking for... do you know what you're asking for?"

Harry shivered, hard. "Yes!" It came out as a sob, but he couldn't seem to help it. He ached. "I do... I want... if you can... oh God I'm so sorry..."

"Shh," Snape said, warm hands softly stroking his inner thighs, making Harry go dry-mouthed with awkward lust, "that's all right, it's all right--just... shh."

Harry stayed as quiet as he could, his breathing quick and light and shallow until the tip of a saliva-slick finger touched him, circling lightly, and then his need got away from him and his throat seemed to crack open on an endless, incomprehensible string of pleas, babbling nonsensical entreaties until he heaved up, utterly shattered by pleasure as Snape's mouth enveloped him again at the same moment that his arse was penetrated, sensation spreading through him in twitches and throbs that seemed to only get deeper the longer they went on. That wrung a cry of ecstasy from him, even as he felt two cold trickles run from his eyes to his temples.

But it was too much, too much too good too fast, and before he could draw another breath he *knew* he was going to come, and he needed to tell Snape but his throat just didn't work right anymore, so he got one hand on Snape's hair and tugged, uttering half-formed words of warning.

Either Snape didn't understand him, or he didn't care. Harry heard a growl, and then the fingers inside him *twisted* and everything went white-hot and slow, and he held tight to Snape's head and came, sobbing unstoppably, pouring himself out until there was absolutely nothing left, until all he could do was shake and gasp and twitch.

Snape soothed him through the aftershocks, and Harry didn't actually notice when his fingers slipped away, but when he found they were gone a wave of emptiness rocked him and he curled up around the one place Snape was still connected to him, petting the silky hair there, trying not to whimper.

When Snape released him, Harry made himself let go. Then Snape was above him, still close, but his kiss was bitter--bitter and salt, like tears. That seemed right. Harry ached everywhere, and before Snape could move away he reached to hold him in trembling arms. "Let me--please... let me do... something. Let me touch you--"

Snape kissed him again, slow and deep, but Harry could feel regret in it. "Another time, perhaps." His voice was quiet, but firm. Apparently Harry had used up all of Snape's sleepy susceptibility on... other things. Selfish things. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the remorse that was all that he had left.

"Should I..." it was a weak whisper, so he swallowed and made himself start again. "Should I go?" Again, it wasn't what he wanted to say--it was simply the closest he could get to it.

Even though his eyes were closed, he could feel Snape looking at him. "Yes, that would probably be best."

And because he couldn't stand another moment of closeness when he knew he'd be sent away, Harry opened his eyes and got out of the bed, not realizing how weak he was until he almost toppled over.

"You may borrow my dressing-gown for tonight--it's there, on the chair to your left." Snape said, his tone much closer to his normal curtness. Harry obeyed, found the robe and wrapped it around himself, a heavy, silken thing that was much too big for him, but he huddled into it anyway, his throat filling up again when he found himself sniffing it surreptitiously. He looked up, but Snape didn't appear to have noticed; he just looked rumpled, and sleepy, and stern. "And if you catch your death of cold from running 'round the house nude at all hours, I hope you understand that you will have to brew your own Pepper-Up potion--or at least attempt to. My participation will be limited to standing by with a fire extinguisher at the ready."

That actually helped a little, although Harry had no idea why. It gave him enough strength to meet Snape's eyes. "All right. Good night, then."

Snape nodded. "Good night, Harry."

Harry clutched the robe that enveloped him, swallowed back all the things he knew he shouldn't say, and left the room.

***

Harry kept Snape's robe wrapped tight 'round him throughout the very long and very sleepless hours that followed, unable to stop himself from soaking up the warmth and comfort it offered, even though right now any comfort at all just made him feel worse. He was a selfish beast--he knew that.

It was terribly unfair--if he'd been just five years older, if he'd been twenty-one instead of sixteen, Snape wouldn't have had to... to go through any of this, and probably would have had Harry happily tucked into bed beside him right now, instead of sending him away. In fact, if the look he'd seen in Snape's eyes once or twice was anything to go on, Snape probably wouldn't have had a single qualm about tying Harry to the bed and keeping him there for a solid week...

He pushed that line of thought away. It was pointless. And futile. And damned distracting.

But after several more hours of tossing and turning, Harry hadn't come up with anything in the way of a practical solution, and it occurred to him that distracting thoughts might be the best solution for him after all--because the one thing that had become absolutely clear was that he couldn't, just couldn't, set out to seduce Snape again; not when it hurt both of them so much.

It was an agonizing, horrible decision to have to make, but as soon as he'd made it he found himself feeling suddenly sleepy, as if his conscience had finally bullied him into going along with it and was now ready to let him go. Not that he was finished; not that he'd given up--but he was cruelly tired, and Snape's robe was so soft and warm and smelled so good...

His last coherent thought was to wonder idly if it was possible to have one's conscience removed without the risk of winding up like (godforbid) Malfoy.

***

Throughout the whole of the next day Harry felt oddly hollow and drained, somehow disconnected from his essential self; very similar to the way he'd felt the few times he'd run a very high fever. But that had come and gone in waves, while this was constant--throughout his slightly strained morning conference with Dumbledore, during which he learned that no headway had been made on lifting the curse, and in which he in turn disclosed nothing at all; throughout his studies of the new book Snape had left on the table for him, a theoretical discussion of Merlin and his relationship to physics and time, which he really didn't understand a word of; and throughout the subsequent long, mindless session of cleaning and tuning up his Firebolt, which he did just because his brain needed a rest after being bombarded with weird scientific theories.

He avoided Snape, which was fairly easy as Snape seemed to be avoiding him as well. But for the first time the house seemed too small to Harry, and he understood a bit better Snape's feeling trapped here--they were; or rather, Snape was, and Harry wasn't about to let him be trapped on his own, no matter how uncomfortable things got.

It wasn't until early evening, when Harry had settled down in the kitchen window-seat with some tea and was casting about for something to do in order to avoid offering to help Snape in the lab, that the strange feeling of disconnectedness lifted a little, and he realized that while most of him had simply been on autopilot throughout the day, a small but vital part of his consciousness had been hard at work on the very same issue that had kept him up so late last night, asking questions, assessing problems and inventing possible strategies to deal with them--almost as if he'd been dreaming awake, even though he felt like he was just waking up now.

Harry shifted in his seat, staring unseeingly out the window as darkness fell, wide-awake for the first time that day. He had something. Maybe. He had an idea. He had some hope. He had... well, maybe it wasn't quite grand enough to be called an inspiration, but that's what it felt like, the kind of insight that wanted him to get busy and do things, right away. It was the kind of feeling which he knew usually led to a plan--the kind of plan Snape would undoubtedly label as rash, reckless, foolish and idiotic.

Which meant that Harry would have to be very cautious in how he went about getting Snape to answer questions.

Harry drained his teacup and got to his feet, deciding that maybe he should go help Snape in the lab after all.

***

"So," Harry said, cutting carefully to make sure that all of his pieces of Stygia root were the same length, "you really think that, if Bellatrix died, you'd be free of the curse?"

Snape glanced at him sharply, but never missed a turn in stirring the cauldron he stood over. "It was a theory. One I was willing to test. That's all." He sniffed. "Are you quite done mangling those? I'd like to add them before this potion boils to fume."

Harry handed over the small pile of diced roots. Snape examined them, after which he made a wordless sound of contempt, but added them to the cauldron anyway. Harry grabbed a handful of birch twigs and began painstakingly stripping the bark from them.

"However," Snape said quietly, and Harry looked up, surprised that the man would continue without prompting or wheedling, "the... incident at the Shrieking Shack brought to light some other possibilities--mind what you're about, Potter! I need one kilogram of bark exactly, thin strips, and no knots--they'll make it congeal."

"I remember," Harry said, and put his attention back on his work. "What other possibilities?"

Snape lowered the flame under the cauldron with a poke of his wand. "The simplest explanation for Bellatrix' immunity to the curse is that she was the creator of it, and would have been able to build the immunity into the casting--although I can't be sure about that. However..." there was a pause, and Harry glanced up from his twig to see Snape carefully dropping some bright blue seeds into the mixture one at a time. "Five... six... seven... there. However, there was the curious matter of... of MacNair, who, while he was still alive, certainly displayed no signs of partiality towards me, and so was obviously immune as well."

Harry lowered his knife. "Why?"

The glare he got in response made him go back to work at once. "Well if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be stuck here, would I?" Harry waited. "But... if I could find out, then even if the curse is irrevocable, it might be possible to extend the immunity to a wider circle. I could... I might possibly get my home back." That last was a calm statement, without any trace of evident wistfulness, but Harry thought he knew better.

"Oh." Harry finished with the twig he was working on and transferred the bark strips to the scale near his left hand. He took a deep breath. "Are you planning to... to go after her again?"

A snort. "Not bloody likely. With MacNair dead, and the Death Eaters chased away from two hideouts in as many weeks, I think it might be best to let all of them cool off a little." A pause, then: "Why this sudden interest? Are you planning to add amateur curse-breaking to your current list of ineptitudes?"

Harry very carefully didn't look at Snape as he picked up another twig and started stripping it, avoiding the knots. "No," he said calmly, "I just... I was just curious. That's all."

Silence. Harry glanced up to see Snape studying him with narrowed eyes, wiping his hands on a clean towel. He kept his face as blank as he could, and hoped he looked 'just curious'. He must have been at least somewhat successful, because after a few moments Snape blinked and returned his attention to the cauldron.

"Harry," Snape said quietly some time later, "are you all right?"

Harry closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then went back to work. It wasn't fair--he'd wanted Snape to call him that, and yet now every time he did it seemed to wrench something inside him. "Yeah--yes. I'm fine. Just a bit tired, that's all." He added the last handful of bark to the scale, checked the weight carefully, and then offered the bundle of strips to Snape. "Here's your bark," he said softly, "no knots. I checked."

Snape ignored the bark at first, instead looking inquiringly at Harry, but then he seemed to recollect himself, and took the bundle with a disdainful sniff. "Well... we'll see about that." As Harry watched, Snape plucked one of the strips from the bundle and held it to the light, going over it with a critical eye, running it slowly through his fingers with an intensity of focus that was nearly... sensual.

"I'm going to bed," Harry muttered in a choked voice, then dropped his knife carelessly on the table, and got the hell out.

Continue to part 6

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