Chapter Text
"It will symbolise a new start—a coming together of enemies. A healing."
"It’ll symbolise how you can do any bloody thing you please," Harry snarled back. "This isn’t a ‘healing,’ this is a power play!"
Scrimgeour’s smile crystallised. "It is whatever it looks like. You greatly underestimate the power of...of..." He faltered.
"Propaganda?" Snape spat, looking sour.
"Optimistic suggestions. You are both very powerful men, and it would make the entire Wizarding world sleep more comfortably. And don’t forget what’s at stake, Mr. Snape. I do hope I have your cooperation, at least."
"A choice between Potter and Azkaban? Either way I’m likely to slit my wrists before a year is up."
Harry was pale. "I—I don’t...I wouldn’t even know...what to do."
Snape looked at the Minister, gesturing impatiently to Harry. "You see? You really think this would be a good idea? I’m not buggering a little boy!"
"But the Wizarding world—"
"Can go bugger itself!" Snape snapped, crossing his arms tightly across his chest.
"I was NOT talking about my virginity!" Harry broke in. "I meant that I don’t know how the spell works!"
"But you are a virgin?" Scrimgeour asked, his eyes showing a flicker of worry.
Harry blushed at least eight shades of red, and Snape counted them off in his head. Tomato, ruby, rose, crimson, magenta, maroon, scarlet...
"...Snape?"
"Vermillion," he replied without thinking.
"What?"
"I...what?"
"I asked if you were a virgin, since one of us apparently has to be, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to shag you, and you answered, ‘vermillion,’ and I don’t even know what that means. Is that a yes? Isn’t vermillion a kind of cloth?"
"What? No. It’s the shade of red that appears just beneath your jaw line when you’re embarrassed," he answered. "And no, I’m not a virgin, you nasty little snot. Not since I was younger than you are now, and I’ve kept regular sexual company over the years."
Harry scowled. "I suppose anything can be bought for a price."
Snape’s lip lifted a little in contempt. "True, but even then I was expensive."
Harry rolled his eyes.
"There, you see? You already bicker like you’ve been married twenty years. You’re going through with this." Both men opened their mouths, but Scrimgeour leant forward in his chair. "Or I’ll see Severus Snape hang."
Harry recoiled. "You can’t do that!"
"What would you care to wager, Mr. Potter? The rest of the Wizarding world would be happy, should I decide to do it. They don’t know the full story. They don’t know anything about Dumbledore’s final instructions. All they know is what they’ve seen and heard from you. Like you, they jumped to conclusions. They would be relieved to see him dead—might even try to take him down themselves. All I have to do is turn my back long enough. I wouldn’t even have to get my hands dirty."
"Don’t you have any integrity?"
The Minister held up his hands. "You saw what remained of Lucius after they got to him."
Snape paled. He hadn’t seen, but he’d heard that a guard let the public into the man’s cell, and turned his or her back throughout Malfoy’s screams.
"You wouldn’t." Harry’s voice was rough.
"It can be stopped. But that kind of magic takes time. Someone the public already trusts must stand with him. That will halt the initial momentum. Then the story can be told—in bits and pieces, of course. Reluctantly. I’m sure it weighs heavily in the public’s mind how Lucius leapt to claim innocence. Better to court them; be shy, be charming. Then when the waters are sufficiently muddied, he might make overtures of penance. Visit the white tomb, for one thing. Cry, if he can."
Snape shook his head in a haze of awe and revulsion. "Politics," he said with disgust. "And then?"
"Then we begin rebuilding you. A model citizen with an unfortunate past. You’ll never hold office, but with Potter by your side, everyone will begin to breathe easier. They’ll be reminded of the possibilities of redemption—mercy. The sporadic attempts at violent retribution will stop."
Snape looked away, and Harry looked down at his hands.
"It wasn’t even a Death Eater, last time. By all accounts, Narcissa Malfoy had no knowledge of her husband’s activities."
"She should have done," Harry mumbled.
"I suppose her death was just, then?" Snape growled.
Harry shook his head hard. "No, it’s only that..."
"The current climate is disturbingly unstable right now. The people want revenge. If they don’t have someone on which to perform it, they stand about outside the Ministry screaming and making a scene, demanding to know why the madman wasn’t stopped sooner."
"And whose fault is that?" Harry asked.
"They look less for villains than for excuses," Scrimgeour noted coldly. "The latest word is that people are wondering why Miss Weasley was allowed to walk free after the incident of the diary. There are rumours that she was a double agent."
Harry paled. "You’ve got me coming and going, haven’t you?"
"And twisting in the wind, yes; that was the general idea."
Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the man. "What exactly do we have to do?"
OoOoOoOoO
"I’m not wearing this!" Harry nearly shrieked, thrusting the—the thing away in horror.
"What the devil is your problem now?" Snape demanded through gritted teeth, adjusting his collar a little.
"It’s white."
"That’s because you’re the virgin. Remember?"
"Snape. I know how wizards love their freaky outerwear. I know how they like to feel their silky robes fluttering against their ankles. But a long white robe makes me look like a girl. On her wedding day."
"It is your wedding day, and you are going to be the bottom."
"I don’t remember discussing that, and it’s not a wedding. It’s—it’s—" he groped for the right words, "—a non-traditional, magical and civil ceremony uniting two people."
The expression on Snape’s face was dangerously close to a smirk. "Yes. That’s a euphemism for wedding, Potter. Marriage. Long-term commitment which results in the sharing of property, the right to file taxes together, and numerous drooling infants."
Harry looked horrified, and Snape couldn’t help feeling a little cheered. He may be stuck with a blockheaded runt for a life-partner, but at least he was an easily tormented, blockheaded runt.
"Infants?"
"Yes. That’s another term for baby, in case you didn’t know."
"B—but—babies? We can’t even do that!"
"It’s within the realm of possibility," Snape told him innocently. It was unlikely—only extremely powerful wizards were able to modify their own bodies in such a way as to produce children—but he loved watching Potter squirm.
"It is?"
"Oh, yes. Quite the mystery, actually. It doesn’t happen often, but no one has been able to fully explain the concept—or rather the conception. The rest is all more or less the usual."
"I think I’m going to be sick."
"Really? Morning sickness, do you think?"
"Shut up, Snape! We’ve barely been in the same room five minutes, and you haven’t touched me!"
Snape played with his cuffs, shrugging a little. "You could be exceptionally fertile," he replied with nonchalance.
"I really, really hate you."
Snape glanced up to see Potter white as a sheet. He had a moment of misgiving. Like it or not, he’d be stuck with Potter, and the boy really was incredibly powerful. And at the moment, one of his powers was to make Snape’s life even more difficult than Snape could make his. "I was only baiting you," the man muttered.
"Stuff it," Harry replied, but the tension in his shoulders lessened just a little. He yanked the robe on over his head, turned and looked in the mirror, and suddenly his earlier blush was back full force. The pink even crept down his chest, and Snape’s eye followed the tinge down to where it slipped down and hid shyly behind Harry’s collar. "Oh, my god," Harry moaned. "I look like a creepy little boy playing dress up in his mother’s old wedding gown."
He did rather swim in the robes, but he’d always been small. Snape pulled out his wand, lightly drawing it down Harry’s spine, making the boy shiver. "Contractus. There—at least it fits a little better now."
Potter fidgeted, pulling at the fabric, looking almost as though he’d rather have had more room. "Thanks," he muttered, glancing in the mirror. I guess it doesn’t look so much like a dress anymore."
Snape looked at him thoughtfully. "That’s the first spell I’ve performed since they returned my wand."
Harry’s expression said he didn’t know what to think. "Oh. Well...um, are we ready?"
"If we must," Snape sighed.
"I’m afraid so."
OoOoOoOoO
The binding would have gone better, Snape later reflected, with fewer interruptions. But Potter wouldn’t shut up, and Snape simply couldn’t help it.
"Now join hands," the Minister told them.
"I really hate you," Harry interjected.
They both looked at him.
"Yes, both of you. But I mostly meant Snape. As bad as you are, Minister, at least I’m not marrying you."
"It’s not a marriage. It’s a non-traditional, magical and civil ceremony uniting two people," Snape informed him with a fleeting, dry smile.
Harry scowled. "Oh, you’re a riot, you are."
"Give me your hand, you thoroughly bothersome twit."
Harry thrust it at him with a weary sigh. "Just get it over with. Make it quick, like...surgery."
Scrimgeour arched a brow. "It can’t be done quickly, Mr. Potter. It has to be done correctly, which is more important."
Harry groaned.
"We can amputate bits of you later, if you like. Your tongue, for example," Snape suggested. "It would make my life a great deal easier."
"Wand in your left hand, Mr. Snape."
"I dislike the ‘Mr.’ bit," Snape put in. "It doesn’t carry the weight of ‘Professor.’"
"Then you shouldn’t have run off from the job," Harry retorted.
"Wand in your right hand, Mr. Potter."
"I earned the right to the title, Potter."
"The goblet, gentlemen," Scrimgeour interrupted, sounding slightly exasperated.
"What’s in that? I’m not drinking it," Harry said, sounding panicked.
"Stop being an imbecile," Snape commanded. He knew exactly what was in it, having brewed it himself. The only ingredient he felt qualms about was the aphrodisiac, but if he had to bugger Potter, he’d need all the incentive he could get. And while he knew, intellectually, that his life depended on it, he doubted his cock cared. He suspected it would be beneficial for Potter as well, but knew better than to try to argue about it.
The Minister lifted the silver chalice to Snape’s lips first, and Snape drank deeply, feeling the warmth and tingle of the magically-tinged mulled wine as it played on it his palate.
Harry’s eyes were wide as the chalice was pressed to his lips, but he took a quick gulp. "Blech. God, that’s sweet."
"Not as sweet as your lips, dearest," Snape said wryly, just to see Harry’s face roar with flaming embarrassment again.
"Enough," Scrimgeour told them shortly; bushy eyebrows lowering, yellow eyes filled with rebuke and promises of retribution.
"Oh, very well," Snape huffed.
"Kneel."
"I feel like I’m being knighted," Harry commented, and Snape couldn’t tell if it was merely an observation or a complaint. "I should be knighted, after all I’ve done."
"You want the Minister with a sword near your neck?"
Scrimgeour plunked down a brick between them, and Harry stared at it.
"What the hell is that?"
"It’s...the focus," Snape explained rather reluctantly. "It will hold the protective spell."
"Place the tips of your wand on the brick, gentlemen," Scrimgeour instructed. They both complied, and the man added, "Put your energy into the stone, please."
Snape’s wand tip glowed, but Harry looked baffled. "How do I do that?"
The Minister sighed. "Do you know the feeling you get just before you perform a spell?"
"I never really noticed any feeling," Harry said truthfully.
"Concentrate. Pretend you’re going to perform a minor spell. Say the words to it in your head, and visualize the spell working. When you are ready to say the spell, concentrate on the brick, and let your magic out."
"That sounds stupid," Harry complained.
"You haven’t even attempted it, and already you’re disparaging it," Snape grumbled.
Harry made a face at the man, but turned his attention back to the brick. Although he was decent at nonverbal spells, there really wasn’t any risk he’d manage one without meaning to, so he glared at the brick and thought ‘Lumos’ several times. He shut his eyes for a moment and let the spell reach the tip of his tongue.
To his surprise, he felt the magic well up inside of him, giving him a rush of adrenaline and anticipation. He let out a shaky breath and jerked his arm a bit. His wand tip glowed for just a moment, and then the unearthly light seemed to sink into the stone.
"I think I did it!" he said excitedly.
"Wonderful. Shall the Minister award you points?" Snape asked with a lift of his lip.
Harry glowered. "Hey, that wasn’t bad at all, considering I’ve never done it before and had no idea what you were talking about in the first place. I’ll bet you didn’t learn that sort of thing so quickly."
"Oh, yes. Marvellous Potter and his astonishing powers, even when he’s a novice. I’ll just run and get my shrine and light a few candles," Snape told him dismissively.
"Both of you shut up!" Scrimgeour finally roared.
They fell into a sullen silence as the Minister performed the spell to imbue the protective spell within the stone, his words carrying a soft, electric current of magic which wound round them. It felt to Snape like an invisible blanket had fallen over himself and Potter, warm and slightly tinged with static. Harry’s hand tightened on his own, and the magic seemed to settle across their shoulders like a mantle. Snape resisted the urge to pull Potter closer, put an arm around him, snuggle into the weight of the spell. It felt strangely as though no one else existed; Harry and Snape were alone, huddled together in a pocket of warmth, ignoring the chill outside their small, cosy space.
As soon as the words stopped, Snape jerked his hand away from Potter’s, gulping for breath. He stood abruptly, trying to achieve some sort of sense of space, of room to move. Harry huddled on the floor a moment longer, looking uncomfortable and overheated.
"Congratulations, gentlemen," Scrimgeour told them.
"That’s it? Can we leave, then?"
"I’ll want you back in a few days for an interview with The Prophet, but for now, you may go."
Snape didn’t offer Harry a hand up, but picked up the brick and made for the door. Potter would follow; he had no choice. Snape supposed he should get the boy home, and quickly. The effects of the mulled wine were already making themselves felt in Snape’s stomach, a ball of heat there that would shortly spread.
"Where are we going?" Harry asked, hurrying to catch up, nearly treading on Snape’s heels.
Snape managed a bitter smile. "Our honeymoon," he replied.
Harry blushed again.
Snape decided to challenge himself to make Potter do so at least a dozen times a day. He turned away with a sigh. At least he’d have a hobby.
OoOoOoOoO
Harry felt warm. Really warm. And good. He stumbled along behind Snape, barely feeling the cold rain that ran down the back of his neck. He kept sneaking glances at Snape, bemused by the way the water plastered his hair down and dripped off the end of his nose.
"You’re all wet," he noted. Oddly, his voice seemed to be coming from far away.
Snape glanced at him in surprise. "So are you," he replied in a grudging way. "I don’t have a Floo, though. Would you trust me enough to try side-along Apparition?"
Harry shrugged a little, his thought process sluggish. "Better than drowning, I guess," he said.
Snape peered at him closely. Harry blinked abstractedly, lost in contemplating Snape’s gaze. "I think the dosage might have been a little much for you," he mumbled.
Harry shook himself from his preoccupation. "Eh?"
"Nothing. Come here." Snape took his elbow, not unkindly. "Ready?"
Before Harry could answer, they were Apparating. Harry found himself on a seedy street lined with squalid brick buildings, most of them appearing to be abandoned. "Where are we?" he mumbled, rubbing his temples. The squeeze of Apparition had given him the beginnings of a headache.
Snape marched down the street to a building identical to most of the others and opened the front door. "Welcome home," he said sardonically.
Harry shuddered as he followed the man inside.
"Cold?"
His quiver had been more due to the despair of his new surroundings than because of the rain, but Harry nodded anyway.
"We should take off your dress. It’s wet."
"It isn’t a dress," Harry grated.
Snape wore a faint smirk as he reached out to undo the buttons on Harry’s collar, causing the boy to step back with a small noise of protest. "It hardly makes any difference, Potter. You do know that your robes are so sodden as to be nearly transparent?"
Harry looked down and swallowed. "Shut up." He turned away. "Can’t you do something useful? Like get me some other robes?"
"That makes five today." He crossed the room and set the brick on the mantle.
"Huh?"
"Five times your face has turned so red it’s a wonder it hasn’t burst into flames."
"Snape—"
"Never mind. Follow me."
Harry watched in fascination as the bookcase slid back, and reluctantly followed the man upstairs. "Where are we going?"
"To warm you up."
Something in Snape’s voice, something shadowy and amused, gave Harry pause. "I’m not really cold," he protested weakly.
"No. But that’s the potion in the wine. And it doesn’t prevent pneumonia, so it’s better to get you out of those drenched robes."
They stopped outside a small bedroom, and Snape gestured Harry to go in. He could barely turn around, with Snape in the room as well. Harry began to feel claustrophobic, looking from the bed to the tiny window to the wardrobe. "I—I really can’t—"
"We must," Snape told him.
"I don’t want to," Harry objected.
"Don’t whine," Snape scolded. "It won’t do any good. Nothing will do any good. Just—just—take it like a man." He reached for the front of Harry’s robes again and Harry jerked away. The back of his legs hit the bed and he sat down hard.
"I don’t want to," he grunted, scooting back until he was against the headboard. "Please." He shut his eyes, feeling dizzy and frightened. Worst of all, he felt strangely aroused. Did he enjoy the idea of being raped, or did he just like to be chased? Either thought was more than unsettling.
He felt the bed dip as Snape sat beside him. Nothing further happened, and Harry cautiously opened his eyes. "We can do this one of two ways. I can immobilize you, have my way with you, and have to watch my back for the rest of my—likely rather short—life, or I could try to take a few minutes beforehand to convince you that it will be fine. And I don’t know how to do that, or even if it would be the truth. And in either case, we only have a few hours in which to...get it over."
"Why only a few hours?" Harry asked, pained.
"Because the potion will have left our bloodstream and been mostly purged from our bodies by then."
"What potion!?"
"The one in the chalice, you mentally deficient—er. Apologies. Habit."
Harry sighed. "Is this going to hurt?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Not entirely, but I can assure you that I’m not a complete sadist."
"Thanks for putting my mind at ease," Harry responded sarcastically.
Snape reached out yet again, but though Harry shied away, the man didn’t attempt to undress him. Instead he took Harry’s face in his hands and simply held it in place for a long moment.
Harry felt his face heating and grimaced, trying to stop the inexorable flush.
"Six," Snape breathed.
"Yes, I know," Harry snapped. "I’m painfully aware of the exact number, and I will probably continue to follow the count, thanks to you."
One of Snape’s hands moved just a little, his thumb briefly brushing over Harry’s lip. "It’s not all bad," he murmured. "Your skin is very warm, very soft."
Harry bit back a defensive retort. Snape was actually being nice, and as such, should probably be encouraged. That meant not deriding his looks, intelligence and ancestry, however much Harry wanted to. Instead Harry let out a long, shuddering breath.
Snape’s thumb hesitantly touched his lower lip again, stroking it gently. It felt smooth and slightly cool, rather nice against Harry’s overheated skin.
"Will people know about this? Is the Ministry going to...like, check for blood on the bed sheets?" Harry inquired.
Snape arched a brow. "Unless I do something drastically wrong, there shouldn’t be any blood on the bed sheets."
Harry glowered. "I don’t like any of this. I don’t—I won’t do this. I’d rather die."
"You’re not the one in danger," Snape growled. He stood abruptly, and Harry realized how cold it was without the man’s hands cradling his face. "But if that is what you wish, then I’ll abide by it." He turned to go.
"Wait! Where are you going?" Harry demanded, alarmed.
"To get a drink. Come get me if you change your mind."
He strode out of the room and Harry pulled his knees up to his chest. He didn’t want to sleep with Snape, except for the bizarre reaction his body seemed to be having to the whole situation. Logic told him that there was no more disgusting act that he could perpetrate, short of something with livestock or vomit, but his prick, defiantly stiff beneath his chilled, damp robes, said it wouldn’t mind Severus Snape one damn bit.
And it would probably mean saving Snape’s life. Probably. Maybe. With the way the public was, these days. It was a witch-hunt, never mind the skewed expression, and though it was Scrimgeour’s fault, it would end in Snape’s death if Harry didn’t do anything.
He let out a shaky breath and rested his forehead on his knees. Suddenly the small room seemed strangely too large. He hated being stuck in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar things. The room was spartanly devoid of personality, and Harry felt himself growing more depressed as he looked around. Snape had a personality; why didn’t his bedroom? Where were the jars of creepy dead things Snape held so dear to his heart? Where were the silver sconces encrusted with candle wax? Where were the shades of black and deep green and even deeper purple?
Harry wondered if he’d be around long enough to do a bit of redecorating.
He swung his feet off the bed and stood with a sigh. He had to remember that this wasn’t about him, and it wasn’t about what he wanted. Much like the rest of his miserable existence.
Harry crept downstairs, feeling a bit like a trespasser. But Snape had brought him here, and he was expected to stay, wasn’t he? So this was going to be home from now on or at least for a while. He shuddered a bit at the thought.
A roaring fire had been built up in the study, and Harry stopped in the dark room, watching the flames leap and lick at the grate. "Snape?" His voice came out sounding flimsy and vulnerable. He cleared his throat and tried again more loudly. "Snape?"
"What is it now, you despicable, self-absorbed vermin? I’m occupied with a brandy older than yourself, and it makes better company. If you wish to leave, you know where to find the front door."
Harry plodded into the room and found the man hunched in an armchair, regarding the fire with a brooding air. Harry shifted awkwardly before coming to stand nearby. "I—I’m ready. To get it over with, I mean. The—er, sex bits."
"Despite the poignant words which flow from your silver tongue, I’ve decided I’d rather die," Snape replied spitefully.
"Oh, for—look, don’t be like this. You can hardly blame me for being a bit unenthusiastic about the whole thing."
Snape ignored him, not answering.
Harry was beginning to feel panicked. How much time did they have left? Could they really afford to waste it sulking and snarking? He knew they could keep that sort of thing up all night, if he didn’t figure out a way around it. After a few interminable moments, he knelt by Snape’s chair, resting his chin on the arm.
The man flicked a glance at him. "It’s not exactly my dream come true either," Snape pointed out.
Harry managed a weak smile. "Yeah, I can see that. But—I mean—it’s not that bad, right? You even said upstairs that I had warm, soft skin."
Snape’s eyebrows rose. "Oh, yes. And when they ask me what I see in you, I’ll say, ‘He’s insufferably stubborn, his stupidity takes my breath away, his arrogance is on par with a minor deity, between his dishevelled hair and permanently vacant expression he could hardly be called remotely attractive, and he has the table manners of a feral warthog, but by god, his skin is warm and soft.’"
Harry rolled his eyes. "I’m making an effort. Come on; meet me halfway."
Snape slugged back his drink and smacked it down on the side table. "No."
Feeling nonplussed, Harry thought for a bit. "You have your good points, too," he noted. "You’re, um, smart, and great with potions. And you really know how to walk."
"I know how to walk? That’s the most pathetic excuse for a compliment I’ve ever heard. My, yes, I know how to get from point A to point B by advancing my feet alternately in bipedal locomotion. In this, no man is my equal."
Despite himself, Harry smiled. "That isn’t what I meant. I meant—you know—you have this really amazing walk. Your robes billow and snap and you take these big, long strides...I dunno. I just always thought it was pretty impressive. You sort of storm."
Snape gave him a wary glance and went back to staring at the fire.
"Come on, Snape. Let’s just go upstairs and have sex. What do you want, a serenade?"
"With your voice? Why don’t you go out and throw boots at the stray cats? I’m sure the effect will be the same."
"Drink really doesn’t mellow you out, does it?"
"I haven’t had enough."
"Then have some more. Maybe if you drink yourself into unconsciousness I can finish up without your participation."
Snape sighed heavily. "I really hate this potion. I hate wanting you even when I don’t want you. I hate being randy as a schoolboy. I hate being backed into a corner."
"You and me both." Harry took a deep breath and ran his hand up Snape’s thigh. "Come on. We can do it in the dark. We won’t even have to see each other."
The man gave Harry a long, silent, contemplative look that made Harry’s stomach clench in an unfamiliar way. "Very well," he finally replied. "Lead on." He stood and swayed a little, and Harry jumped to wrap his arm around Snape’s waist.
"Wow, how many drinks have you had? You don’t sound all that soused."
"I lost count at five, and I am always, always articulate. I just tend to repeat myself or say things that have nothing to do with the subject at hand," Snape explained as Harry steered him to the stairs. "But my words remain well-enunciated and I continue to pronounce them correctly."
"If only there was a competition for that," Harry muttered.
"One fuck, Potter—that’s all the bond requires, and that’s all you’ll be getting from me."
Harry flared up at that. "Like I’m going to want more than that? If I make it through this once I’ll consider myself lucky. You can just hope I don’t get sick right in the middle of everything, having to look at your face."
"We’ll be in the dark," Snape reminded him curtly.
"Right."
They stood outside the bedroom, staring at the small bed before Snape slipped through the doorway, weaving the few short steps to the bed. "Ugh. Potter, you didn’t wet the bed earlier, did you?"
"No, you great git. My wedding dress is—" Harry checked himself, grinding his teeth. "I mean—my robes are still wet."
Shrugging, Snape sat back. "Well?"
Nervously, Harry followed the man, sitting at the very end of the bed. "Guess I should undress, huh?"
"I imagine dispensing of clothing would facilitate things," Snape replied somewhat nervously, undoing his own robes.
Harry watched before slowly reaching up to pluck at his own buttons. Snape’s eyes followed the movement of Harry’s fingers closely. The man seemed to find Harry’s form fascinating, and Harry wished he would look away. He could feel the heat, which had begun to escape his notice, pooling low in his stomach, and the slight dizziness he’d felt earlier returned.
"We—I thought we agreed to make it dark," Harry managed as Snape’s pale body was revealed, the hair below his navel dark and wiry.
"Very well," the man replied, reaching for his wand.
Harry wasn’t certain what spell Snape performed, but the room was plunged into a blackness almost as intimidating as Snape’s naked body. Hunching his shoulders, Harry tried not to hyperventilate. "What happens now?"
He felt Snape’s hand clasp his in the darkness and balked for a moment. "There will be, I fear, some touching necessary," the man informed him.
Harry nodded, then realized Snape couldn’t see him. "Right. Right. So...just lead the way," he muttered.
Snape pulled him down until Harry was flush against the man’s chest. Snape’s body was angular, rather bony, but warm. Harry stayed very, very still, nearly holding his breath as the man’s fingers weaved through his hair. "I should have had the foresight to get you drunk," the man remarked, and Harry had to agree.
Turning on his side, Snape rolled Harry over, and Harry’s hands curled themselves into terrified fists. He couldn’t see Snape at all, couldn’t anticipate what he’d do next. He reached out to feel for the man. "Ow! Potter, that was my eye. Will you kindly keep your hands to yourself?"
"I just wanted to know where you were," Harry said.
After a few moments of silence, hot breath grazed his ear, and Harry fought to keep from jerking away. "Stay still and let me do what I will," Snape advised quietly. "Ugh! Hair. I thought I was rather closer to your neck." The man shifted, and then the heat of his tongue—his tongue—slipped over the delicate flesh just under Harry’s jaw line, and Harry let out a soft moan.
"You don’t—have to do that," he protested. "We don’t have to do it that way. We could just—you know—the act—not waste time—beforehand."
But Snape wasn’t listening; Harry could feel the bed shifting as Snape moved, his lips and tongue sliding down Harry’s body. Harry had a bare moment to realize what Snape was about to do before the man had done it—his mouth engulfing Harry’s prick completely, unexpectedly.
Harry cried out, hands hurrying to grasp Snape’s head of their own volition. "Don’t," Harry pleaded.
Snape sucked him, pulling up until just the head of Harry’s cock remained in his mouth, then plunging down again. Harry squirmed, baring his teeth and biting back another plea. Snape wasn’t listening; Snape didn’t care. It went on and on, this wet, breathtaking torture, and Harry didn’t notice the finger at his entrance until Snape had already breached him.
It stung a little, but it was nothing to compare to the heat and suction applied so expertly to his cock, and then another finger joined the first, and another, and they all moved and twisted and crooked just so, and just as Harry was sure he was about to leave his body altogether under the onslaught of such unexpected pleasure, Snape drew off.
He grasped Harry’s hips, and there was a rather dull pain in Harry’s right buttock. "A bit to the left, if you don’t mind," Harry grunted in displeasure. "Ouch! Hey! I meant my left!"
Snape adjusted himself with his hand, which was somewhat unexpected and, Harry felt, if he’d wanted to do this from the beginning, it sort of would have killed the mood. But then the man was sliding deeply into him with one interminably long, smooth motion.
Harry arched a little, and Snape gasped. "Hold on—little longer—don’t fight me—" Snape rasped. His hands searched out Harry’s, pinning him to the bed. "Don’t fight," he repeated. His voice was different—breathless and strained.
Harry didn’t want to fight, but he supposed he could see why Snape might think he did; he couldn’t seem to stay still. His whole body writhed, his hips lifting in time with Snape’s thrusts, his head thrashing against the pillow, and he kept crying out in wordless pleasure.
Snape pounded into him, and Harry couldn’t believe for a moment that the man was merely doing what he must in order for the bond to work. He obviously felt the pleasure and need every bit as much as Harry.
Snape’s hair swung forward, brushing Harry’s face as Snape’s hips pumped. In the darkness, Harry couldn’t see the man at all, though he knew he must be there, face inches from Harry’s own. Harry could feel the tightness of Snape’s grip, his fingers intertwined with Harry’s, could hear the man’s frantic breaths.
Harry trembled, feeling Snape’s hard, throbbing cock deep inside, and he tensed. As Snape thrust once more, Harry braced himself and strained up, bumping noses with Snape, then tilting his head to kiss him fiercely on the mouth.
The man made a small sound of surprise before allowing Harry’s tongue to slip in, flicking against his own. Snape kissed back, just as deep, just as hard, and Harry felt a bone-deep shudder of pleasure as he came. Snape thrust once more, twice, then stilled, still sucking on Harry’s tongue.
Gasping, they broke apart. Snape rested his head on Harry’s shoulder for a moment, still panting with exertion.
"What happens now?" Harry asked in between gulping breaths.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, like...do you have an inexplicable desire to make me happy?" he queried tremulously.
"I have a powerful desire to smother you in your sleep, but I doubt that counts as inexplicable," Snape replied tiredly.
"Oh, good."
Snape heaved himself off of Harry’s body, fumbling for his wand to clean them both. "Move over," he commanded.
"Look, the bed just isn’t that big," Harry told him reasonably. He was beginning to get his breath back, and nothing felt any different. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t a little disappointed.
"Fine. But you stay on your side. If I wake up with you trying to cuddle, I’ll hex off whatever bits of you are touching me."
"Jeez. Whatever you say, Attila the Bed Hog. Same goes for you too, you know."
"Fine," Snape grunted. He burrowed into the covers with his back to Harry.
"Fine," Harry snapped in return, then rolled to face away from Snape.
"It...went well, I think," Snape said after a moment.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it did." Harry smiled a little as he shut his eyes.
So far, the bond was a nearly miraculous success.