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After the war, Severus Snape was lost. He hadn’t planned to survive it – hadn’t wanted to survive it. Why would he? He was universally despised, and his single reason to keep going – making sure Potter defeated the Dark Lord – was gone too. Nagini’s bite, as painful as it had been had felt like his reward… and then it had been taken from him.
He’d allowed himself a foolish moment of weakness just before his presumed death – he’d begged Potter for his attention, had begged the young man to look at him, to see him. He’d lied to Dumbledore – he didn’t want to die a lying traitor, he wanted at least one person to know him. Not anyone – Potter. It had to be Potter because it was always Potter.
It had felt good, to have the young man hover close, eyes looking nowhere but his own. He’d even entertained the fanciful notion that Harry Potter was a beautiful man – after all, he was dying. He had no reason to pretend otherwise. His eyes had slid shut and he’d been ready to pass on.
And then… then he’d woken up in St. Mungo’s in excruciating pain. For half a second, he’d assumed it to be the afterlife, and his blood had run cold when Potter had been sitting right there – the brat was supposed to live, dammit! Then, however, his mind had prevailed over despair and confusion, and he’d realised that he was alive.
He’d screamed, in despair for the death he was denied, in agony at the poison still coursing through him. He hadn’t listened to Potter when he’d explained himself. Something about Fawkes, about Hermione’s charmed bag, whatever it was, he didn’t care.
He was inconsolable with rage, the feeling of having been robbed of his rightful end.
Things had only gotten worse from there. He’d learned, during his ministry-mandated stay in the hospital, that Potter had spent nearly every waking moment defending him, getting the charges against him dropped, pulling his wand on the Wizengamot even, the little fool.
It made it impossible for Severus not to acknowledge the unfortunate fact that he’d revealed some of his deepest secrets – voluntarily, no less – to James Potter’s son. His only relief was that Potter had kept his mouth shut, at least.
That, unfortunately, did nothing for him in the long run. When he was released from the hospital, he had nowhere to go. Hogwarts was under reconstruction, his own home burned down either by Voldemort’s followers or by Dumbledore’s – it made no difference. He apparated there and stood in front of the ashes of his childhood home. He found it made little difference to the state it had been in before. A sad, drab smudge of misery either way.
He'd added his own Incendio to the still-smouldering ashes and had gone to rent a room in the Leaky Cauldron.
Of course, even that offered him no reprieve, because being in public meant, well, being in public, and he didn’t care for the abuse either side yelled at him. Particularly since it was much the same – traitor, filthy murderer, deceiver.
The decision to go to Potter had been easy when he’d made it – it was more of an acceptance of an inevitability than anything, when he knocked on the door of Grimmauld Place.
Potter let him in – of course he did, when Snape pointed out that Potter owed him. And he did – Potter owed him everything. Certainly, however, a private place to sleep. He took one of the empty rooms and holed himself up there, not talking to anyone except the nasty house elf that provided him food that was either too hot or too cold, with nothing in between.
It was a sad, pathetic existence, for a sad, pathetic man.
It was three months into his stay that he saw the first… crack in Potter. His girlfriend – fiancée, really – didn’t like him staying there. Of course she didn’t, he had been characteristically reprehensible to her in his year as headmaster and, of course, before.
That didn’t matter to him, or, it seemed, Potter.
He doubted that the fight he heard was the first – it was too angry, too full of venom of ‘I told you’s and the like. He stayed quiet, listening from the hallway until the front door slammed open and shut. He stepped into the library the fight had taken place in a moment later, relieved to find that it had been Weasley who had left and not Potter.
“Heard that, did you?” Potter asked, his tone sulking.
“The Dark Lord heard that, Potter. This house is hidden from muggles but do you really want to find out if you can scream loud enough to be heard anyway?” Snape snarled – a well-practiced nasty comeback, the easiest thing to get past his lips whenever someone spoke to him.
Potter laughed, the mad bastard. He slumped lower in his chair and picked up a glass that he hadn’t seen before – was Potter drunk?
“Why are you still here, Snape?” He eventually asked as they both simply stared at each other.
“Because I have no place to go, Potter.” He replied evenly – he had long since stopped feeling ashamed of his circumstances – most were, at this point, neither of his making nor in his control. “It seems strange you would fight the Weasley over your desire to house a Death Eater traitor.” He said, unsure why – he didn’t really care about their relationship.
Maybe, he reasoned, he was just so desperate to speak to someone that even Potter would do.
“I owe you that much at least. You… you’re the reason we won the war. Besides, you’ll have money when they give you your damn order of Merlin.”
He laughed harshly. “I don’t care for the ministry’s accolades.”
“You did, once. In my second year, you said you wanted one.” Potter said, sipping the amber liquid from his glass.
He shrugged. “And what of it? It was a different ministry then. I was a different man.”
Potter chuckled and waved his hand – to his surprise, another glass filled with alcohol came floating – to him.
“Sit, why don’t you? You must be miserable locked up in that room of yours all the time.” Potter said, displaying, perhaps the most accurate judgement of his person the brat had ever made.
He took the glass and sat. “It’s better than interacting with your future bride.” He said derisively, wondering if Potter knew how many of her year-mates she was caught in flagrante with in his year as headmaster.
Potter’s head thumped back against the backrest of his chair, exposing his throat to the dim light of the fireplace. The young man groaned and suddenly, Severus had a hard time not seeing it. Eventually, Potter continued.
“Somedays, I almost wish I could lock myself away from her too. All we do is… fight. She has these expectations of me.”
He laughed hoarsely – he knew a thing or ten about that. “Can’t be bothered to play the gallant, chivalrous boyfriend, Potter? Most people wait until they’re married before they show their true colours.” He said bitterly, remembering the stories his mother had told him.
He’d sworn himself to never treat a future wife that way – or, as he’d discovered in third year, a future husband, not that he had ever come near having either.
Potter jumped up and started pacing, his grip on his glass so tight Severus was surprised it didn’t break. “She was… she wasn’t there. I mean, she lived through it too, but she didn’t see. She didn’t see, at Malfoy Manor. She wasn’t in the forest, in the lake. She wasn’t there, in the afterlife. Or, or… in the Shack. She… she’s lucky.” He said – and Severus gasped in shock at hearing the same bitterness he knew from himself in the other man.
“I was.” He said needlessly. He hadn’t been there for all of it, of course, but he knew. He drank some of what was in his glass, finding the burn of cheap alcohol to be more pleasant than he’d have expected.
“I know.” Potter replied, stopping just a foot away from him. “I think that’s why I let you stay. You’re… the same as me.” The younger man said bitterly.
Something ugly, cruel, twisted inside of him. “No, I’m not.” He replied, standing, toe-to-toe with the other man for the first time in… in a long time. Potter had grown – not enough though, he barely reached to his shoulders, even now.
“Yeah, I think you are.” Potter said, carelessly throwing his glass to the fireplace. It shattered – and reassembled a moment later, disappearing with a ‘pop’.
They stared at each other for a long few moments, and he felt something else shift within him again. “What do you want from me, Potter?” He asked, because he knew the other man wanted something. Everyone did – powerful wizards always had some use for him.
“I don’t know.” The other man said with a laugh. “I shouldn’t want anything. I should want you to move on, to be happy, but… it’s like you’re the only thing I still recognise from before.” The other man admitted bitterly.
He wanted to laugh – it was so close to how he’d felt when he’d thought he was dying, when he thought it was finally over. He fought the urge to reach out, to touch Potter, to find out for sure how alike they were.
“What, Potter?” He prompted again, realising with absurd clarity, that he would do it, whatever it was. He’d spent his entire life serving powerful wizards. Voldemort, Dumbledore, why not Potter now? The idea excited him, even – something familiar in a world he didn’t recognise. Something easy that he knew how to do. His heart raced at the idea of it. He’d be able to stop thinking, to stop trying to function.
When Potter’s fingers brushed his arm, his legs buckled and he sank to his knees as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He half-expected the younger man to balk, to panic, to do any of the things the righteous child Harry Potter would have done… but none of that happened. Potter wasn’t a child any more than he was.
A small part of him lamented it – Potter was barely an adult at all, and yet he was decades older than his peers.
Those same fingers brushed his forehead and Potter stepped closer. Snape’s eyes fell from Potter’s face to his own fingers. They had, without his awareness, moved and settled on Potter’s thighs. He hated the tremble there, comforted only by the knowledge that Potter wasn’t looking at his hands.
“Even this?” The younger man muttered, taking another step closer.
His breath hitched at the awareness that the other man was hard. More like him, then, than he’d even dared to hope. His fingers scrambled with Potter’s belt, yanked open his trousers, freed his cock. It had been a long time for him – years, certainly, but he didn’t remember how many.
He sucked Potter in his mouth as if he was the air Severus needed to breathe – and with the way that hard cock felt in his mouth, he thought it may well be. He was gratified to find that he wasn’t out of practice – at least not in the ways that mattered. He had no issue swallowing around Potter, letting him slide into his throat, groaning at the intimate intrusion, the realisation that he’d missed this, pathetic as though it was.
His hands urged Potter closer, deeper, pulling at the man’s flanks, squeezing his arse as he sucked the man deeper and deeper, until his nose brushed Potter’s pubic hair. When he looked up, Potter moved one of his hands to the back of his head, his other once again holding a glass of alcohol – his own, he thought, uncaring.
Those fingers settled on his head, not directing his motions, just… staying there. He watched the Gryffindor, watched him sip from his glass while the other man watched him swallow, suck, and hum around his cock.
Eventually, the younger man’s grip on him tightened and he knew the other man was close – he redoubled his efforts, his own hands trembling with a desperate need he knew would remain unfulfilled regardless of what came next.
Potter’s fingers twisted in his hair, held him in place as the man came with a moan, spilling himself into his mouth. He swallowed, of course, bearing the painful tugging until the cock in his mouth deflated and Potter stepped back with a sigh.
He let himself fall forwards, his weight supported by his arms for a second, as he waited for the room to stop spinning. Then, when Potter said nothing, he stood, once again dwarfing the younger man. “Goodnight.” He offered, his voice rough, fucked-out in a way he found embarrassing even after what he’d just done.
He didn’t wait for a reply as he swept out, straight back to his room, intent on not coming out again – except, perhaps, if Potter called for him.
He did, if not in the way he’d expected. A tentative knock on his door one afternoon – the first of its kind, revealed Potter standing in front of his door. He knew at once that it wasn’t the same one as the one in the library – this one was smiling awkwardly, every bit the awkward boy hero everyone else was so enamoured with.
He listened to the stuttery explanation of the upcoming ministry gala, of the sincerely voice invitation – and he declined.
Of course he did, he didn’t want to go.
His refusal was instinctive – and so was, it seemed, Potter’s reply. It took him a mere second, a frown and a purse of his lips, to shift back to the other version, the one that had made him want to fall to his knees, the one that he’d considered so foolishly beautiful in the Shack.
“I want you there.” Potter said quietly.
Severus sighed – when was the last time someone had wanted him anywhere? For anything?
“I don’t like public appearances.” He rebuffed, though he knew well enough that he wouldn’t refuse.
Potter grinned at him, the smile all angles and sharp edges, infinitely better than the goofy smile he wore like a mask.
“I don’t either. What say you we just hang around each other and glare at people until they leave us alone?” The other man said teasingly.
He laughed, despite himself, the sound unfamiliar in his throat. “Fine, Potter.” He agreed, shaking his head.
“Great! Thank you. I promise, I’m even an okay dancer by now. I won’t embarrass you.” The other man said – and then he was gone, leaving Severus alone in his room again – alone, to ponder whether or not Potter had asked him to attend with him.
Yes, it turned out, he had – because that was the only explanation for why he found himself with Potter’s hand tucked in the bend of his arm as they strode into the ministry-decorated ballroom that same week.
It was bizarre – absurd. Though, at least, he could take a perverse sort of pleasure in the disbelieving looks they got. He understood – he was a dark caricature plastered to the side of everyone’s bright hero – and Potter, the brat, acted like he had no idea.
It was funny, in a twisted sort of way he thought not many people present could appreciate. Potter kept his word too, stayed by his side and glared away people who scowled at him, just like he glared away people who approached with starry eyes.
It was, somehow… tolerable.
“Would you like to dance?” Potter asked most of the way through the evening, both of them a few glasses deep by then. He would not, thank you very much – except his traitorous hand settled in Potter’s, and the shorter man led him to the dancefloor.
As if they weren’t spectacle enough – as if he expected Severus to be okay with having Potter lead.
As if he wasn’t, as if he didn’t like it, he thought, hysterically as Potter took the first step. He followed – he’d never done it before, not leading, but it wasn’t too hard.
“Sorry, I never learned how to not lead.” Potter said with a soft chuckle.
“It’s fine. I can adapt, clearly.” He drawled.
The other man’s touch was firm, a warm pressure in his hand, on his waist. Potter wasn’t a great dancer, but he wasn’t terrible either. They spun around, for several rounds, most of a song, really.
“Are you having a good evening?” Potter checked.
“It has been… acceptable.” He allowed. “Nobody has bothered me – us.” He clarified. Potter nodded.
“How come you are not here with your fiancée?” He checked after a few more spins.
Harry chuckled, a dark sound that made him feel just a little weak. He scolded himself, casting the thought from his mind. “She wanted this to be a celebration. Wanted to wear bright robes. She was looking forward to the party.” The other man said.
“Ah.” He replied – he understood. Glancing around the room, it was easy to tell apart the two groups of people – the ones who did, indeed, see it as a party… and the ones who had been there, the ones who saw it as a memorial. “Not fancying a celebration, then?”
“Merlin, no. It’s not even been a year.” Potter said, tightening his grip a little past the point of comfort.
Severus allowed it, of course. A year, a decade, he didn’t think it mattered. “Some wounds don’t heal with time.”
Potter winced. “I hope you’re wrong.” He said darkly – but he knew the other man agreed, at least a little.
The dance ended, and Potter released him – they walked, in unison, without discussing it, to the exit and apparated back home. By the time they stepped into Grimmauld, he was desperate for what he hoped – knew – would be coming.
He sank to his knees before Potter had even fully turned. His reward was a breathless laugh, a whispered ‘oh really?’ as if Potter was surprised, as if he didn’t want this.
Severus knew he did – he could feel it, pressed against his cheek, his hands, a moment later. This time, Potter wasn’t as gentle, as considerate.
Fingers clenched in his hair and held him in place as Potter used his mouth, fucked into him like a man possessed. He let him, welcomed the intrusion, the way it warmed places inside him that hadn’t felt warm in a long time. Metaphorically speaking – he didn’t think Potter wanted to fuck him, not really.
As the younger man came with a wretched moan, stilling deep within the confines of his mouth, he thought maybe, maybe someday the younger man would want that too, and then he could give him everything.
Harry Potter only wanted him on his knees. It wasn’t a momentous revelation, or even one he disliked, really. Just something he realised. The more time they spent in Grimmauld place, the more time he spent around the people there, the more obvious it became.
There were three sides to the man – the goofy, foolish boy hero he couldn’t stand, the dark, honest man that he would have happily given anything to – and finally, the hungry, desperate side of the man he only ever saw when he was on his knees.
It was all that ever happened between them – Potter would give him that look, and he would find himself rock-hard in moments, on his knees a second later, mouth opening readily for Potter’s cock. He knew exactly what the younger man wanted, what he liked.
When he fought with Ginny, he’d inevitably wind his hands in Severus’ hair and fuck his mouth relentlessly – on days where Potter simply approached him because he wanted relief, he let Severus do the work, let him decide how to pleasure Potter.
He didn’t mind that Potter was still engaged to the Weasley – all he was doing was providing him a service, something the other man couldn’t get but needed. That was the crux of it – he felt like he was needed and as much as the realisation burned, it was also the only thing that brought him relief. That, not his own hand pathetically wrapping around his cock as he inevitably spilled himself in the nearest bathroom, barely sating a need that burned stronger with each encounter he had with Potter.
There were many – once every two weeks became twice a week, became nearly daily. It was always the same – a look that would have his blood boiling, his legs trembling no matter where… and Potter wasn’t exactly nice about it, the bastard.
No, he’d look at Severus like that, across the dinner table, while holding Ginny’s hand – and not fifteen minutes later, they’d be alone in the dining room, him under the table, Potter’s hands clenching on the edge of the wooden table as he came with a hoarse groan.
It wasn’t long – maybe not even past the first time, if he was honest – until it wasn’t enough anymore, until every atom of his body burned for more. It didn’t matter though, more wasn’t on offer, wasn’t something he could have. More belonged to people like Ginny Weasley, to whomever Harry Potter thought deserved it – certainly not him.
He could bear it, in any case – he had borne worse for lesser men. Potter didn’t treat him badly – he didn’t mock, belittle, taunt, or even tease, unless you counted giving him that look in front of other people… and Severus liked it too much to complain even in the privacy of his own mind.
“Why do you always just run off, after?” Potter asked, just as Severus sank to his knees again, mouth already open.
He huffed, fingers pulling at Potter’s boxers. “Why would I stay?”
To his surprise, Potter flinched. “I suppose… don’t you want me to reciprocate?” He asked, gesturing down, to where he knew he was already tenting his slacks, hard from the anticipation alone. He scoffed and freed Potter’s cock.
“My hand is perfectly adequate.” He said, confused at the change from their habit. He hadn’t even realised how comforting he found that very habit, until Potter had interrupted it.
“Is it? Can’t be much fun on your own.” Potter said, eyeing him again.
He wondered if the other man was offering – and if so, could he accept? He shrugged and sucked Potter in his mouth, keen to distract him. It wasn’t one of the days he’d been angry – today, Severus knew, he’d be allowed to do as he wished. Coincidentally, that was taking his time, savouring the heavy feel and salty taste of the other man on his tongue. He hummed quietly, aware of how much Potter liked it when he did.
Indeed, as per usual, his younger partner groaned, throwing his head back, fingers winding into his hair, limp as though it hung around his face. Half the reason he hadn’t cut it yet was how much the other man seemed to like this – just like how he hadn’t cut it before because of how much he liked it when a man pulled on it.
He groaned, his fingers massaging Potter’s balls as he swallowed the other man down as far as he could go. It made it hard to breathe, but he didn’t mind that either, not when Potter was ever so careful to make sure he could breathe properly, in-between.
He felt drool trickle down his chin and wiped it away, closing his lips more tightly around the cock in his mouth. His eyes darted up again – it was difficult to look away, but he always forced himself to do so. It wouldn’t do to stare, no matter how beautiful Potter looked, his face twisted with need – a need that Severus alone would fulfill.
He swallowed around the cock in his mouth, pleased when it twitched, the salty taste of Potter’s precome on his tongue. To his disappointment, the grip on his hair turned harsh and he was pulled off. Unable to tear his eyes from the cock just before him, he waited for Potter to either release him, or to at least explain what was wrong.
What he got was something else entirely. “Take your cock out.” Potter said, his tight grip on Severus’ hair not letting up in the least.
He groaned, unsure of himself, but his fingers were eager to comply. He yanked his zipper down, hastily pulling aside his underwear and finally, spreading his legs for Potter to see. It was embarrassing, to show the other man how hard he was, how much he liked what they were doing – but that paled in comparison to how pleased the younger man looked as he stared down at him and his now-exposed cock.
Potter grinned. “From now on, when you suck me, I want you to touch yourself. Will you?”
”Yes.” He moaned out, desperate to do just that now – but he waited, ignoring the amused chuckle the other man gave as his hands clawed into his own thighs, waiting for Potter to release him – as soon as he did, Severus surged forwards, swallowing Harry down to the hilt, his own fingers already on his cock. This time, when he moaned, it wasn’t for Potter’s benefit, but because the obscene pleasure of it all was too much for him to bear quietly.
Potter moaned too, above him, his hips thrusting lightly forwards, hardly enough for him to notice. He tried his hardest to focus on his mouth, rather than his hands, but the normally so insufficient pressure of his own fingers on his cock was suddenly enough to nearly melt him from the inside out – and then Potter’s come flooded his tongue. He whimpered and, on a whim, decided not to swallow it all down. He kept it in his mouth, only swallowing as much as he needed to be able to breathe, letting the rest sit on his tongue like an obscene reminder of what he’d done. His fingers kept rubbing his own prick, uncaring, for once, if Potter was still okay with him touching himself now that he was done sucking him off – the appearance of the entire Weasley family at once couldn’t have made him stop.
Potter’s fingers grasped his chin, tilting his head up – out of the way, he realised a moment later, so Potter could better see his hands. He moaned, desperately, just on the edge of his own release. It had been years – decades, really, since anyone else had seen him come – he couldn’t help the way his eyes sought out Harry’s when he did, when pleasure washed through him, better than he’d ever known.
“Good.” Potter had said quietly – and then he’d gone, leaving Severus a panting, sticky mess on the floor of the hallway.
It wasn’t until he was back in his room, cleaned up and all, that he realised two things – firstly, that their previous arrangement could never be enough again, and that he had made a grave mistake by allowing himself to think of Potter as Harry even once.
Thankfully, the former wasn’t much of an issue anyway – from then on, whenever Potter had him on his knees, he’d wait for Severus to take himself out before he even let Severus touch him. It was no hardship – he’d taken to mimicking the same strokes, the same motions, and speed as the other man on his own cock.
He wasn’t sure if Potter knew, but it was, without a doubt, the most pleasurable way he’d gotten off since the discovery of his first orgasm back in his teen years.
He winced when the door slammed open and Potter stalked inside, his expression dark – not in the way he liked, but with anger. The other man closed the door behind himself with another slam, and fixed his eyes on him. He fought the instinctual urge to hiss and spit at having his privacy invaded like this – Potter could do as he liked. What had he been doing, after all, other than fantasise about the man now before him.
“Take off your clothes.” Potter ordered.
He froze for a second. This was not…
“Why?” He asked, unpleasant memories of another Potter conflicting with what he knew of this one.
“Because I want you to.” The other man snapped. Then, as if he knew what Severus was thinking, his stance softened a little. “You don’t have to. I can just leave.”
He scowled at the other man, his fingers already at his collar. “I am not as soft and pretty as your fiancée.” He warned Potter – and really, he wasn’t. He was made up of sharp angles, visible bones, and not enough muscle. Why did Potter want to see him all of a sudden?
The other man laughed weakly. “I don’t want soft, and I didn’t come here for pretty.”
Severus nodded and stripped off his jacket, his shirt. His trousers, next, having already kicked off his shoes and socks. It took him what seemed like an eternity until he was down to his underwear – he pulled that off too, without having to ask, and stood before the younger man, his cock hard at the mere suggestion of something… anything, really. He crossed his arms over his chest, his instinctive need to hide stronger than his excitement at whatever the other man wanted.
“Not pretty. As I warned you.” He said awkwardly, concealing as much of his visible ribcage as he could.
Potter laughed. “And as I said, I don’t want pretty.” He stepped a little closer – within touching distance. “If I wanted pretty, I wouldn’t have broken up with her today.” He said quietly.
Severus flinched – he hadn’t known. That explained, of course, the other man’s mood. He didn’t know what to say, so he stayed quiet as Potter reached up and trailed fingers along his collarbone. The touch was barely there, and yet it was the most intimate way the other man had ever touched him.
“What do you want, then?” He finally asked, when it seemed like Potter would just stand there all day.
A sardonic smile was his only answer – then firm hands pushed him, a little too harshly. He tumbled onto the bed, landing with a hiss, and immediately, deliberately sliding off the bed onto his knees. This, he knew without a doubt – Harry Potter only wanted him on his knees.
“No, not today.” Potter said immediately, surprising him. “Today, I want something different. Will you let me?”
“Yes.” He replied, absent-mindedly trying to work out what ‘different’ was – he’d have known, of course, with Voldemort, not that he had ever been with the dark wizard like that, but with Potter…?
“On the bed.” Potter ordered, his fingers travelling to the buttons on his own shirt, undoing them.
Severus scrambled up and onto the bed again, his eyes never tearing from the sun-kissed skin revealed as the shirt peeled away, from the toned muscles hidden by shitty, worn-out jeans. The other man wasn’t hard when he slipped off his boxers, but he still joined him on the bed, still knelt down next to where he was laying already.
“Do you… actually want this? More than we’ve been doing?” The younger man checked, his hand settling low on Severus’ stomach.
He laughed weakly. Did he want Potter? How could he not? He could hardly remember a time before he’d wanted him, didn’t want to imagine a time after the other man had tired of him. “What do you want?” He questioned softly.
The other man flushed and leaned over him, his fingers trailing from Severus’ stomach along his side, to his flank. Those fingers stopped just shy of his ass, and it clicked in his mind as a wave of intense desire washed over him. He was glad Potter hadn’t actually reached for his ass, had given him a bit of a warning – it gave him time to reconcile his pathetic fantasies of just this, with the reality of it really happening.
“Merlin, yes.” He whispered between them, ignoring the soft chuckle the other man gave. Then, he didn’t have to think anymore – the Gryffindor urged him onto his front, his fingers exploring everywhere the other man pleased. It wasn’t long before he was trying to keep quiet, fighting the urge to hump into the bed, or to thrust back onto the fingers inside of him.
He didn’t know where Potter had even learned the spells he used to ease the preparations, but he was appreciative of them – the alternative would have been revealing just how long it had been since someone wanted him like that, and he definitely didn’t want to do that.
Potter lifted his narrow hips, pushed two pillows underneath and pressed him down into them. Every touch, every caress, was so deceptively gentle, even though he knew he didn’t have to be, even though he had to know that Severus would have him any way at all.
When Potter slid into him, he bit the sheets under his face to stay quiet. He felt owned – more so, than his quiet surrender to Potter’s desires had made him feel already, and it was a deep sort of comfort he wasn’t very used to.
Of course, there was pleasure too – Potter was considerate, striking his prostate with nearly every thrust, his hands brushing and rubbing against Severs’ body with each stroke. He didn’t reach for his cock – couldn’t have, with him laying on his stomach, but it didn’t matter. Severus still spilled himself with a wretched moan into the bedding, shudders wrecking his body. He knew – or rather hoped – that his orgasm probably made Potter feel good too, and did his best to clench around the other man, until he too came with a groan. To his surprise, Potter didn’t leave as he had done every other time – instead, he laid down next to him, pressed their sweaty bodies together and simply… settled.
He whispered a cleaning charm to wash over them both and simply laid there, trying to figure out what was different – why Potter dumping Weasley was so significant to them. He wasn’t an idiot – he knew that anything past satisfying Potter’s – their – urges would only be fanciful thinking on his part.
With the Weasley girl gone, it was just them in Grimmauld place – and Potter immediately abandoned all pretences of propriety. He had Severus on the dining table, draped over the handrail of the staircase, pressed up against the door of his godfather’s bedroom.
He had no idea why, what had possessed the younger man to suddenly be so keen on someone as tarnished as him, but he was smart enough to count his blessings. It wasn’t difficult – Potter was always considerate, saw to it that Severus got off too.
They didn’t fully abandon their original habit – he still found himself on his knees now and again, though now, it seemed to be mostly initiated by him. Not intentionally – but every now and again, he found himself fidgeting, keen in a way he’d never felt before – and Potter could always tell, would urge him on with a laugh, would spread his legs if he was sitting somewhere, would approach him if he wasn’t.
Severus had no idea how exactly Potter knew what he was thinking of, how he could always tell – or indeed, why he bothered obliging him. All he knew was that he felt… grateful that the other man was accommodating his own perverse wishes. Well, one of them at least – the only one Potter knew about.
The rest of them, diverse as though they were, he kept solidly to himself, hidden behind Occlumency shields tight enough to keep the Dark Lord out. Those thoughts weren’t something he indulged in at all, if he could help it – and the only times he couldn’t was when either he was drunk beyond reason, or when he saw another story of whomever Potter was dating printed in a gossip rag. The former usually followed the latter, not that he would admit as much.
It wasn’t his business, anyway – he had no place imagining more with the other man, imagining Potter as Harry, imagining some of the parts that the other man reserved for the people he cared for, shared with him.
No, not his place at all.
“Are you happy, here?” Potter asked him one night, perfectly calmly, as if he hadn’t just taken him apart touch by touch.
“Happy?” He echoed, unsure if he understood the question.
“Yes. In life. Is there… something you’re missing?”
He frowned into the darkness of the room, Potter’s body pressed against his back. “I suppose… I miss brewing.” He admitted. He’d taken to reading in his spare time – and he had nothing but spare time now. He was almost through the Black library.
“Why don’t you use the lab downstairs? It’s yours if you want it. You can ask Kreacher to order you ingredients if you don’t want to go out to get them.” Potter offered in a low, sleepy voice that revealed he was almost asleep.
Severus drew a sharp breath at the consideration – the ease with which Potter had let him have something that was important only to him, not Potter.
“I wish you’d ask for more things from me.” Potter said with a frown, leaning against the kitchen counter. Severus was panting, trying to recover from the pleasure that had only just wreaked havoc on him. He was still on his knees, not ready to even try to stand.
“Ask… for…?” He made a vague gesture with a shaky hand, hoping Potter would understand.
He seemed to, in any case. “Yeah. Ask for things. Like… like the lab. Aren’t there things you want in life?” The younger man asked with a strange note of curiosity in his voice.
He laughed weakly. “The last thing I truly wanted was to die on the floor of the Shack, in your arms.” He said bluntly. It wasn’t the truth – hadn’t been the truth since the first time Harry had slept with him, probably, but it was a partial truth he could at least admit to.
The Gryffindor sank to his knees in front of him and frowned. “Yeah? There’s still nothing that makes you want to live?”
He dropped his gaze, one traitorous hand coming up and clenching into Harry’s ugly sweater because of course there was – but he couldn’t tell the other man even that much, could he?
“Oh… Thank you, Severus.” Potter said. He had a split-second to consider the humiliating proposition of the other man having figured him out – and then, gentle fingers tilted his face up. It wasn’t that, that startled him though – it was the kiss, soft as a feather, pressed to his lips.
He hadn’t been kissed very often – a handful of times at best, and never by Potter. He groaned quietly, momentarily too dumb-founded to respond – only after maybe ten seconds did he have the presence of mind to kiss back, to return the unexpected gesture of… of affection?
That night, Severus had no hope at all of not indulging in his fanciful notions and desires.
“What if I’m wrong?” He heard Potter whine, pressed against the wall as he was. Potter was with his friends, Granger and her new husband. They were, all three, sat in the living room of Grimmauld Place. He’d not known they were even there, until he’d come up from the lab. Then, instinctively, he’d pressed himself against the wall to eavesdrop. His stomach had dropped immediately, when he’d realised he was the topic of the conversation.
“Well… do you think you are?” Granger asked.
Potter scoffed. “How should I know? I ask! I’ve asked lots of times but he never answers properly.”
“Harry, mate, maybe that’s just what he’s like?” Weasley asked, audibly chewing something.
“I don’t think so, Ron. He’s way too… er, Snape, for that. Sorry, Harry.”
Silence fell for a few seconds, then he heard a sigh.
“What if I’m just… taking advantage? He’s never even fought with me. Not once! It’s been almost seven months now.” Potter said, over the clinking of cutlery on plates.
He frowned – while it was true they hadn’t fought… what was there to fight about? Potter gave him what he wanted, let him do as he pleased, and never treated him poorly. What was there to fight over? They were no longer stuck in conflict, walking a tightrope of hidden allegiances and his unfortunate obligation to teach the other man Occlumency.
“Not… once? He doesn’t even complain if you like… I don’t know, ruin one of his potions?”
Potter laughed weakly. “I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t do that. I don’t even go to the lab. I mean… I know he wouldn’t want that.”
Severus let his head fall back against the wall – Potter was considerate. Why would they fight?
“And has he said the opposite? That he is, you know… happy?”
He felt himself flush, wondering why Granger would even care. It was none of her business.
“Well… I mean… in a roundabout way, he once told me that… that I’m the reason he’s still alive.”
“Well, of course you are, Harry. You’re the one who saved his life.” Granger said in a condescending tone.
Potter scoffed. “No! Not like that. I asked if there was something he wanted. He said the last thing he wanted was to die, and that now it was… me. I-It may not sound it, but it was really romantic, actually.”
Severus felt his mouth hang open in shocked disbelief – romantic? There was no romance between them, nothing at all other than his pathetic obsession with Potter and physical gratification.
“Okay, I believe you.” Granger said lightly. “So then… do you tell him that you’re happy?”
He heard Potter cough awkwardly and had to hide a snicker – the other man was often a little too out of breath for small talk.
“I try. I mean… I haven’t said the words, those ones, but neither has he.” Potter said.
“For real? Seven months you’ve shagged Snape and you’ve not even told him you love him?” Weasley asked – it took all of Severus’ experience as a spy to not have his legs give out under him at those bizarre words. He wondered if he’d misheard for a few moments, but no – he could hear them clearly.
“Well… yeah. What if I do say and he just… I don’t know, doesn’t say it back? Or what if he doesn’t even like me that much?”
“He’d be an idiot not to, Harry. You’re great.” Granger said. She continued, but he was no longer listening, stumbling upstairs to his room and warding the door shut for the first time since he’d come to stay there.
Potter… thought he loved him?
It was absurd. Positively insane. Impossible. Ridiculous.
A prank, he’d have said, even, except he knew Potter was far above something so… nasty. In any case, the man clearly had no idea Severus had listened to that talk, because when he came downstairs again after Granger and Weasley had left, everything was as normal – Potter smirked at him, crooked his finger at him, and subsequently fucked him over the back of the sofa his friends had been sitting on earlier.
This time, when Potter gently helped him back up, straightened out his hair for him – things he usually did – he looked at them differently.
Did Potter love him? He had no delusions about his own desirability, but had Potter really confused having a warm place to keep his cock with love?
It was almost insulting, though he wasn’t sure to whom exactly.
Still…
That night, for some reason, Potter had him again, in his bed. It was unusual for the other man to come to him twice in one day, but if what he’d overheard was true, then he could rather assume the Gryffindor was feeling… either guilty or insecure.
That was laughable of course – Severus was as devoted to him as anyone could be. But… did Potter know that? They’d never discussed what they did, beyond Potter instructing him on his preferences.
When the other man was done, when the moment came where he normally up and left, Severus rolled over and stopped him with a hand on his arm. Potter froze and looked down at him in the dark room. He faltered for a moment, unsure what to say – and then Potter removed the need to say anything at all, when he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Severus’ lips.
“Yeah. Me too.” He said quietly – and left.
He slowly grew to accept the idea that maybe Potter really did fancy himself to have feelings for him. It made no sense at all, of course, but then, he’d rarely understood any of his preferences, so it made little difference.
Although nothing precisely changed between them, now that he knew – that he had started to entertain the ridiculous idea – it was near-impossible to deny his own desperate fancies. They became all he could think about, all he could focus on.
He stopped brewing, stopped reading, even – he was too busy trying to figure out if there was a chance that he could… have Potter, truly.
He was far too Slytherin to deny himself on the point of principle that Potter deserved better – his only concern was whether or not his feelings would be… accepted.
“I’m worried about you.” Potter said one evening, over dinner.
“Why?” He questioned, only half-listening.
“Y-You’ve stopped brewing and stuff. Is… something wrong?” The other man asked.
He swallowed his bite of food and slowly shook his head. “I am well enough.”
“Right… so you won’t tell me what’s on your mind?” The other man asked, audibly irate.
“You are.” He admitted, taking another bite of food.
“Erm… oh? In a good way? Or… is this you telling me you want to… leave?”
He nearly choked on his food at the absurdity of the idea of him leaving. “Potter… I will stay here until you decide you want to be rid of me.” He promised – and regardless of Potter’s feelings, he would.
He’d long since stopped thinking of Potter as another one of his masters – it was a disservice to the man to lump him in with the likes of either Dumbledore or Voldemort. Nevertheless, he knew that he wanted to continue devoting himself to Harry Potter for as long as the other man would have him.
“That’s… good. So what’s on your mind then?” Potter asked with a small smile.
He sighed and placed his fork down. “Nothing that hasn’t been since I came to stay here.” He truthfully replied.
The other man cocked his head. “Well, I’d like to think we’ve come a long way since then. You were all… empty, then.” He said, as if he had any right to so bluntly mention Severus’… deficiencies.
“Aren’t I, still?” He asked weakly.
Potter shrugged. “Don’t know. Do you feel empty?”
He slowly shook his head – of course not. Potter had filled most of the empty aching spaces in his soul months ago. He froze, surprised at the ease with which that realisation came - personal epiphanies usually took a little more work from his side. He swallowed thickly - didn't Potter make most things easier, though?
"Well... all right then. If... something comes up, you'll tell me, right?" Potter checked.
He nodded awkwardly - he could do that much for the man he...
The words didn't - wouldn't - come naturally to him. It took him weeks of trying to even convince himself that it was okay to think of Potter as 'Harry' and even in the privacy of his own mind, it felt like he was overstepping, somehow.
Of course, when he'd muttered the man's name to him, believing him to be asleep, he'd rolled over and asked him what he needed.
He hadn't had an answer, of course - and Potter - Harry - had just said 'Me too' again, and then gone to sleep.
He wasn't stupid, of course - he could work out what it was that Harry thought he'd meant, what he'd thought he'd meant before as well. It was frustrating, because while he did, of course feel it, he had not intended to let the other man know.
He'd never tried - never thought he would try, either.
"I'm in my fourties." He carefully intoned one evening, in the library. They were both reading - him a book on Herbology, Harry a Quidditch magazine.
"You went to school with my parents. I even remember your birthday. I know how old you are." Harry replied without looking up.
He scoffed. "I am in my fourties, and I've never... told anyone that I... love them." He tried again, this time voicing the actually important part of what he wanted to convey.
This time, Harry did look up, giving him a rather amused look. It was mischievous - and not at all appropriate to the severity of the topic he was breaching. "What are you talking about? You tell me you love me all the time." The other man said, turning a page.
"I have never." He replied, shocked - he couldn't even say it when he was alone, when Harry was at work and he'd tried to practice in the mirror.
"Well, not those words, but you've told me often enough in other ways."
He cleared his throat, finding it oddly hard to speak at the moment. "Have... I? I recall a conversation with your friends..."
Harry snorted. "So you were eavesdropping then. I thought you might have been, you got all weird for a bit after. But yeah, I realised I was wrong. Your way of telling me just isn't words."
"Enlighten me." He requested, placing his book down.
Harry grinned. "You touch my arm, kiss my shoulder when you think I'm asleep."
He winced - he did do that.
"I suppose I never told you but after, erm, the war, after I stayed in the forest, I could never sleep when someone touches me. So, I wake up every time."
He swallowed thickly - he didn't know that. It certainly explained why Potter still left almost every night after they had been together - even after more than a year.
"You look at me in that specific way of yours. The one that somehow always ends with my cock in your mouth." Harry said, as if it was no big deal.
Severus squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable that Potter was pointing out that particular proclivity of his.
"Sucking cock doesn't equal love, Harry." He said carefully, trying not to let his discomfort show.
"Well, no, but it does in this case. Besides that right there is another example. Did you know that you absolutely can't say my name without everyone being able to hear it? Ron's actually complained about it once. He called us gross." Harry said, as if he was proud of that. It sounded like utter nonsense, of course.
"Harry." He tried, listening to his own voice. It sounded no different than it always did rolling off his tongue.
"Severus." The other man replied - and that tone was different from usual. It was warm, intimate, it made his pulse flutter and...
"I don't sound like that." He defended himself. He had ears. He didn't.
"You do. Bloody hot too. Thus, you know, you ending up on your knees so often." Harry gestured, as if that was just a small quirk they shared.
He gulped in a lungful of air, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
"Harry, I..." He trailed off, suddenly self-conscious of the way he sounded.
The other man grinned. "I don't mind. Once I figured out all the things you did. I figure, if you ever needed the words, you'd say."
"Is this not me saying?" He blurted out.
Harry chuckled and stood, coming over to Severus' armchair. "Is it? You've never said, but you've also never asked."
He glanced down at his hands - of course not. He was equal parts sure of the answer, and equal parts terrified that he was wrong.
"I..." He was interrupted by gentle fingers pulling his chin up, surprised to find emerald eyes just inches from his face. Harry kissed him before he could even think to continue the sentence.
"I do. Love you. Obviously. But then, you know that, don't you?" Harry asked him in a soft, gentle voice.
It all felt like too much, his own feelings choking him up and making it hard to breathe. His fingers clenched down on the armrests of his chair as he fought the urge to reach for the other man and do something stupid like holding him too close, hugging him too hard.
"Harry." He said, trying to put every ounce of feeling that he was capable of into those two syllables.
"Yeah, me too."