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Ghost	By : KohakuShadow Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3950 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own harry potter, nor am I making any money off of it.

Chapter List
- 1-Ghost
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A/N: written as a gift for slu64.

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Ghost

SEVERUS SNAPE MISSING.

War Hero Disappears from St. Mungo's Hospital.

The date on the Daily Prophet clipping was December 25, 1999. Harry ghosted his fingers over the photograph of a stern and disgruntled Potions Master. He knew the rest of the article by heart. It went on to say that Snape's sudden disappearance happened the night before, some time after 10 pm, when St. Mungo's hospital was lightly-staffed due to the impending holiday, that there were no signs of forced entry. The resident nurse was quoted as saying that Snape was 'in no condition to be up and about, despite his firm belief otherwise'.

Harry could remember going pale when he first read the article, and spending Christmas day chasing his own tail halfway about the countryside looking for some sign of the man and coming up empty on all fronts. Soggy from the rain, it had been past midnight when he came in to the Weasley house again, for a cold dinner and a hot cup of tea.

Four years later, Harry had a wall full of leads that had gone nowhere, and was no closer to finding Snape than when he'd begun. Ron and Hermione would tell him outright to give up, but he knew the looks they gave each other when they thought he didn't notice. He knew the way they tried to draw him out for a drink whenever the subject of the missing Potions Master came up. He knew everyone else had given up on Severus – the entire wizarding world – because he was a hero, yes, but only a man, and one they scarcely cared about before the label 'hero' was cast upon his narrow shoulders.

Harry thought so much more of him than that. His presence. His absence. Harry wasn't sure which haunted him more. The only thing he was certain of was that his heart ached to think he would never see the man he loved again, even if his affections had always been one-sided. He knew it so clearly now – that even when he hated Snape the most, it was only because he loved the man too much to bear.

Learning that Snape had been in love with his mother, even long after her passing, had felt insurmountable when he first found out, but quickly stopped mattering. His love had never been contingent on his feelings being returned. He'd never expected them to be. That didn't mean he couldn't wish, at least, to see Snape from time to time, or get the chance to talk with him. It certainly didn't mean he couldn't miss him terribly, or worry about him. It didn't mean he couldn't fantasize about their eventual reunion constantly, either.

Most of the time, he could hold it together, but Christmas Eve? The day that Severus had vanished from his life without leaving a trace behind, that was the hardest. So he declined all the party invitations as gently as he could, and made a tradition of visiting Godric's Hollow with flowers for his parents' grave. He often took comfort, as well, in sitting in the back of the muggle church and listening to their Christmas sermon. It didn't matter if he didn't share their faith – there was a warmness and a sense of camaraderie that took the chill out of his bones and his spirit. Then he'd head off to a local pub for a very late dinner and a few drinks before going home. That had become his Christmas Eve tradition. It was a bit lonely, but it gave him a sense of inner peace, if only for one night.

So it was that tonight he wrapped himself up in his favorite scarf – knitted by Mrs. Weasley – a charcoal gray peacoat, and a pair of warm leather gloves, picked up the bouquet he'd purchased on the way home, and disapparated to the top of the hill that led into his parents' hometown.

*

2003. Had four years really passed already? Severus could still see the scars Nagini had left on his throat. There were some nights the memory of dying (or what he thought was surely dying) woke him in a cold sweat from a dead sleep. He could still clearly remember the hospital – Harry and his friends visiting when Severus was unable to do more than move his eyes, and even that, at great pain to both his body and his pride. And he remembered, also, when the visitors stopped coming. He remembered the pained look in Harry's eyes, and the awkward moments when he stopped rambling about world affairs and couldn't find a single thing worth saying.

When Severus was finally able to speak again, the first gravelly words that passed his lips to the boy who lived – twice – were, "You do not need to come any longer." He did appreciate the gesture, but that was all it was. He didn't need the pity. And, he remembered clearly the way Harry blushed and stuttered awkwardly. He'd said 'R-right then. I guess I'm only bothering you, huh? I'll leave you be.' He'd hurried out the the room so fast one would think his trousers were on fire. So fast, in fact, that he'd left his red and gold scarf behind, and had never returned to reclaim it.

Severus could remember all the time he had to think, to come to terms with the fact that life went on after Voldemort, that there was an entire world out there that was still going about its little routines, and that he had scarcely any place in it. He thought much, too, of Lily, and of how he needed to accept, somehow, that she was gone, and that he may have the privilege of seeing her in the afterlife, but without a war to fight, that was likely a good many years away. He had always had a sense that he could die at any moment. Now that that was gone, he had no choice but to decide how he was going to live. The only answer he came up with as he lie in that lonely hospital bed was that he needed some time. So, he planned his escape from the overbearing nurses and the endless paparazzi. Christmas Eve, he decided, would be best, because there would be less people about to try and sneak past. He would have to do so on foot – his magical signature could probably be traced unless he got a good ways off before casting, and he was not yet up to any substantial spells in any case. So, he bundled himself up in what clothing he could find – his torn robes, and he used Harry's striped scarf to hide the blood stains. He'd wished for a coat, but had to do without, and walked several miles in the rain until he passed out in the muggle district of London. The kindness of strangers found him waking on Christmas day in the emergency ward of a muggle hospital, which was notably easier to escape, and he paid an extortionate taxi fee to travel back to Spinner's End. He knew he couldn't stay there, but managed an hour's rest, and to gather some personal effects, before travelling further north. He settled into a flat in the muggle district of Glasgow.

He hadn't meant to stay so long. He'd just needed some time away from it all to clear his thoughts. He took a positively wretched job for little pay tending tables at a restaurant because he didn't dare remove funds from his Gringotts account and risk it being tracked. Somehow, four years had passed, and he still found himself wearing Harry's old scarf, rather than further dwindling his meager salary on a new one.

Now that he'd had his time to think, he knew he couldn't hide in Scotland forever. He'd resigned his position, emptied his muggle banking account, disposed of all possessions he could do without, and boxed the rest to be mailed on to Manchester, where it should arrive by week's end.

There was only one last thing to do before re-entering the wizarding world after such a long absence (he hoped with a whisper and not much pomp) and Christmas Eve, the anniversary of the night he'd run from the world seemed the best possible time to do it. He needed to say his goodbyes, once and for all, to the woman who had determined the course his entire life would take.

He dressed for the weather – a black turtleneck and black and gray argyle jumper, that one pair of black jeans he owned, as he was rather sick of trousers and vests after wearing them every day for four years, boots, and a long overcoat. The only dash of color in his ensemble was that ridiculous Gryffindor red and gold that he bundled about his neck, and as much of his jaw as he could make it cover. It was a damp cold – and the air uncommonly chilled, even by the standards of late December. It was the worst possible night to be standing about at a graveside in the freezing snow, but he'd already decided, and if he delayed now, it could be another four years before he worked up the nerve again.

So, he went, just once, he told himself, to say goodbye and find a way to get on with living, for however much longer he was to be expected to do so with nothing in particular worth living for. But, even if he thought like that, he also knew, quite distinctly, that he didn't want to die. He wanted to keep living, he just lacked an adequate reason. In saying goodbye to Lily, he hoped maybe he was taking the first, and most appropriate, step in finding one.

Funny, he realized as he locked the door to his Glasgow flat one last time, and sealed the key in an envelope to slide beneath the landlady's door, this scarf, even after so much time, still very distinctly seemed to smell like Harry.

*

"Well then, mum, dad, here we are again," Harry said, because you were supposed to say something, but after four years of this he still didn't have the foggiest what the appropriate thing to say might actually be. He settled the bouquet against the headstone, shivering a bit against the cold, and wiped the snow off of his parents' nameplate. "I'm still looking for Snape," he said. " 'spose at this point I always will be. I wonder a bit how you'd feel about it, sometimes, but I want to imagine you'd understand. Until I know he's well, I can't let it go, even if I'm the one he's been trying to avoid."

Snape's words in the hospital still cut him deeply. You do not need to come any longer. Those words made it very clear that without a war to fight, without Voldemort, Harry was very little to him, if anything at all. He could remember feeling choked, offering some clumsy apologies, and running off before tears could burst from his eyes like some foolish schoolgirl with a crush. Well, he was foolish, and he still had a crush, even four years after Severus Snape had shattered any tiny glimmer of hope he might have had about a happy ending between them.

"It's just, well, you know, he's a bit of a bastard, but I love him." Harry thought that Lily, at least, would understand exactly what that was like, if she were really here to listen to him admit it. "I really bloody well love him, more than I can stand, sometimes." He wiped his eyes, feeling the emotions begin to overwhelm him when the church bell rang. The muggle service was about to begin.

"Right then," he said, collecting himself. "Best get out of the cold for a while. I, uhm...well, you know. I'll be back next year."

*

The moment the church doors closed behind Harry, Snape reached the end of the street. He glanced at the white steeple atop the building and turned toward the cemetery, hands stuffed into his pockets, moving down the cobbled path toward the grave he'd been avoiding most of his life.

The headstone was still a slap in the face: Lily Potter. He knew it. He'd known it for nearly forever, but she would always be Lily Evans to him. She'd always be the one that got away. "Lily." The name passed his lips reverently. And then, more irritably, but in his best effort to be civil to the dead, "...James." Beyond that, he realized, there was nothing he could say.

He noticed, albeit belatedly, the fresh flowers on the grave – relatively dry. It must be Harry, he realized. He'd been here recently. He was a bit relieved to have missed him. He wasn't certain what to say to him yet, when they did come face to face. He had thought of him often these past years. Now that he was standing here at his parents' graveside, Severus realized that. He had spent a fair amount of time wondering if Harry was well. He'd probably married that Weasley girl by now, he realized. Severus wouldn't blame if if he did – there was something about Ginny that was reminiscent of Lily, really – something that went beyond the color of her hair. Having once fallen terribly for a woman of similar nature, he could not hold the same weakness against another. He didn't know why it saddened him a bit to think of Harry marrying a woman so like his mother, when Lily had been such a prize of a woman, but there was something about it that felt wrong.

He stood out in the cold, considering it for a long time. It had begun to snow, but he scarcely noticed. All he could think was that he was doing this all wrong. He was here to say goodbye to Lily, to find a way to stop grieving over her, but her son was the one riddling his thoughts. Lily was the one who had died, but Harry was the one still haunting him. Why was that?

*

It had started to snow during the service. Harry waited until the congregation filed out, delaying as long as he could to be the last to leave, because he knew where the night went from here – to a pub for dry fish, soggy chips and a bit more ale than he could sleep off. Starting Christmas Day muddle-headed and weary was never the most brilliant idea, but spending Christmas Eve sober and alone was somehow even worse.

He wasn't sure what made him turn back toward the cemetery. It wasn't his usual habit to return after the service, but a breeze ruffled his hair, and when he turned his head, he thought he saw something shimmer. Curiosity got the better of him and he went back. If there was nothing, perhaps he would sit with his parents for just a few minutes longer before heading on.

But, there wasn't nothing. He paused, squinting against the darkness. The street lights reflected off of something again, someone moved near his parents' grave. He ran forward, following that little shimmer, and realized belatedly it was a button on the sleeve of a man's overcoat. He paused, breath catching in his throat as he saw one pale, ghost-like hand exposed in a blanket of black, only briefly, before it was obscured.

Severus Snape was standing at his parents' grave, pulling on a pair of well-worn gloves against the cold night.

The former professor startled when he heard a twig snap and spun about. Long shadows cast about the figure standing there as if his hand had just been caught with the proverbial cookie jar, but it was, rather unmistakably, Harry Potter.

Harry's jaw had dropped, but he couldn't seem to move or speak. Severus intended to diffuse the awkward situation with a good snark, but his mind went blank.

"You...how...when...?" Harry stumbled awkwardly with an unformed sentence that his brain stood no hope of making sense of.

"Rest assured, Potter, I am no ghost."

Severus was startled when Harry rushed forward and clung to his coat, buried his face against his chest.

This smell was, definitively, Severus Snape. He didn't know when he'd learned the man's scent, but he knew it as well as he knew the scent of freshly cut grass, worn leather, broom oil, and sun-baked wood that he would always associate with the Quidditch pitch back at Hogwarts.

"Oh thank Merlin," Harry exhaled, before some vestige of sense returned to him in an instant and he stood petulantly and pushed Severus hard against the chest. "You prat! Do you have any idea how worried I've been about you?!"

Severus stumbled and fell backward into the fresh snow. He nearly knocked his head backward into the gravestone, and got up with a grumble, dusting off some of the fluffy mess. "Obviously, worried enough to try to kill me," he drawled.

No sooner had he said it, then Harry pulled him close again. He didn't say anything, but his shoulders quivered. Severus was so surprised, his sarcasm left him. He patted Harry's head awkwardly with a gloved hand. "Harry?"

"I've been looking for you for so long..." Harry's voice cracked with emotion. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again. And then you just...appear out of nowhere..." he choked on his own words. "Don't you ever put me through that again, you arse!"

Snape's eyes widened. The way Harry spoke to him made everything click into place. Somehow, without realizing it, without understanding why, he'd become terribly attached to Harry, and the feeling was blatantly mutual. Harry had always worn his heart on his sleeve. Severus had just failed to notice until now that that heart so clearly beat the hardest around him. He'd failed to realize that Harry was not a burden, not his father's clone, not a sore reminder of what he'd lost, but rather, a precious gift that had been left behind for him by the woman who couldn't stay beside him. Tomorrow, he would probably chalk that logic up as nonsense, but for tonight, it seemed the most sensible thought to cross his mind in years. He didn't know what to say to Harry, so he did the only thing that seemed sensible; he wrapped his arms around him.

They stood there for several minutes in front of the Potters' grave, embracing one another. Severus had a thought that James must be throwing a fit in the afterlife at the sight, and that gave him a smug sort of satisfaction that only increased the appeal of returning Harry's now rather obvious affection.

After a long stretch of Harry burrowing into his chest and his nose going numb, the young man looked up at him with a sort of innocence that, for an instant, made him think he was looking at an eleven year old boy again.

"You're wearing my scarf," Harry observed.

"You abandoned it in my hospital room. I believe the expression is 'finders keepers'," Severus answered plainly. "I saw no reason to let a perfectly good scarf go to waste."

"How very economical of you," Harry grinned bemusedly.

"I presume Molly Weasley made your scarf?" Snape countered.

"It was a gift," Harry pouted defensively. "I like it. It's warm."

He blinked at the unreadable expression in Snape's dark eyes. "Why don't you say what is really on your mind, Harry?" They were beating about the bush, and it was bitterly cold.

Harry blushed a bit. "There's a pub near here," he blurted. "The fish is dry, the chips are soggy, and the ale is mediocre at best. Would you maybe...want to join me for a drink?"

Severus allowed his lips to quirk into the barest smirk. "After such a glowing recommendation, how can I possibly refuse?"

"It would be terribly rude," Harry answered, hoping that he wasn't pushing it. Severus Snape had never been adverse to being a little rude, least of all to him.

"I suppose I can overlook my natural aversion to humoring your whims for one night. It is Christmas, after all."

"How generous of you," Harry replied, pulling away from the warm embrace he'd forced upon the older man. He considered reaching out to hold his hand, but didn't want to risk scaring him away. It seemed the right choice. Severus promptly stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded for Harry to lead on.

"Good of you to be adult enough to acknowledge it," Severus quipped. Adult. Yes, Harry was an adult now. Still several years his junior, but an adult nonetheless. He could see it in the set of his jaw, the squareness of his shoulders; his entire countenance told Severus that much had changed in his time away. He wondered idly if Harry was reading the same messages on his body. How much had really changed for him? Half-returned to the wizarding world, he was no longer certain it was all that much. He had refrained from all magic for so very long. He wanted little more than to sequester himself with a cauldron, or be lazy and accio a book to himself rather than getting up to get it. Anything, as long as he got to use a bit of magic again soon. It had been a kind of torture he'd inflicted upon himself in avoiding it so he would not be found by anyone. Now, he felt like a child again – even in this half-muggle town, everything felt new and wonderful.

Even Harry, who he had once thought little more than a thorn in his side, seeing him again, he hadn't realized how he'd longed for it. His thoughts wandered while they walked, settled when Harry ordered for them and found a cozy place for them in a corner booth of the dimly lit pub. Even if the pub was all but empty, it was a little shadowed, and far from the few patrons hanging about the bar. It was just the spot he would have chosen, he realized, and wondered if Harry knew that.

"I hope that's alright," Harry said.

Severus pulled himself from his wandering thoughts. He didn't want to admit that he hadn't been listening, but he had no idea what Harry had said before those four words.

"It is acceptable," he answered, hoping he wouldn't regret the reply.

Harry grinned at him. "You've been ignoring me, haven't you?"

"I haven't," Severus answered distractedly. "It has been a long while. I am simply a bit overwhelmed." It seemed like a reasonable excuse, if he had to make one. "I have been away for such a very long time."

"You have," Harry answered with that same surprising degree of emotion he had displayed in their embrace a few minutes before. "You could have owled, at least," he sulked.

"I couldn't," Severus answered.

"Then muggle post," Harry argued.

"I couldn't bear it," Severus answered honestly. "I needed time, Harry. Away from you, especially. You are still their son. Even now, I wonder if this is wise." It must be the night, tense with emotion, or Harry's own emotional response to his return. Severus was not prone to being so frank, but as distraught as Harry obviously was, he felt he should explain himself a bit, clear the air between them.

Harry just leaned on his elbows and smirked up at him. "Chips and beer?" he teased.

"Precisely," Severus answered flatly, for lack of a better way to explain.

"This isn't about chips and beer," Harry said, as if reading Snape's mind. "It's about chips and beer with me."

"Obviously," Severus replied. "You are...a complicated matter."

"Or, maybe I'm just Harry," the young man responded.

"I see no difference," Severus replied. 'Harry' was just as complex a topic to him as 'James and Lily's son'. He had terribly mixed feelings about both.

"They're completely different," Harry replied petulantly, waving a chip as he argued the point. "One is just the leftovers of the woman you wanted to have and the man who stole her out from under you once you pissed her off bad enough. The other is your former student, who maybe hasn't always been on the best terms with you, but who's spent the past for years worrying that you were dead in a gutter somewhere and..!" Harry cut himself off abruptly in the middle of his tirade, shoving the chip in his mouth.

Severus quirked a brow. How was that sentence intended to end? He shouldn't press the subject, but, to the same token, couldn't ignore it. "And?" he asked.

"...and...is just glad that you're not," Harry muttered awkwardly.

But Severus knew that for the abrupt cover that it was. "And, is still a terrible liar," he pointed out.

Harry frowned and stopped fiddling with the chips he didn't even really have an appetite for. He wiped his hand stiffly on his napkin. "Can't we just leave it at that?" Harry asked. "You don't want things to change, and if you make me finish that sentence, they will."

"It may be time that they did." Severus felt his pulse racing. He wasn't sure what risk exactly he was taking, but he had a distinct feeling that it was monumental.

Harry wanted to get up and pace. He settled for raking his fingers through his tangled hair. It drew Snape's attention to his lightning scar.

Snape took it back. "Never mind," he said. "If it agitates you so..."

"You're my Lily," Harry blurted, slamming his palm against the table. "You always fucking have been, you prat."

"What?" Snape blurted gracelessly. He was...Lily? His brain understood the implications but couldn't put them together in any way that made sense.

Harry stared down at the tabletop, white-knuckled. "You're the one I've always wanted, but can't have," he whispered. Why did he have to get all frustrated and blurt it out like that? If he wasn't so damned transparent, Snape wouldn't know something was up with him, and wouldn't have thought to question it, but Snape had always seen right through him.

"Harry, you don't mean that..." Severus said. He was buying time; he needed a moment to let it all sink in. Lily? What a comparison he'd made. It shattered Severus to the core of his being – all he'd gone through for his love of Lily, while Lily never knew, and if she did, did a smash up job of pretending she didn't. How could he be that to someone else? So incredibly central to everything. To Harry Potter, no less. Surely, this was some cruel joke.

"I do mean it!" Harry answered furiously. Why did Snape always have to do that? He always brushed him off. Even when he wasn't brushing him off, he acted like he was. Was the thought of being loved by him really so unbearable? "I've been a wreck since you disappeared! Do you know how long I've loved you? I loved you before I knew I loved you. Even when I hated you the most, I only hated you because I love you so damn much. And then you almost died, and then you disappeared, and...Merlin! Don't you understand? You of all people should understand." Harry protested emotionally, eyes moist with distress. "Even if I can't have you, at least, if I can see you once in a while, know you're alright...but when you suddenly disappear and don't tell anyone where you are before the hospital even releases you...what am I supposed to do then?" Harry's shoulders shook. His fists clenched on the tabletop hard enough to leave nail marks on his palms. "Four years. Do you know how hard I looked for you? I chased down so many leads that went nowhere. Everyone has been trying to convince me for the last two of them that enough is enough. They've been trying to make me accept that you've probably died. You...it must have been horrible, knowing my mom was dead, but...at least you were sure. At least you didn't have this stupid little glimmer of hope to hold onto that never lets you rest."

He took a breath and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. "And then, right when I think I might have to admit they're right, just at the exact moment that I'm out of leads, that I don't know where I can possibly look after this, when I'm feeling the most destroyed because I think they're right, because I'll probably never see you again, there you are, just standing there, like you'd never gone in the first place. How am I supposed to feel, Severus? You tell me."

Severus couldn't answer for several breaths. He needed a few moments to process what was being said to him. The words almost felt like gibberish, a dream where you understand what's being said, but can't seem to hear the actual words. Harry's emotion, his tantrum, his passion. When a coherent thought finally came to him, he was surprised to find mild amusement in its wake. 'He really is his mother's son. Courageous, intelligent, if belligerent, passionate, overly-excitable, with this guileless naivete about how the world should be, as if will alone can make it that way. I see so much of Lily in him, not just the eyes.'

"You really are your mother's son," he said at last. But what did that mean to them? He knew how painful it was to love someone with no hope of having those feelings returned. Could he return Harry's feelings? He didn't wish to give him false hope, but he thought, perhaps. The more he let it settle in, the more Harry seemed less like a burden he had to endure for the mistakes of his youth, and the more he seemed like a gift. Harry was Lily's legacy, after all. They weren't one in the same, but all the traits he had loved the most in her were also present in him. Had he been so trapped in the past all this time that he'd failed to notice? Or, was it just that he was afraid to let himself notice, to lay his heart down in front of another person who was libel to crush it all over again. "You do know, surely, that I will never stop loving your mother?" he asked tentatively.

"I would never expect you to," Harry answered, feeling that little, renegade spark of hope in his chest at Snape's tone of voice. "You're really devoted, or something," he wasn't that great with words. "That's part of what I like so much about you. I just, isn't there some tiny little corner of your heart that might have room enough in it to, I don't know, have dinner with me now and again?" He didn't dare hope for more, in spite of the pounding in his chest. Snape wasn't angry. He wasn't disgusted. That had to mean something, right? But, he didn't think it meant a miracle. A miracle would be Snape launching across the table right now and shoving his tongue down Harry's throat. Okay, maybe that was just a fantasy, but it would be a miraculous one, if it came to pass.

It didn't, but what did was just as flooring. "Perhaps this isn't the place to have such a discussion," Severus said slowly. "I have not moved back into my home as yet. I am sure it is only barely liveable. If you wish to continue this conversation, your home may be the wisest option. Are you still living at the old Black place?"

Harry's pulse thundered. He sputtered some nonsense before clambering to his feet, cursing as he tipped over his ale and made a mess of the table, tossed some money carelessly for the food – and a generous tip as an apology for the mess he'd left behind him, and grabbed Snape by the wrist, tugging him out into the cold with his coat only half on.

Only an instant later, Severus found himself standing on a familiar street in the suburbs of London. Grimauld Place. #12 – sandwiched between two muggle rowhomes, and just as dark and dismal as it had ever been. He blinked off the unexpected side-along apparition as Harry pulled him vigorously up the steps and inside. He was more than a little startled when he was pushed back against the door.

Harry curled his fingers into Snape's inky hair and pulled him down for a brutal, desperate sort of kiss.

'Leave it to a Gryffindor,' Snape thought when the intense moment shattered and left them standing there with Harry staring uncertainly up at him, and that bloody portrait of Mrs. Black screaming profanities about homosexuals at the noise.

Harry snapped his wand viciously at her curtains to silence her.

Severus quirked a brow. He'd known the portrait to rage about blood traitors and mudbloods and even Gryffindors, but she had a few choice words for gays now, too?

Harry blushed. "I may have brought a bloke or two home," he admitted. "...when I was drunk and lonely, and wishing they were you." There was no sense denying that now, not after he'd just mercilessly snogged Severus in the foyer. "Uhm...where should we...?"

"The kitchen," Severus said. "I am sure I will be able to devise something more palatable than the lump of grease that wretched place has the gall to call chips."

Or, so he thought, until he looked through Harry's disastrously empty cupboards. He managed to scavenge up some vegetables, half a sleeve of digestives, a quarter jar of peanut butter, a few slices of slightly stale bread which he toasted and cut into fingers and a few spoonfuls each of butter and jam. Harry looked on in awe as he spread it out on a plate to look as if the items were always meant to go together, and expertly poured two cups of tea. "Your cupboards are in a sorry state," he said.

"I eat a lot of take away," Harry admitted. "I should cook more, but..."

"...it seems like too much of a bother for just one person," Snape finished for him. It was as if Severus read his mind. Harry realized he could have, but he'd like to think his former professor was at least a little too polite to do it so blatantly.

In spite of the impressive spur of the moment display Severus had created, Harry couldn't help but notice that neither of them had any appetite. How could he eat, when he was thinking about that kiss? He'd wanted it for so long, and he didn't miss the way Snape's fingertips had butterflied over his waist, or, even more distinctly, the fact that Severus had kissed him back. It was brief, fevered, and clumsy, but it was also brilliant. The suspense was killing him. What had Severus thought of it? Was he pretending it hadn't happened because he hated it? Or because he didn't hate it at all? He looked up, summoning every ounce of Gryffindor courage he had, because there were some ways in which Severus Snape could terrify him that Voldemort had never been able to hold a candle to, but Snape didn't give him the opportunity to speak.

"What happened in the hall," Severus still spoke slowly and deliberately, as if measuring the weight of each word the instant before it passed his lips.

"When we kissed," Harry blurted, wondering why Severus refused to say it.

"Yes, I suppose," Severus conceded grudgingly. "It was..." and here he struggled. Harry felt his palms sweating in anticipation of the words to follow, which could make or break him. "...startling," Severus said first. Harry flexed his fingers as if doing so could make the older man get on with it if he was going to dash his hopes. "...but, not unpleasant."

Harry dropped his head into his hands. "Can't you just, for once, say 'it was nice' or 'I enjoyed it'. You just love stringing me along, don't you?" he complained. 'Not unpleasant'. Honestly, this guy!

"...a bit," Severus admitted.

Harry looked up, eyes wide, to see just that faint glint of humor in Snape's eyes. "Fine, you prat," he said, his own face breaking out into a grin. "If you come closer, I'll show you just how 'not unpleasant' I can be."

Severus hesitated, but against those smiling green eyes, he couldn't resist the temptation long, and got up, willing his pulse to a normal rate as he walked around the seemingly endless table to meet Harry on the other side.

Harry got impatient halfway through and climbed right over the top of the table to meet him. Sitting on the aged wood, he pulled Severus down into a kiss much more deliberate than their first. Aware of what was coming this time, Severus met him half way. He'd spent so much of his life thinking things through, not taking any chances, only to end up half-dead and all alone. He'd promised himself, in returning home again, that he would not make the same mistakes again. And so, against his better judgment, he kissed the young man who, in some alternate universe, could well have been his son (For the first time, he was rather glad that the only universe he had to contend with was his own.). His reward spoke for itself as he parted his lips, permitting Harry's tongue the entry it was begging for. He thought the young Mr. Potter might be something he wasn't meant to think about. If he thought about it, from any possible angle, it was clearly mad, but if he stopped thinking, if he just went with it in a very Gryffindor-ish fashion – if he did say so himself – then everything clicked quite easily into place. There was someone who wanted him, someone who cared if he disappeared, and that someone happened to have several qualities that he found bothersome, to be sure, but several more that he rather appreciated.

He rather appreciated, for example, that dexterous tongue. He could easily imagine it being put to better use than trying to swallow his own. Oh, he did rather enjoy the effort, but he could easily imagine it put to task on other areas of his anatomy – an earlobe, his throat, nipples... The farther south his mind wandered, the more passionate their kisses became. And, the more passionate their kisses became, the more daring Harry became. First, it was a hand sliding down Snape's back to grope his bum. Then, without terribly much delay, that hand moved around his hip to palm his package.

Severus broke the kiss with a moan. There was no denying his arousal when Harry's hand was pressed against it. He tried to gather his thoughts, say something sensible, but all that escaped his mouth was 'Harry'. The young man was impatient, and already working at the buttons of his fly. Nothing he could say beyond that would have mattered much to the bespectacled young man. Severus supposed he could understand the logic. The person he fancied for years was finally returning his affection. It had to be overwhelming. He could imagine it well. It was overwhelming, even for him – utterly mad and completely overwhelming. There was this voice in the back of his head that told him he really ought to stop this, make sense of his own feelings before letting his libido take charge, but that was the same voice that liked to remind him how young Harry was, and who's son he was. All of that, while important in a mundane sort of way, only complicated their current situation, so he dutifully ignored the whiny little douche in his head and barreled onward with a harsh gasp as Harry's hand slid into his trousers and pulled out his bare, hot flesh.

Severus had been in the middle of unfastening the buttons of Harry's shirt, but he left the job half-arsed and incomplete when he felt those warm fingers coil about his manhood. Not just one hand, but both! The other quickly came up to fondle his balls. He moaned. A moan was the only appropriate reply to such intimate contact, whether it ought to be happening or not.

Harry buried his face against Snape's shoulder a moment to try to catch his breath. He couldn't believe Snape was actually going along with this! He had barely thought he'd get the second kiss, but soon it had been a third and a fourth and a tenth, and now he very literally had his former professor by the balls. He was so riled that he could very nearly come just from the pleasure of touching his beloved's bare flesh and finding it quite hard in hand. He gave those heavy balls an experimental squeeze and watched in awe as Severus' eyelashes fluttered.

Severus banished any qualms he might have still been harboring in one swift motion: he pushed Harry roughly to his back on the table – his long prick released in the motion, a stark contrast against his black clothing – and, in a flash, pulled off the young man's trousers with as much gusto as a Dursley attacks a holiday hen.

Harry keened. His feet came to rest curled against the edge of the table, thighs spread wide and leaving everything on display before the older man. Harry shivered under the heat of that intense stare. He had never been particularly prudish about his own nudity, but under the weight of Severus' scrupulous stare, he couldn't help but feel every inch of his own bare skin as he lay there on display in naught but a pair of cotton socks and a linen shirt that was so far undone that it tumbled off his shoulders and didn't cover anything that mattered.

Unconsciously, perhaps, Severus licked his lips. Harry moaned at the sight of the man appreciating his body. That was the sign he'd been desperate for. Severus wanted him. If he could be certain of that much, then it wasn't impossible that he might yet weasel his way into the potions master's heart. "Severus...please?" Harry asked. He didn't like to beg, it somehow went against his nature, but he didn't think he could stand to have the man just stare at him much longer and resist the urge to do something about it.

Hearing Harry beg like that, Severus couldn't resist the urge to tease him a bit. "Please?" he asked, watching that picture perfect body as if he didn't already very well know that 'please' stood for 'please spread open my perky little arse and ram me like a castle under siege.' Okay, maybe Harry wouldn't put it precisely that way, but it's what he meant, and Severus was pretending he didn't know.

Harry licked his lips, trying to find the words that were least likely to offend Snape's sensibilities and break the magic Christmas Eve had cast on them (or it must have been magic, to grant Harry this miracle, if not the wizarding sort). "Take me to bed?" he settled on.

Those green eyes could still look so terribly innocent. It made Severus feel like a dirty old man, but it only made him want Harry all the more. He stared down into them for a moment, then looked over his shoulder, thinking on the trip to the bedroom, up that long, winding flight of stairs. It would be painful, waiting that long, and he was certain their patience would wear thin before they got that far, and he'd end up fucking the handsome younger man in the middle of the stairwell. Mrs. Black's portrait would no doubt spot them and ruin the moment in a fit of homophobic rage.

"Nonsense," Severus said at last, drawing his wand with practiced ease in spite of the fact he'd not practiced in several years. He glanced around the room to locate something that would serve as a lubricant, and was about to curse Harry's bare cupboards again when his eyes landed on the tray of food and those little scoops of butter. That would be perfectly sufficient, he decided, dipping his long fingers into the tray to scoop up a generous glob of the stuff.

Harry wriggled in place on the table, his thighs quivering. Were they really...was Severus really...? Oh Merlin, yes he was, he was going to fuck him right here in the kitchen. Harry didn't know why this surprised him. He was already as naked as he was likely to get for the encounter, but as he watched Severus smooth butter over his precious wand, the reality struck him with its severity; he was moments away from being shagged by Severus Snape on the kitchen table. And, after only an instant's deliberation, he decided that was the sexiest possible thing that could ever happen.

Harry was already breathless and dripping precum when Severus turned back to him. There was a seriousness in those obsidian eyes.

"I may hurt you, Harry," Severus said. He wanted to be gentle, but Harry was so vulgarly spread out before him, in such an inappropriate room for intercourse, and it had been so unbearably long since he had last been in any company more intimate than his own left hand, that he did not trust himself to be patient once they began.

"I don't care," Harry answered abruptly. "Just, for Merlin's sake, shag me."

"Harry," Severus choked on his own emotion. To be so very wanted! He didn't think it was a fate the world would ever have for him.

"Isn't this the bush we've been beating around as long as we've known each other?" Harry prodded, using his toes to adjust a little, pull his ass closer to the edge of the table.

Severus could resist no longer. He took his greased wand, and gave Harry only an instant's notice as it touched his hole before plunging it in to the hilt.

"Haahnngh!" Harry cried out in sudden delight. They both well knew only the tip was required for the proper preparation spells, but as Severus leaned over him and whispered the latin into his ear -making it sound far kinkier than it really was, Harry was overcome with bliss. Snape wanted him, but not just wanted to take him – wanted to plunder him completely – that's what having the full length of wood up his arse, minus the handle, of course – told him. Severus would gladly move heaven and earth to devastate him with pleasure. He felt the man toying with him. As the magic worked through him, lubricating him properly and stretching him open enough to take Snape's hot length, which he wanted rather desperately, he could feel the man's thin lips on his throat, feel the wand slowly pulling out and pushing in. Getting wand-fucked was always a pleasure, but the way Severus did it made it feel like a sin, and the best kind, at that – the kind that was wrong because it felt so brilliantly right. Harry had to bite his lip and grip the base of his own cock, lest he come too soon.

The wand was mercifully put aside, but not before Severus bit down on Harry's nipple. Harry cried and panted in pleasure. His fantasies about what sex with Snape would be like lacked so much of the reality. He'd always imagined Severus as he knew him – perpetually in control. He had fantasized many times about being tied and gagged and fucked like his only occupation in life was to please the older man, but the reality was far more intense. The closer they got to shagging, the more unrestrained Severus became, as if all the restraint he tied himself up in during the day – all the tight control he exerted on himself and those around him – couldn't hold a candle to his desire for Harry. 'For me!' Harry thought blissfully. 'I'm the one that's making him like this!' And that was wonderful, to be the person who was permitted to see Severus when his careful facade slipped.

Harry gripped his cock tighter as his nipples were thoroughly abused, as the last drops of butter he had in the house were used to make rather abrupt work of greasing Snape's cock. He couldn't think of a single purpose he'd have rather put them to.

And then – oh, and then! – Severus lifted his head, lifted Harry's knees and spread them up wide, lacing the moonlit flesh over his shoulders to either side of the stripe or argyle running down his chest, and plunged fiercely into his stretched hole.

Harry's arms flailed as he cried out in bliss. Oh, this was filthy! He hadn't even bothered to struggle Snape out of his clothes – only his cock and a spare bit of hip were exposed, and here was Harry – near naked and spread out wanton on the kitchen table. Several vegetables were flung off the tray and crashed to the floor with Harry's wild movement, but neither man cared as Severus began to thrust greedily into him. Harry cried out with each soul-shattering thrust. The old table creaked beneath him as his body rocked against it's smooth surface.

Severus leaned close over him, left several red marks along his throat and collarbone that could be easily healed over in the morning with magic, but which Harry thought he'd much prefer to look at until nature took it's course in the muggle fashion. Or at least, he would think that when he saw them in the mirror later. For the time being all he could really think was rather more like 'oh fuck yes!' as he cried out his pleasure quite vocally and arched eagerly beneath Snape's brutal thrusts into his prostate, his tangled hair tickling Harry's throat as he held the man close.

Oh, and there were kisses! Fevered, brilliant kisses. Lip-bruising kisses, and a bit of breathless laughter when teeth gracelessly collided.

Neither man lasted terribly long. Harry came first, but his ass-clenching orgasm pulled Snape deep into the screaming ecstasy with him. He panted hoarsely as the last spurts of Severus' release filled him, and the man's deep groan of pleasure etched itself into the pit of his stomach. Merlin, that voice. He had been exactly right about how incredible that sexy voice would sound in the throes of passion.

It took Severus near a full minute to recover enough to lift his body off of Harry and slide out of his wonderfully accommodating arse. He fell to a seat in the nearest kitchen chair, and looked down with a slight frown at the mess left on his sweater. A quick, bleary scourgify took care of the worst of it, but he removed that – and his turtleneck as well (How in the bloody hell did Harry's orgasm have such velocity as to splatter against his neck and chin?) to be cleaned. Well, he supposed a bit of laundry was a small price to pay for such an incredible night. He took a few moments to breathe as Harry did the same, laying there on the table, still spread open, and looking a glorious mess in the after sex – his legs spread haphazardly, a string of seed dripping out of his hole onto the table's dark wood, his torso splattered, his limp cock dangling beautifully across his hip, his nipples taut, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. Severus thought he would rather enjoy spending the rest of his life enjoying such a view, and then it got all the better when Harry propped himself up on his elbows and looked groggily at him with that messy hair and those stunningly emerald eyes. His heart skipped a beat. That's when he knew, whatever name he put to it, he had devoted half of his life to Harry, and he would gladly devote the rest of it to the same end.

"Will you take me to bed now?" Harry quipped with a lazy smirk.

Severus looked lazily back toward the door, envisioning the long trek up the winding stairs, and the end of it, laying curled against the young man who had somehow managed to weasel into his heart, completely undetected, until his hormones caught up. Now as he looked on him, he tried to remember when it started, when he first looked at Harry and genuine worry etched its way into his soul, not for the boy who lived, and not for the son of the woman he'd loved and would always love, but for Harry, as himself and only that. When had things changed? He could think of no moment in particular.

"Not yet," he answered, because he still didn't quite want to move.

Harry sat up, unfastened the last of his shirt and cast it aside, and slipped his bare body onto Snape's lap , wrapped his arms around the older man's shoulders. He dared to kiss him again, now that they'd had their shag, and was relieved when Severus offered not even the pretense of resistance. He could only hope that meant this was more than a one-off, if maybe it was too soon to precisely put a name to it. Still, there was a somewhat a far-off look in Snape's eyes.

"Hey, where are you wandering off to?" Harry asked.

Severus turned his gaze to the debauched young man, stroked his hand lightly over his thigh. "Nowhere," he answered, surprised by the affection in his own voice. "I've finished with that."

"And about bloody time, too," Harry said.

Severus initiated the next kiss, searching for an answer, a way of explaining what was happening between them. He only had Lily to compare this feeling to, but that had been different. With Lily, he had always known. But, Harry had only been a child when they'd met. Their reunion found him every bit a man. That is when he realized it. It was simply that he had no physical inclination toward young boys whatsoever. He had not been attracted to Harry in that way until he began to develop into a man. But, did he love Harry? And how long had he loved him?

The answer to that, quite simply, was 'Always' – a secret he intended to keep until the day he died. Again.

"Severus?"

"Hm?" he asked.

"Merry Christmas."

Severus turned his gaze to the battered wall clock, which read 12:14 AM. They had passed midnight in the throes of passion. "Hn. So it would seem," he answered.

"So it would seem," Harry scoffed, wrinkling his nose. "You just can't bear to keep things simple, can you? Is 'Merry Christmas, Harry' really so much to ask?" he complained between kisses.

"Perhaps not," Severus replied, "but we do still have several hours to go."

Harry shivered. "In bed?" he tried again.

"In bed," Severus conceded at last, deciding apparating up the stairs was far simpler than walking, and another excuse to use magic again, which he was anxious to get back to – though he'd never admit that childish desire.

Harry pushed him back against the mattress and kissed him quite eagerly, not even blinking at their sudden relocation. "You'll come to the Weasley's Christmas dinner with me, won't you?"

"That may be a bit much..." Severus hedged. He doubted he'd fit in very well with the lively redheads, and he knew Harry well enough to know he wouldn't be able to hide that 'recently shagged' glow from his features. They were smart enough to figure out the rest, even if he never gave them that credit aloud.

"Say you'll come," Harry whined, working Snape out of his pants, now that he had him pinned to the mattress.

"Often, if you insist on disrobing me," Severus retorted.

Harry gave him a light whack on the chest. "To dinner! Mrs. Weasley is a brilliant cook. Well, she tends to burn the bird a bit, but there will be cheap wine, and her pies are brilliant."

Severus dreaded it – a house so full of Weasleys, each full of questions, and one who he very distinctly remembered owing an ear to, but it was important to Harry, and he was – albeit surprisingly – in love with the dunderhead, so there was no helping it. He pulled Harry down to him for another soft kiss. "Merry Christmas, Harry," he said, and that was answer enough for both of them.

~The End~
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