Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

End of Obsession	By : Juwel Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 50501 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 9
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter fandom. The characters in this fiction are the property of J.K. Rowling. No money is being made from this and no trademark infringement is intended. This is purely for your reading pleasure.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Addendum: I was a writing fiend this week. Apologies for the cliff hanger, but never fear! The next chapter is already written, and I'll post it on Monday or Tuesday.

**
They were barely outside of Bender’s Bar when Edmund pulled Harry closer and nibbled at his throat. Harry found himself tilting his head a little, to allow him better access, breathing hard. His stomach was tying itself in knots, but that was coupled by a strong dizzying desire. He groaned at the touch of lips just below his ear, as he blindly followed the Quidditch player down Knockturn Alley, walking hand and hand. Harry giggled, high on the drinks from the bar, high on life. It seemed like he was finally going to move forward with something. Find a new life.
Edmund led him towards the alley heading towards Diagon Alley, and Harry was about to suggest that they Apparate the two of them to his place, when Edmund suddenly stopped and pressed against Harry, giving him a lustful look before closing in to kiss Harry, hard. Harry made a sound of surprise but submitted to the kiss, and he couldn't help but think it was worlds better than the awkward attempts he had made with Cho, or even Ginny. He felt the scrape of stubble on his cheeks, the faint taste of ale on Edmund's tongue, and his cock pulsed with need, making his dizzy. Harry’s hand strayed, touching hesitantly the front of Edmund’s trousers, curiously trying to get an idea of what might be in store for him.
And then the snap and glare of camera flashes caused Harry to open his eyes in shock.
Rita Skeeter was there, along with her photographer and a menagerie of other journalists, lying in wait. She approached him as Edmund stepped to the side leaving Harry suddenly alone, trying to find his balance. As Harry watched in horror, Edmund's face began to change, in an all too familiar way, as the Polyjuice Potion wore off, revealing a much older man with crooked teeth and leering eyes. Harry felt his stomach give a lurch, and had to fight off a wave of nausea.
"And thus it is revealed that Harry Potter, champion of the Wizarding World, is gay," Rita announced to her Quick-Quotes Quill, as she approached the young wizard. "So tell me, Harry, just when did you discover that you preferred males over females? Can this be attributed to sexual abuse by your uncle when you were a child? Or was it instead the thoughts you shared with You Know Who during your long time in hiding?"
Harry swore he was going to faint. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. They were staring at him, and he was distantly aware that he was red-faced, mussed, and still half-drunk. All he knew was that he had to get out of there, and fast. With a flick of his wand, he Disapparated away, back to Grimmauld place.
He stumbled on the landing and fell against the steps, breathing hard, choking on the betrayal of what he'd thought would be a new friend. He was light-headed, and it felt like somebody had dumped a bucket of ice water on him, because he was shivering hard, unable to get his bearings, stumbling towards the front door of his place blindly. The papers--he was going to be in all the papers tomorrow. Outed on his very first night out . . . how could he have thought he would have any kind of privacy, any kind of life? It was useless. Once again, he was a circus act, just like in fourth year, just like every day since he'd entered the wizarding world.
It took nearly five attempts to open the front door, his hands were shaking so badly. Harry slammed the door shut once he was inside, tears starting to blur his vision. God, he hated Rita! Why couldn't they all just leave him alone? Kreacher appeared and Harry snarled at him, nearly throwing his wand, "Leave! I'm not hungry!"
Kreacher vanished without a word.
Harry banged his shoulder against the wall, nearly knocking over a painting as he made his way up to his room, not setting any wards or protections and frankly not caring if someone appeared right now to murder him. He paused only to kick off his shoes before flopping onto the bed, bowing his head and as the enormity of the situation hit him.
A sob tore through him.
As a child, he hadn't had much reason to trust others, but he had stubbornly hung onto hope, hung onto the idea that out there, somewhere, there were good decent people who would welcome him, who would be the kind of people his parents had been. People to take him in, who would care about him. Then at Hogwarts he had learned that even good people had flaws, like his father, but also that apparently evil ones were not entirely dark, like Snape. But it seemed that whatever his childhood illusions had been, one thing was clear.
There was no one good in his life now who would be there to protect him.
Blackness threatened to engulf him, as he rocked back and forth, unable to be still, unable to simply give in. He tossed his glasses over towards the night table, afraid that he would smash them otherwise, and curled up on his hands and knees, fists grabbing his hair, face buried into the pillow. So stupid! So alone. Harry was aware he was making a noise, a desperate keening sound, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
The grief was there, a giant tidal wave, washing over him. Parents dead, any meaningful relatives gone and passed away—even his friends were gone, because they had their own lives, didn’t they? And what would they think, once they saw the pictures, once they knew . . .
Harry rolled onto his side, as he felt the hot tears run down his cheeks. Blurry faces stared at him, from the pictures on his nightstand. Judging him. “What’s the use?” He asked them. If things like this were going to happen every time he tried to find even a scrap of happiness, truly, what was the use of anything?
He just couldn’t take it anymore. No place for him—no home. Even that childhood fantasy of his was ludicrous now—how was he possibly going to ever be able to have that happy family? Through the blur of his tears and the fog of alcohol and bad eyesight, Harry locked his gaze on a picture of Dumbledore, cut from a paper from that day when the headmaster had come to defend Harry at the Wizengamot. He rolled onto his back, sitting up, a deadly calm coming over him as the darkness pierced deep into his soul. He hated Dumbledore. Hated him with all his being, at this moment. “I was supposed to die,” he told the picture, feeling more tears sliding over his cheeks. It was like a revelation. He'd been ready; he'd said his farewells. He really hadn't expected to survive that final encounter, and all his energy, all his time had been spent on one task, destroying Voldemort. All that was before him now was emptiness in the aftermath of that.
Dead faces stared at him, and he didn't need to see clearly to know who they were, each and every one of them. He had memorized them all. His eyes fell onto a small object glinting in the light of the oil lamps. The letter opener wasn’t very sharp; he’d have to stab his artery pretty hard to do the damage necessary. But it was close at hand.
He reached for it slowly, thinking about what peace it would be to be back at that train station, back with his parents, back with Dumbledore even though he hated him right now. His face crumpled, because he knew it was a cowardly thing to do. But by all rights, he should have been dead. He’d been ready to die.
“Want to die,” Harry whispered, his hand closing around the handle of the letter opener, raising it up as he held out his wrist.
***

It had been a very long day.
Most of the day, Severus had spent supervising Draco in the making of the Veritaserum, and he had to admit, he'd been impressed. While Draco hadn't been perfect, he'd had excellent insight into the types of ingredients and the preparation of those ingredients, showing that he had a solid foundation in potion making. The two of them had gone over where he needed to study further, and how to conduct some of his own research in the area of when perhaps a full description of the potion brewing process might not available for a particular potion he might need to create.
By the end of the afternoon, Severus had given Draco some homework on things to research. Over dinner, they had discussed other magical areas where Draco might need help. One particular area was in the Defense of the Dark Arts--this was hardly a surprise, given the number of different teachers Draco had been exposed to, and the fact that most of them had been miserable failures. Severus set an appointment to follow up on the potions research the next day, and a concentration on defensive spells and counter-hexes for the following day.
It was a relief when Severus was finally able to return to his room, after having showered and dressed in the only other set of clothing he possessed, a pair of black satin pajamas with socks. Lucius had gone to bed without whining about any play time, which was a blessing.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Potter was out and about somewhere as well, as evidenced by the empty room showing in the scrying glass. Severus wondered if Harry was spending the night at the Burrow again, and if he would be spending another anxious night, looking at nothing. It was tempting to try to find some other item to charm, something that perhaps could follow Potter to more places, but Severus knew something like that would be unlikely to work, and far more likely to be noticed. Patience had long been one of his strong suits, but it was getting old quickly.
So he settled for keeping the scrying glass propped up on his dresser where he could glance at it from time to time, as he read through some of the books in his library, brushing up on his Dark Arts skills and the best methods for defending against them. It wasn't the most exciting reading, and he couldn't help but take a peek over at the glass every five minutes or so. There was one moment of action, when a small dark brown owl flew through the room and dropped off a package several times its size. But other than that, things were quiet.
Then suddenly the view of the room lurched, as if something had shaken the picture frame. Severus blinked, holding his book as he concentrated on the image. A dark figure blocked the view for a moment and there was another shaking, and then he could see Potter, lying prone on the bed, looking despondent and half-crazed, grabbing at his hair and curling up into a position of abject misery.
Severus set down the book, leaning forward.
He’d seen Harry suffer before, in more memories from the young man’s mind than he cared to admit, as well as at Hogwarts, such as that terrible day when Voldemort returned and killed Cedric Diggory. He’d seen Harry cry then.
But somehow, the sight of it now twisted like a knife in Severus’s chest. His instincts warred with him. Harry needed someone in that house, soon, before he went stark raving mad. But how would Harry react, if that someone was the potions master he’d always hated?
In the glass, Harry’s gaze seemed to fall directly on Severus, although on second glance it was apparent he was looking at something just beyond the glass, another portrait, perhaps. I was supposed to die. Severus reached out and gripped the looking glass, feeling a horrible premonition, an impending sense of danger. He took his wand in the other hand, standing up, afraid to watch but also afraid to look away.
Severus knew that look in Harry’s eyes, because he had felt that kind of pain, that utter devastation, when Lily had been murdered. And when Harry picked up the letter opener, Severus knew the time for hesitation was over.
With a flick of his wand he was gone, leaving behind the scrying glass and the fear that he might be too late.
- 11
- 12
- 13
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End of Obsession