Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

What Might Be Done	By : LoupGarou1750 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 19155 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
Chapter 15: Divine Comedy (or, Snape Rescues Harry from the Dursley's)

In which our hero...is a hero, and Harry gets a lesson in zoology.
This mortal ne’er hath seen the farthest gloom;

But erring by his folly had approach’d

So near, that little space was left to turn.

Then, as before I told, I was despatch’d

To work his rescue; and no way remain’d

Save this which I have ta’en. I have display’d

Before him all the regions of the bad;

---Dante Alighieri - The Divine Comedy

oo0oo

The loud screech of the nail as it pulled out of the wall made Harry grit his teeth. He tensely counted down; four, three, two, one, "BOY!" he mouthed at the exact same moment his Uncle Vernon's bellow rattled the walls. Harry's fringe fluttered as he loosed an exasperated breath. He really needed to get something to grease the works. When he'd first managed to free the board nailed over his window, it hadn't made any noise at all, but lately it seemed like things were conspiring against him.
He'd broken Aunt Petunia's Charles and Diana commemorative teapot by accidentally nudging it as he stretched for something else in a kitchen cupboard. It was irritating to be prevented from using a spell to fix it; the idea that his aunt would be terrified of ever touching it again, even though it would have been perfectly sound, had been amusing. But no. The completely unreasonable "Reasonable Restriction of Under-Age Sorcery" took care of that. With Dumbledore sick, and possibly near death, there was no one who'd be able, or willing, to take on the Ministry on Harry's behalf.
Which meant he couldn't hex Dudley when, coming back from his every-third-day bath, Harry had caught the sneaky twat rummaging through his room. Although it had been a very near thing. Uncle Vernon had stormed into Harry's room—panting and out of breath from climbing the stairs—just as Harry's wand had been jabbing threateningly into the thick flesh of Dudley's throat. The matching looks of outraged terror on father and son's faces had been hilarious, but Vernon's startling bravery as he shoved Harry violently away from his son, hadn't been. Harry's shoulder was still sore from where it had smashed against his desk on his way to the floor. That little incident had resulted in Harry being confined to his room for the duration of the summer. He was allowed out twice a day to use the loo and on his return trip he'd find food—invariably cold beans on cold, burnt toast—at the threshold to his room. Bathing privileges had been further restricted from every three days to once a week.
Three weeks. Three more weeks and Harry would be of age. Three weeks before the Restriction fell and Harry turned Dudley into...
Harry jerked his mind away from his list of grievances and plans for revenge. Enough time had passed for him to be sure Uncle Vernon wasn't going to make his ponderous way up the stairs. Harry resumed prying the plank away from the wall. As a result of the ungodly screeching of the nail, it had taken him three hours to work the board out this far. If he hadn't known it was impossible, he would have suspected Uncle Vernon of spelling the nails to make noise and warn him when Harry was trying to remove the window covering, but his uncle didn't even seem to realise what caused the grating screech; the fat idiot thought Hedwig was at fault. "Shut that foul beast up, or we'll be serving her up in place of our Christmas turkey," Vernon had said on at least a half dozen occasions. And in a 'round about way, Hedwig was responsible. If Harry hadn't have needed to let her in and out, he wouldn't have had to bother with the board. It wasn't as if he ever left the house anymore.
He'd discovered he could, if he were careful, get out. If he balanced cautiously on the window ledge and maintained a death grip on the frame, he could stretch far enough to grab onto the drainpipe. With a firm one-handed grip on that, he could brace his foot on the exterior wall, pull himself over and shinny down. Shinnying back up had proved trickier, but not impossible. But now, even that bit of freedom was lost to him. Since that disgusting kiss. (And how bloody unfair was it that kissing Piers Polkiss, who was a loathsome, toadying twit, was better than kissing Cho Chang, whom he'd quite liked?) On three different occasions Harry had shinnied down the drainpipe and sneaked off to the park, and each time Polkiss had been waiting. Lurking. Ready to pounce the second Harry showed himself. The fourth time Harry escaped through the window, he'd gone the opposite direction and had run straight into Piers as he rounded the corner. With a few choice words that had left the other boy red-faced, Harry'd made his escape. Given a choice between confronting Voldemort and encountering Piers again...Well, seeing Polkiss that last time was enough to send Harry resentfully back up the drainpipe and to curtail any further forays.
Eating cold, congealed beans was better than dealing with Piers. Never mind that the kiss had made Harry hard, both during the actual event and several times late at night. That was just hormones and there was nothing to be done about it. On the whole, kissing Snape would be preferable. Or maybe not. Or maybe so.
Once again Harry wrenched his thoughts back to the present moment. A final jerk and the board came free. Harry anxiously peered out the window, looking for Hedwig. He hadn't seen her for three days, not since he'd sent the irate letter to Professor McGonagall. Harry winced. Sending that letter—written after choking down the umpteenth serving of beans on toast—had not been one of his better ideas. Still...nothing had come of it so maybe it didn't matter.
<center>oo0oo</center>
The house at number 4 Privet Drive looked exactly the same as it had the last time Snape had seen it on that cold November morning in 1981 when Harry Potter had been left on its doorstep—wrapped in the sort of swaddling that was apparently de rigueur for infant saviours everywhere—by Albus Dumbledore. On that night, Snape's job had been to lurk in the bushes, standing guard during the long, dark, cold, damp hours, until someone in the household awakened, discovered the sleeping child and took it in; he hadn't been given instructions on what to do if they'd ignored the bundle, but it had worked out in the end, for some value of "worked out". Snape hadn't wanted to be there at all that night, but, newly redeemed, it had seemed politically advisable to do as instructed without complaint. It was irritating to remember how pathetically grateful he'd been to be entrusted with the task. It was even more irritating to remember how crushed he'd been when he'd discovered there had been several other watchers that night. He didn't want to be here now, either, but the passage of fifteen years found him obedient still, even if Albus wasn't the one giving the orders. It was only small satisfaction that these days he usually complained long and bitterly before conceding defeat and doing as he was told.
The wound in his cheek throbbed. Aggravated by that, as well as his short jaunt down memory lane, Snape looked around angrily. He noted, with no little displeasure, that the house was not on fire. It was not deluged by a rain of blood or a plague of locusts. Neither ghastly green-glowing Dark Mark, nor alien spaceship, hovered over the roof. The yard seemed completely clear of Dementors, inferi, and triffids. In short, as far as Snape could see, there was nothing at all wrong, barring only the too-loud blaring of the telly. The slice through Snape's cheek throbbed again, reminding him he should be home in bed; Potter was going to pay for this.
Well, the sooner he eviscerated the whinging little jackanapes, the sooner he could lock himself in his rooms with a bottle—or twelve—of medicinal brandy. Stepping up to the front door, ignoring both the ostentatious brass knocker and the bell push, Snape pounded on the wood with his fist loud enough to be heard over the enthusiastic squeals of a studio audience. When the door didn't open immediately, he began to alternate fist-thumps with kicks, grinning evilly at the enraged bellow thus provoked.
The door jerked open. Snape's eyes narrowed in complete loathing. Standing in the doorway, wearing an apron and an expression that could curdle milk, stood Petunia Dursley, nee Evans. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She looked even more sour and pinched than he'd remembered. For the thousandth time, Snape wondered how she, this harridan, could possibly be Lily's sister. Lily had been a thoroughbred; Petunia was merely a horse's arse.
"Fish," Snape drawled, and was pleased to see the childhood taunt provoked a hot flush of anger to stain Petunia's cheeks.
"Oh my, if it isn't ugly old Snakey Snape," Petunia spat. "I see you're still dressing in your mum's cast-offs."
Snape snarled. He had forgotten that Petunia usually gave as good as she got. "And I see the years haven't been kind to you. You're looking quite haggard, Fish, although your resemblance to a donkey's hindquarters hasn't changed."
A choked splutter from an unexpected quarter drew Snape's gaze over Petunia's shoulder. Behind her stood a no-necked man whose red face, immense girth and bristling moustache put Snape in mind of a sunburnt walrus. When another round face peered out from behind the walrus, Snape muttered, "An ass marries a walrus and spawns a prize hog; surely the end times are upon us."
"GO AWAY! GET OUT! HOW DARE YOU! YOU...YOU FREAK," the walrus bellowed, turning even redder.
"Vernon! The neighbours!" Petunia hissed. Grabbing Snape by the sleeve of his robes, she dragged him inside and slammed the door.
"Snape?" Looking even smaller than usual when viewed against his enormous relatives, Potter peeked around the massive shoulder of the prize hog. "What are you doing here?" the twit groaned.
An outsider would have been hard put to determine who was angrier, Snape or Vernon Dursley, as they simultaneously snarled, "Shut up, boy!"
Furious at having anything—even a (momentarily) shared loathing of the mop-headed boy— in common with Dursley, Snape abruptly shouldered Petunia aside and planted a hand in the middle of the walrus's chest. He shoved as hard as he could. "You keep your fat nose out of this! I'll take care of it," he snarled as the beefy oaf rocked back half a pace. Snape got his free hand on the collar of Potter's shirt and yanked him in front of the rest. "Where's the sodding emergency?" Hand still twisted in Potter's collar, he pulled him closer and yanked him upwards until they were very nearly nose-to-nose. "And this had better be good, you arrogant puppy!"
"You're hurt!" Potter exclaimed, nearly cross-eyed with trying to focus on Snape's cheek. "What happened?" His hand came up and Snape only barely jerked back in time to keep from being touched. He most certainly had no desire to lean into the near caress, no desire to kiss Potter for his concern, no desire to bugger the boy senseless here in the hallway in front of God and barnyard menagerie. None. Whatsoever. At all.
"Don't you dare." Snape threatened, but he relaxed his grip enough for Potter to come off tiptoe. "Now, boy, explain yourself!"
"I'm sorry! I didn't know they'd send you." Casting a glance over his shoulder, Harry urgently whispered, "Not here. Let's go outside."
"In a minute." Snape pushed Potter against the wall and barked, "Stay." When Harry lifted a hand to tug his collar straight again, Snape spied a ring of bruises circling the boy's narrow wrist. He managed another threatening glare at Potter before rounding on the Dursley family. Pulling himself up to full height, which gave him maybe a half-inch on the walrus, he demanded, "Which one of you did this?" He jerked Potter's arm forward, displaying the bruises. "Ever the loving aunt, eh, Petunia? Done your sister's lad proud?"
"I never—" Petunia protested.
"You, then," Snape sneered at the walrus. "Or was it the prize hog? You'd better hope for your sake that your porcine spawn is responsible."
Vernon Dursley's brief wrestle with his conscience was obvious, but he didn't sacrifice his son. "What if I did? You have no idea what it's like having him here! He's a freak! A no good, bloody ungrateful hooligan! He deserved that and worse! You're a freak too! You and all your kind! Get out of my house this instant! Take your little nancy boy AND LEAVE MY HOUSE!" For all his apparent rage, the walrus took care to stay out of Snape's range. As if it mattered.
Wand raised, Snape made a jabbing motion, saying, "This will teach you to keep your hands to yourself!" As one, Harry, Petunia, and the prize hog turned to look. Dursley senior squealed as he realised that his arms had been turned into flippers.
"Vernon!" Petunia exclaimed in horror at the same time that Dudley yelled, "Dad!" Potter laughed and said, "Nice one, Snape."
"Not another word out of you, boy. Accio Harry Potter's belongings!" There was a great crash as a trunk burst out of the cupboard under the stairs, and another as it hit Vernon Dursley behind the knees, sending him sprawling on the well-waxed floor. Flippers useless for hoisting himself up, he lay grunting where he fell. From upstairs came several thumps, and then Harry's Firebolt zoomed down the stairs, its brush tangling in Dudley's hair, plucking a hefty lock of it before freeing itself. Behind it came a motley assortment of books, parchment scrolls, dirty laundry, and half-eaten apples. Petunia screamed as several pairs of Harry's dirty y-fronts landed on her head. One of the apples neatly, and firmly, plugged Dudley's mouth.
Kneeling, Potter began to grab books, parchment, and laundry, shoving them haphazardly into his trunk. He looked up at Petunia who was batting and scrabbling at her head, trying to remove the dirty pants that were obviously not in the mood to be removed. "My pants?" he asked, a ghost of a smile tickling his lips as he looked at Snape.
"We'll buy you new ones," Snape snarled. He fought the urge to flinch. "You can buy yourself new ones." He caught Petunia's eye and smiled sardonically. "I prefer you in boxers, as you know."
Harry gaped, mouth opening and closing in shock.
"Ah, the family resemblance asserts itself. Stop gawping like a beached fish, Potter." Snape gave Petunia a sly glance, and then flicked his wand; Potter's trunk slammed shut. Another flick shrank the trunk and Potter's broom, and a third levitated them into his own pocket. He looked at the panicked Dursleys and sighed. "The flippers will be gone in thirty minutes or so. The pants will be gone as soon as they're given a good washing." He smiled again as Petunia worked out the inherent difficulties of that. "The apple, I'm afraid," he continued with a horrible smirk, "is likely a permanent fixture. Let's go, Potter." He turned with an even more dramatic than usual swirl of his cloak, and grabbed Potter by the arm, resolutely not noticing the firm muscle beneath his fingers.

"Er, bye, then," Harry said, looking at his family—such as they were. "See you next summer, yeah?" He stumbled as Snape tugged him out the door. Jerking out of Snape's grasp, he turned to his family again. "Oh wait, no I won't. I'm of age in three weeks. I never have to see you lot again. Pity that." He drew his shoulders up and straightened his spine. "You should have been nicer to me, you know? I'm disgustingly wealthy, heir to two fortunes as a matter of fact, and since I'm just a freak and a horrid little nancy boy, I probably won't ever have children. It might all have been yours one day, if you'd only been nice to me. Oh well. Sucks to be you, doesn't it?" He turned back to Snape and said calmly, "I'm ready to go now, sir."
Outside, Snape took his first really good look at the boy. Potter was much thinner and paler than he had been at end of term, and there was that disturbing ring of bruises around his wrist. Rage boiled up inside Snape's chest. "You need a haircut!" he barked.
"And you need to take more care shaving," Potter responded impudently. Once again his hand came up to touch Snape's wound.
Suddenly tired, Snape blinked, keeping his eyes closed for perhaps a second longer than necessary as he fought the urge...to hex the brat for his impertinence. It had been a very long day.
"Hi, Harry!"
Potter's hand jerked away and his face flushed. He made a shooing motion with his hand, but the rat-faced boy who had called out to him just grinned stupidly. "Whose the bloke in the dress? Is that what you like, then?" Rat-boy asked, looking Snape up and down, still grinning.
"Shut up, Piers," Potter hissed, looking guiltily up at Snape.
"Who is that?" Snape demanded, his voice low and threatening.
"No one!" Potter squeaked. "One of Dud's friends."
"Can't really see myself in one," volunteered Rat-boy, "but I'll wear a dress if that's what you really want."
"Who is that boy, boy?" Snape snarled. He told himself the fury welling up in his chest was only because of one more delay in an already too long day. Suspicion and jealousy had nothing to do with it.
"No one! I swe—!" Potter yelped, unable to finish his protest as Snape once again hauled him up en pointe.
"Legilimens! Snape hissed. Potter desperately tried to Occlude, but Snape sliced through his pathetic defences as easily as a hot knife through warm butter. He continued to hold Potter on tiptoe, keeping him off balance physically and mentally as he leisurely trolled through the boy's thoughts. Snape smiled grimly, refusing to be distracted as Potter thrust forwards images of Snape kissing him, memories of a Polyjuice potion, petty cruelties at the hands of his so-called family. Admitting to himself that perhaps Potter had got marginally better at this than he'd supposed, Snape doggedly kept probing, searching for whatever it was the muttonhead was trying to hide.
Suddenly, Potter slammed the shutters on the windows to his soul, and twisted in Snape's grasp. Able to recognise victory when it damn near kneed him in the goolies, Snape redoubled his focus; he was in too far now to be thwarted simply because Potter had closed his eyes. Latching on to the tiniest wisp of a thread, Snape tugged, and there it was.
Park bench. Rat-faced boy. Lunges and tongues and hands and lips andwetandhotandhardandpounding and GOD!
Blood roared to Snape's head: vision obscured by a hazy red film, veins at temple and forehead bulging, muscles in his jaw twitching and tightening. Something seemed to compress his lungs, squeeze his heart, and set the contents of his stomach roiling. Rage over a thousand years' torment at the hands of its intellectual oppressor rose up and Snape's proletarian libido led the revolt against its master, his conscience, no longer giving a fiddler's fuck about impropriety. "NO!" he roared, as his fist twisted tighter in the soft cloth of Potter's collar. "You are mine you insufferable nincompoop!" He wrenched the boy completely off his feet. "Mine, do you hear me, you arrogant, worthless whelp?" he whispered against Potter's lips before crushing them with his own.
From somewhere over Potter's shoulder came a nervous guffaw. From Potter himself, a noise more like meep! Which left Snape humiliatingly aware that the long, needy moan could only have come from his own throat. Never mind the collaborators! In for a knut...the proletariat screamed. We've nothing to lose, lads! Swept up in the flood tides of revolution, Snape thrust his knee between Potter's legs as his tongue battered at the gates of the boy's insolent mouth.
For one insanely glorious, desperately heated moment, Potter's thighs tightened around Snape's knee and the cheeky mouth opened in invitation. All the horrors of the day slipped away in the slow slide of Snape's leg between Potter's, and the sweet, watery taste of the boy's mouth. Snape very nearly had the sort of embarrassing moment that had marred his very first sexual encounter. He pressed in closer, not caring that he positively detested Harry Potter, not caring that they were publicly displayed, not caring that the movement of his lips made the cut on his face burn. And then Snape wanted to hex the horrible, unconscionable little tease as Potter got his hands up between their chests and pushed Snape away.
"Professor!" Potter whinged, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "I have to live in this neighbourhood!"
"Not any longer," Snape responded, dragging the boy back to his arms and nuzzling his hair. "You're almost of age, remember?" The madness of revolt having been tempered slightly by a welcome gasp of air into his lungs, the almost made Snape grimace.
As Potter yet again struggled to free himself, Rat-boy asked, "All right there, Harry?" with something like awe in his voice.
Snape released Potter, who barely managed to keep his feet, and lunged towards Rat-boy, once more drawing himself up to full height. "And what are you going to do about it if he isn't?" Once again his wand was in his hand. "Repeat after me," Snape said, his wand now jammed against Rat-boy's temple. "I am a no-account, pimply, rat-faced boy, and although he's a vexatious little tease, Harry Potter is worth ten of me."
"I don't know whether to feel insulted or chuffed," Potter offered. Masking his grin with a snarl, Snape ignored him.
Rat-boy's lips flapped; he clapped a hand over them, trying desperately to stop the words from coming out of his mouth, but he couldn't. "I am a no-account, pimply, rat-faced boy," squeaked out from behind his fingers.
"Although he's a vexatious little tease, Harry Potter is worth ten of me," Snape prompted with a vicious jab of his wand.
When, in spite of his best efforts to suppress them, the words had squeaked out of Rat-boy's mouth, Snape flicked his wand and said, "Go home. You need a shave."
Potter convulsed with laughter as rat-like whiskers sprouted beneath Piers' nose. "What did you do to him? Not the whiskers. How did you get him to say that stuff?"
"Magic," Snape drawled. "Which reminds me..." He pointed his wand at Rat-boy's fleeing back. "Obliviate!"
"You're no better than the Weasley twins," Harry opined. "Molesting hapless students in public. Turning people into animals! That was wicked though. Do you think I could learn to do that?"
"What? Molest a student? If you put your mind to it, I suppose—" Snape grinned, but suddenly, Potter's question put paid to Snape's near giddyness. Shit! Potter's magical ability! Albus! The transference! "We need to get back to Hogwarts. Now."

"Why—" Harry began.
"Because I said so, damn your impertinence!" Snape grabbed Potter's arm and pulled him close.
"Let me go!" Potter squawked, struggling to free himself. "You've got no right to be grabbing me like that, just because you're an adult! I'm of age in three weeks, so you can just bugger off until then. And then you can bloody well ask me!"
"Learned how to Apparate by yourself over the summer, did you? I have to be touching you, you imbecilic child!" He must be losing his touch. A kiss like that would have rendered any normal hormonal teenager a limp, quivering wreck. Where in the hell had Potter got his aplomb? Still, the brat was red-faced and panting, and as Snape had Harry's wand in his own pocket, he knew that wasn't what created the slight bulge in the boy's jeans.
"There's touching and then there's touching, and that was the wrong kind. Ease up. I don't have to be inside your robes for you to take me side-along." With an eel-like twist, Potter ducked out from under Snape's arm. "That's better," he said, wrapping his fingers around Snape's wrist. "Now we can go. And that's not what I was asking anyway."
Snape knew with certainty that the next thing out of Potter's mouth would not be his pretty pink tongue, would not be libido enhancing, and would be completely irrelevant.
"Why'dja call her Fish?" Potter asked as he pointedly smoothed his rumpled collar and vainly tried to do the same with his hair.
Smirking, Snape replied, "Petunia. Tuney. Tuna. Fish. Satisfied? We'd best be off. You'll need to hold on tighter than that. Albus will never forgive me if you're splinched." Once again he drew the struggling boy into his arms. The proletariat grumbled. That's it, then? Revolution over? Back to jumping for your masters? You're pathetic, you are. What better chance than this, you berk?
"Five minutes won't make much difference," Snape said, only realising he'd spoken out loud when Potter's brow wrinkled in confusion. The masses raised clenched fists and cheered as Snape once again pressed his lips to Harry's. Taking no chances, he gripped firmly, digging his fingers into the lightly muscled shoulders.
As before, Potter struggled, then suddenly seem to capitulate all at once, melting into Snape's embrace, kissing him back for all he was worth, as with a sharp crack they Disapparated.
o o 0 o o

TBC
- 15
- 16
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

What Might Be Done