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Weight of the World	By : KohakuShadow Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 7559 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters, nor am I making any money off of it. It's called FANfiction because I DON'T own it, right? Right. Good that we're clear.

Chapter List
- 1-I.
- 2-II.
- 3-III.
- 4-IV.
- 5-V.
- 6-VI.
- 7-VII.
- 1
- 2
- 3
II.

Harry paced and chewed at his thumbnail. He hadn't seen Severus Snape
since the night he dragged his body out of the tunnel beneath the
Whomping Willow. So much had happened since then. So much had
changed. He'd nearly married Ginny before he realized, while he
fancied her, marrying her was more about being part of the Weasley
family than it was about real love. The Weasleys were already family.
He didn't need a wedding band and little red-haired children to prove
that. Ginny hadn't been thrilled by that self-discovery, but now she
thought it was better that Harry figured it out before the wedding,
made things rather less complicated, and besides, she'd rather taken
a fancy to Seamus in the end, and they made an oddly perfect couple.

It also happened that Harry fancied blokes just as much as girls.
More, really, since they were about a thousand times easier to
understand. He'd had this brief thing with Ron's brother, Charlie,
but it had never been all that serious, so when Charlie took a fancy
to the Bulgarian Beefcake – Viktor Krum – Harry teased
him about liking the accent. Charlie teased back about liking the
arse, and that was the end of that.

Sometimes, all the stupid little details seemed so very important.
Right now, not so much. Now, all he could think about was laying
back in the grass staring at the stars with Charlie Weasley after
that first time, thinking how bloody wonderful sex with men was, and
Charlie blanketing out of nowhere, “So, you fancy Snape, right?
Must be rough.”

Harry had denied it vehemently then. It seemed crazy. Snape? Snape
was mean! And old. And a snarky bastard. And yet, he'd gone out of
his way to be assigned to this detail today. 'And my palms are
sweating.'

If he was honest with himself, which he tried to be as infrequently
as possible to keep soul-searching to a minimum, Harry couldn't wait
to see Snape again. Whatever else might be (and probably was) true,
he knew that much to be undiluted fact. He needed to see him
again. And he was aware that made him a complete basket case, but it
was just one more thing to add to the list of reasons Ron had to call
him mental. Being mental was fine, Harry figured, if it meant no one
else he cared about had to die.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Azkaban's large front doors
creaked open. Snape stood there, squinting against the sun and
looking perturbed that daylight dare impinge upon his vision. His
dark hair fluttered in the breeze, well down his back now, and Harry
felt his heart thud a little more firmly in his chest at the sight of
it.

Greasy? Well, so what? It was long and shiny and fluttery and Harry's
fingers twitched with the impulse to touch it – an impulse he
was wise enough to beat into submission just as Snape narrowed his
charcoal eyes at the young auror. “Potter,” he offered in
a sardonic drawl. “I should have known.”

“Professor,” Harry said as optimistically as he could
manage. “It's nice to see you again.”

“Is it?” Severus scoffed, making his way down the stairs
and ignoring the guard who wished him well. “Perhaps you might
spare us both, Potter, and supply me with whatever information is
required regarding my parole, so that I may return home. I assure
you, you do not need to escort me. I remember the way quite well.”

“Ah, yeah, well, you see, about that...” Harry hedged.
“We've arranged an apartment for you.” Harry swallowed
the lump in his throat and barreled his way through Snape's arched
brow and pursed lips. “Your house, ah...well, you know, a lot
can happen in four years.”

“And I am certain a lot has, however, I will require
details, Mr. Potter, on exactly what has become of my home.”

Harry sighed. “Good ol'Snape,” he complained. “Never
cut anyone any slack.”

“It is my experience that when you give a person a gram, they
are prone to take a kilogram. If I give you nothing at all, perhaps
you will limit yourself to the gram,” Snape quipped. “Now,
as I understand it, I am a free man, and I wish to see my house. As
you are my escort, not my guard, you will have to suffer the detour.”

Harry raked his fingers back through his perpetually messy hair.
“It's just...everyone lost so much in the war. They were so
angry at the Death Eaters and...”

“They needed somewhere to direct that anger, and as I was in
Azkaban for crimes committed during my time as a Death Eater, as well
as the man who killed Albus Dumbledore, of course that person is me.
I am well aware of these things, Potter. I do not need to be told the
obvious. If they need to throw the weight of all that which they
revile upon my shoulders, well, I have endured heavier burdens. I was
a Death Eater. I can no more deny that than you can deny being the
boy who lived.”

“But that's not fair!” Harry protested. “You
were..!”

Severus cut him off. “The reason your parents were killed, or
have you already forgotten?”

'I want to forget everything,'
Harry thought. Yes, Severus told Voldemort of the prophecy that
killed his parents, but the prophecy would still have existed whether
Snape had given it to the dark wizard or not. He would have found out
sooner or later. Okay, so Snape sort of made that 'sooner', but it
was something he regretted, and he went on to help Dumbledore to
atone for that. He spent his whole life atoning for it. Enough was
enough. “You don't have to carry the weight of the world,”
Harry sighed.

“That's rather rich, don't you think? Coming from you,”
Snape replied.

Harry's lips quirked upward, but it was more of a grimace than a
smile. “What can I say? I was a really dumb kid.”

“You were smart,” Severus remembered. “That is why
it was so infuriating that you were also so intensely dim-witted.
You refused to be taught anything. Everything of value you learned,
you learned through your own mistakes and wouldn't stand for being
steered away from making them.”

Harry's lips quirked again, this time into a bemused smile. “What
can I say? I didn't have a strong role model, and right when I
started to latch onto one, he accused me of not paying attention in
class and bullied me until I couldn't decide whether to kick or cry.
I chose kicking – it seemed a bit more productive, not that it
got me anywhere. I guess you were used to being kicked.”

Snape's eyes widened marginally and his brow knit. “You were
scribbling.”

“I was hanging on your every word,” Harry laughed. It was
nice, he thought, that Snape remembered. “I was taking notes.”

“I wanted to hate you,” Snape answered, and it was a sort
of epiphany as the words spilled from his lips. “Hating you was
the only way I could look at you without feeling guilty about ruining
your life. And you look so very much like your father. That wasn't
the reason I hated you, but it made it easy.” Harry knew so
much about him already, it seemed pointless to hold back now.
Besides, he'd rather had enough of keeping even the most minute of
secrets.

Harry opened his mouth but couldn't speak. Snape had never said
anything to him so clearly, and he found himself at a loss for words.
He watched the man's profile – the hooked nose, the way his
brow knit and his lips pursed in thought. When he was finally able to
think of something to say, it was, “I wanted you to like me. I
think I spent at least half of my school years pulling my hair out
over just how much it would take to get you to say I'd done a good
job.”

“That would never happen,” Severus answered.

“I know that. Now.
You're just not the kind of guy to throw compliments around. A 'not
bad' was probably the best I could have hoped for.”

“And the other half of your time?”

“Oh, I spent that trying to prove you were evil,” Harry
grinned childishly.

“My, you were certainly quite obsessed with me, Mr. Potter,”
Snape quipped.

“Still am,” Harry blurted. His pulse raced. Yes, he was
still obsessed with Snape. “You should be flattered, really.
You have a very famous crazy stalker.”

Snape's measured steps faltered. “Your joke goes too far,
Potter.”

“It's not a joke,” Harry blurted. Walking with Snape now,
all the uncertainty and denial around his feelings seemed pointless.
Snape was a stubborn, snarky bastard, but he was a stubborn, snarky
bastard who made Harry's pulse race and his palms sweat. So, Harry
did the only reasonable thing – he summoned every last ounce of
Gryffindor pluck he had, pushed Snape up against the nearest tree,
and pulled the man's head down rather forcefully to lay one on him.
When their lips connected, Filibuster Fireworks went off in his
brain. He lifted onto his toes for better contact and kept his eyes
tightly shut, lest he catch the horrified expression he was sure the
older man must be wearing. To be completely honest, he wasn't certain
about this. He had only half-committed to his complicated feelings
for his former professor until their lips connected, and he could
already imagine the various hand baskets this could all go straight
to hell in, but the instant Snape kissed him back – that's when
he knew. There was no other way this crazy thing between them could
go. Even death wouldn't put a stop to it. What he really wanted from
Snape was so incredibly simple that he couldn't believe he had taken
so long figuring it out: it was sex. Whatever came after the sex was
something he could worry about later.

It had been an instinct, really, as far as Severus was concerned.
Lips pressed against his own, and they responded before his brain had
time to register what was happening. And it was nice. He didn't think
nice was really a nice enough word, but there you have it: kissing
Harry was nice.

And therein lie the problem.

When the boy – no, the young man – tested his luck and
slipped his tongue along the crease of Snape's lips, only then did
the gangly older man pry him away. He tried to look enraged, but it
was rather a difficult expression to pull off with kiss-swollen lips.
He opened his mouth to holler something at Harry, anything, but all
that passed his lips was a hissing sound, rather like air being let
out of a balloon.

Harry laughed. His eyes were twinkling in a manic, Dumbledore-ish
fashion. “Forget your old place,” he told Severus.
“There's nothing to see there. It's been burned to the ground.
From what I hear, the muggles have been trying to find you to buy the
land off and build on the lot for a while now.” He didn't mean
to be so nonchalant about 'your house was burned to the ground', but
it was hard not to be casual when his lips were tingling and his
hormones were raging madly for the first time since Charlie had gone
and become the monogamous sort. “We salvaged what we could.
It's at your new place already.”

“We,” Severus blanketed. It wasn't a question. He knew
that translated as Harry and his two meddlesome best friends, who no
doubt only had Harry's safety, and not the condition of Snape's
meager belongings, in mind. “There wasn't much, though,”
Harry admitted, finally having the common sense to look a little
sorry.

“There wasn't much to begin with,” Severus answered
blandly. He had half a mind to sigh but he stubbornly refused to let
his guard relax any further in front of a Potter. It was taking all
of his efforts to appear unmoved by the delectable kiss that was not
going to happen again. No, most certainly not. No more kissing,
Potters least of all.

That being said, there was really very little point in going to see a
four year old hole in the ground. “So be it. Take me to
this...apartment,” he sneered around the last word. It sounded
horrifying. Apartments. Thin walls, nosy neighbors, no doubt trapped
somewhere in the middle of London, and paying a small fortune for an
even more diminutive living space. 'But, it must at least be
better than Azkaban,' he thought, with every ounce of stray
optimism he could scrounge. Admittedly, it wouldn't have been enough
to fill a teaspoon, but if it had been, then he would have to suppose
four years in Azkaban had changed more than just his outward
appearance.
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Weight of the World