Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Death and the Open Mind	By : LoupGarou1750 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3186 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and her business associates own the world of Harry Potter. I make no money from this, nor anything else.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
NOVEMBER

"Would you, you know, fuck me? If you could, I mean."

You're ridiculous.

Feeling ridiculously downcast, Harry sighed. "I didn't think you would. I do realise you're sort of a captive audience."

Don't pout. It's unbecoming. I'd fuck you six ways from Sunday, given the opportunity.

"Really? Really?" Feeling ridiculously pleased, Harry smiled.

But if I was in my own body, you wouldn't want me. I think you've forgotten whom you're dealing with.

"You're not half so ugly now that I can't actually see you."

Yes, I have noticed that your imagination leads you resolutely in the direction of the obvious and boring.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry was growing used to this sense of anger-tinged amusement. The anger was familiar enough; it was the amusement that was so disconcerting.

Your mental objects of lust are as physically perfect as they are perfectly inhuman. How any imagination, even one as perverse as yours, can put my head on that body.

Snape paused and Harry, for once, waited patiently for him to continue.

If you're going to go through all those mental gyrations to make me a physical Adonis, I ask you, could you not do something about my face as well?

"I've grown accustomed to your face."

If you burst into song I will find some method of hurting you.

A sly smile insinuated itself onto Harry's face. In was hard to comprehend, but he had Snape at his mercy. As least a little bit. After weeks of trepidation he realised — now he knew Snape was real — he no longer blurted out things that hadn't originated in his own mind. The one threat Snape had in his arsenal was gone. Snape couldn't actually do anything to hurt or embarrass him. "I've never seen anything but your face, however that I saw nearly every day for six years. I'm not likely to forget it. It wouldn't be you without that pasty, yellow face, that great beak of a nose, and those eyes as sharp as flint and about as friendly."

It isn't me with that body. Close your eyes. I'd tell you to empty your mind, but we both know that's its normal state. Allow me to show you.

Harry closed his eyes. Usually the images Snape showed him were fleeting, perverse, and came at the most inopportune times. It would be interesting to actually have time to see one. Surprisingly, it took a few moments before the image stopped wavering and came into focus — usually they were razor sharp — and when it did, Harry gulped. In his mind's eye Snape stood in front of a mirror, completely nude. His naked back could be seen from head to heel, but it was only vaguely defined: not exactly blurry, but with a disturbing lack of detail that reminded Harry of a plastic doll. From what Harry could tell, Snape's bum wasn't bad — a little on the scrawny side, but still rounded. There was no muscle definition on his torso, only the vague impression of two bony shoulder-blades. Taking the time to puzzle it out, Harry finally realised Snape couldn't show his back with any clarity, as he'd probably never really seen it.

Oh bravo, Mr Potter. I have always been rather agile, but viewing more than glimpses of my back is beyond even my bent capabilities.

Other than a groan at Snape's pun, Harry ignored him and concentrated on the image being supplied. As opposed to his back Snape's front was rendered in perfect detail, although Harry found it quite irritating that the mirror only extended to the top of Snape's hips; nothing could be seen below. But even more annoying was that Snape had got his own face wrong; his skin was not merely sallow but damn near jaundiced, his nose an arcing hook that cast a deep shadow over thin lips, and for a moment there, it had looked like Snape had spots.

Your irritation on my behalf is gratifying, but I do know what I look like. I've never found it useful to lie to myself.

"No? Looks to me as if you've done a pretty good job of exactly that," Harry sneered. "When you were rummaging around my 'attic', did you never bother to look at my pictures of you?"

Harry didn't consider himself a particularly visual person; it was hard to call forth his own image of Snape. He wasn't absolutely sure why he made the effort, but decided it was worth it when he got the strange sense of Snape's presence jerking away as if in surprise. In Harry's memory Snape was very tall, a solid black mass that loomed. Scary and yes, ugly, with hair that practically oozed grease, but just ordinary human-ugly, not movie monster ugly. With a bit of a struggle, Harry got the image moving, showing Snape's billowing robes and a presence that was as regal as it was intimidating. That Snape's nose was hooked, there was no hiding, but it certainly didn't overshadow half his face, and his skin, though undoubtedly sallow, was smooth and clear. Now that Harry thought about it, Snape really wasn't all that bad-looking. Grinning a little, Harry adjusted his memory of Snape's hair until it was simply somewhat oily.

Even after all these months, I'm continuously surprised at just how mentally disturbed you are.

"I wish you had molested me when I was a student." Harry spent a pleasurable moment imagining Snape keeling over in apoplectic shock — whatever that was. When the moment stretched on and on and on he began to regret the impulse to shock. "Hello?" He rapped his knuckles on his head. "Are you still in there?"

Snape was clearly going to let him squirm for a few moments longer. Nonplussed, Harry did the only thing he could think of. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he dropped every last mental shield that he had.

That was completely unnecessary and quite cruel, even for you. Did you really don Miss Weasley's knickers, or was that just a fantasy? Don't answer. I'm not the least bit interested in your juvenile fantasies. Well, except for the one. Why do you wish I had—

Snape's mental shudder sent a sympathetic ripple down Harry's spine. "I don't. Not really. Or...not exactly. It's just that—" Harry made a hand gesture over his lap. "—is fine, more than fine with your help, but I wish that just once...you know."

You do realise that I can't see your hand gestures, don't you?

"Then how did you—"

What is it about sharing brain space you're unable to comprehend? Just because you don't say the words, doesn't mean you don't think them, and of course you also thought about using a hand gesture in lieu of speaking. I did not see the gesture but I heard the accompanying thought.

"I want to know what your backside really looks like. I mean, I get that you were no Adonis, but even you had to have more definition than a jiffy lemon. I want to know if you have dimples above your arse or behind your knees. I want to know if there's hair on your back — unless there is, in which case I don't want to know. I want to feel the little creases at the back of your ankles. I want—" Harry swallowed thickly. "I want to know what your cock tastes like and how you smell and whether you're ticklish and—"

I am not ticklish.

"Oh my god! You are ticklish! Or were. Lucky for you we didn't know that when you were our teacher."

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Wake up, Potter. Since you clearly have nothing on your agenda for the day, I think now would be an excellent time to indulge.

Groaning, Harry pulled his pillow over his head. "It's only nine o'clock in the morning, Snape. Just because you don't sleep doesn't mean I don't need to."

But your mind is so pliable when you're sleepy. I think now is an excellent time for a little experiment.

Groaning louder, Harry rolled out of bed.

At some point, their second or third time, it had become a game. It annoyed Harry in a fairly mild way and Snape insisted on it, absolutely refusing to acknowledge that there was anything else going on besides mutual perversity. Sometimes Harry wondered what it said about him that he was willing to put up with it, then reminded himself that sex without overt affection was better than no sex and no affection. Once upon a time he had got both from Ginny, he realised, but he had to admit to himself the sex had rarely been as hot and the affection, much as he wanted it, had sometimes been stifling.

As always, thinking about Ginny and the way he'd treated her made Harry feel guilty. "I'm such a bastard."

Agreed. Relax back into the chair, head back, legs spread.

"I won't be able to see anything if my head's back," Harry protested."

No, you won't. We won't be using the mirror and your eyes will be closed.

Harry tilted his head up, as if to give Snape a quizzical look. "But you won't be able to see."

I don't need to see. Your mind is—well, not your mind — a normal, reasoning mind is an erogenous zone. One doesn't need to see to fuck. One doesn't need to hear— which in this case means through your ears—to fuck. And as you are about to find out, one doesn't even need to touch to fuck.

"Oh god!" Harry gasped. "If you say fuck one more time you'll have proved your point. I'm this close already." He shuddered. "Severus Snape does not say fuck, at least not as a verb. And especially not three times in as many sentences when he's talking about fucking Harry Potter. And certainly not in that tone of voice."

Potter, I would hope by now you had realised that you supply whatever 'voice' I have. Now sit.

"I never liked this chair," Harry said as he sat. "It was fucking made for Hagrid or someone. It always makes me feel like a dwarf."

I will resist the obvious cheap shot.

Snorting, Harry retorted, "If you say you're going to resist the cheap shot, you're taking the cheap shot. It's the same thing."

I told you to use that chair for a reason. Tonight is going to be a little different than our previous forays. This will be a purely mental exercise, so in addition to not using the mirror, you will not be touching yourself.

"Hate to break it to you, but since you can't touch me, not touching myself isn't an option. There's no point to this otherwise."

You may, of course, refuse to imagine any particular thing, but as usual, to decline is to forfeit the game for the evening. Now, there are going to be two physical aspects, stimulants if you will. One you've already been introduced to, the oversized chair. The second requires your active participation.

"Oh good, you are going to let me touch myself after all." Harry's relief was almost as great as his disappointment. The idea of coming untouched had been exciting, and it was the whole point, wasn't it?

Yes, you are going to touch yourself, and no, you are not going to touch yourself once the actual sex portion of our evening commences. I want you to remove all body hair below your eyes.

"What? What?"

Those three chin whiskers you're so proud of. Armpit hair, chest hair, pubic hair, leg hair. It shouldn't take more than a few strokes.

"Bastard," said Harry with some feeling, although he couldn't help but be amused. It really shouldn't have been that way, but Snape's insults were becoming arousing in their own right.

Consider yourself lucky I'm not requiring you to shave your forearms or the palms of your hands. You may conjure implements you need to complete the task, or if you are feeling particularly brave, you may cast a depilatory spell. If you choose to do it the Muggle way, you have ten minutes.

"You want me to shave myself."

That would be my preference, yes. However, as I said, you may use a spell. I want you to remove your body hair and then I want you to sit, naked, in that chair. Do you begin to see where I'm going with this, Potter?

"That's weird, even for you.

You're welcome to forfeit.

"I'm not doing this without a mirror. Don't care how perverse you are, blood is out. If I give you a show, can I have longer than ten minutes?"

Sometimes Harry had a strange feeling he couldn't describe, as if Snape were looking him up and down. He wasn't sure how a disembodied consciousness could do that, but then he'd never figured out Snape's little trick for thumping his skull, either.

The ten minute allotment includes the show. I'm going to fuck you and I don't intend to wait all night to do it.

Pleasure rippled down Harry's spine. He quickly stripped off his pyjamas and sat on the edge of the huge chair's seat. As Snape had implied he should, Harry lacked confidence in his ability to cast a depilatory spell. He wasn't aiming a wand at his tackle without knowing exactly what he was doing. The idea of a razor was hardly more reassuring, but at least Harry had some familiarity with one. He transfigured his shoes into a small table and a razor, a vase into a steaming bowl of water, and his shirt into a towel.

It was annoying and embarrassing to realise how right Snape had been when he said it wouldn't take more than a few strokes. Harry finished in well under the allotted time.

"If you can't see me or touch me, why did you want me to do this?"

It's for your benefit. It feels different doesn't it? Your skin tingles and you're more aware of the air.

Harry gulped.

Think about what you look like. A small, naked boy in a too large chair.

"Oh god! You're...that's...you pervert!"

You're the one who suggested it, or have you forgotten? It took me some time to warm up to the idea.

Blushing, Harry remembered the relevant conversation and wanted to disappear from the face of the planet.

Buck up, Potter. It's just a fantasy. Now, if you've quite got over your maidenly modesty...close your eyes. Rest your head against the back of the chair and spread your legs.

You're in your bed at Hogwarts, having one of those horrible, humiliating dreams, a dream where you're in my office, naked under my mocking gaze.

"I had one or two of those."

As did I, and every other school boy in the world, I assure you. Insolent as ever, but naked and bent over my desk. Your penis banging into the edge. It hurts, but not as much as the cane I use on your arse, leaving stripe after stripe, raising welt after welt.

Eyes suddenly flashing open, Harry swallowed nervously as he realised he was squirming while still holding the razor. He hastily dropped it into the bowl of water and then sank back into his previous position. He was achingly hard already and desperately wished he could see Snape's face. It was always easy to imagine the man scowling, and sometimes if Harry made a real effort he could almost see Snape smiling, but he simply could not imagine the man's face heavy with lust. Not being able to see him at that moment was frustrating beyond belief.

Do not touch yourself! From this point on it's purely a mental exercise. It's not easy. Many people have difficulty mastering it, but for the first time in our acquaintance I think we've found your mental métier.

Now, close your eyes again. Spread your legs. Get comfortable.

You are a Hogwarts student, naked in my office, bent over my desk, offering your delectable little arse up for a caning. Your penis is still banging into the edge of the desk, but you're erect now, and it hurts much worse. Still, it's nothing to the way your arsecheeks burn. They are bright red all over and crisscrossed with stripes. You have welts and bruises. I give you six of the best and then I stop. You continue humping the desk for a moment and then you are suddenly very, very still as you realise that I have pushed the tip of the cane a few millimetres into your anus.

It was agony not to touch his cock. Harry squirmed restlessly in his chair, clenching his muscles, sure he could feel the cane sliding in. His bumcheeks flamed and the fabric of the chair seemed to be rubbing them raw. This was going to take no time at all. Harry was close, his testicles were drawn up tight in their sac.

I slide the cane out, tossing it across the room. Because your back is to me you can't see it, but you hear it slam against the wall and you jump. I grab your hips, pull you in, seat us both in a chair. My cock is hard and weeping, but still decently covered by my robes. You can feel it pressing against your arse.

"Oh fuck, Snape, please!" Harry's fingernails were digging into his palms, in a frantic effort to keep his hands from jumping to his cock. He could feel the sweat beading on his naked chest, his face, under his thighs.

Wrapping my hand around your cock I'm startled to realise how very small you are. Your prick is hardly bigger than my thumb, not even as big. Too small to wrap my hand comfortably around, I take it between forefinger and thumb and begin to stroke.

With a shout, nearly bucking out of his chair, Harry came. His breath was ragged and his muscles had all seemed to turn to jelly. Snape was silent as the spatters of spunk cooled on Harry's chest, as his heart finally slowed and breathing returned to normal. Sated as he was, Harry almost wanted to weep with the desire for flesh on flesh.

A little quicker off the mark than I expected, but that was...

"Yeah, it was," Harry agreed with a smile.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Sometimes I imagine I can smell you, your skin, your hair, your breath. I can't. I never will.

"You will," Harry insisted. Deep down, he was suddenly very frightened. He didn't want Snape to return to his body. It was horrible to admit, but there it was. If Snape had legs he would leave. He would not stay, bound to a man he didn't like, whom he only barely managed to be civil to and that only because they had to occupy the same small space.

I imagine hands. Not real hands, mental hands, ghost hands. Hands that cannot actually touch you but which can ghost over your flesh, whisper against your nerve endings. I can't do that, either.

"Don't be an ass, Snape. We'll figure it out. You'll figure it out, or Hermione will, or Professor McGonagall. We'll get your fucking body back!" And you'll leave, Harry thought, hating Snape, hating himself, hating the fact he wasn't some suburban Muggle named Bob who'd just completed his A-levels and was going out with other Muggles on a celebratory pub crawl.

This is me rubbing my forehead and rolling my eyes, Bob.

"Why is it always fucking me? When do I get what I want? You know what? You're a fucking wanker and I hate you and I'm going to bed and I'd really, really appreciate it if you'd make yourself scarce — sleep or whatever it is you do."

You'd better give me a drink, then. Or several.

"That," Harry practically yelled, walking to cupboard where he kept his single bottle of firewhisky — untouched since the day of Snape's funeral — and filling a glass, "is the first good idea you've ever had."

I wonder what your muscles look like when you're flying, and I curse myself for never taking the opportunity to find out when I had it. The mere thought is a horror unto itself, so of course, I promptly feel sick to my stomach and go back to imagining I can smell you.

Harry took three large gulps of the firewhisky. "I'll shut you up if it takes a good alcohol poisoning to do it." He shook his head almost expecting smoke to pour out his ears.

Snape laughed.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Sitting on his heels in front of the sitting room fireplace, Harry spoke with Hermione. "Anything at all?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry, Harry. There's nothing at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall even let me go through Professor Dumbledore's private library."

"Keep trying, Hermione. Something's happening. Sometimes he disappears for days at a time and he's never done that before. When I ask, he just says he's tired of my drivel, but I know there's more to it than that." A horrible sense of futility spread coldly through Harry's body.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

"I'd like to know what it's like to be with a man, just once, you know?"

Just once? Your tenacity in clinging to your supposed heterosexuality is...tenacious.

Wanting to cheer for having engaged Snape successfully for the first time in awhile, Harry settled for laughing. "You and me...I know, I know, you and I have a relationship of sorts. A strange one, admittedly, but even you have to admit it's a relationship and a little more than just mental masturbation. It's not like I want to go stepping out on you—"

A startling wave of horror assailed Harry's senses.

Regardless of what happens, whether I stay in here forever, am cast out by your superstitious friends, am successfully returned to my body, or just die, you are not going to tie yourself to me. No! Absolutely not. I have a say in this too, you know, and I say no, no, no, a thousand times no! You're a soppy teenaged boy in remarkable circumstances. What you're feeling is neither normal nor permanent!

"Whatever," Harry said, laughing again although feeling more than a little insulted. "What say we go out and cruise everything in trousers?"

It's the dead of winter, idiot!

"It's a nice brisk autumn day," Harry countered.

My point is, everyone will be bundled up against the cold and you won't be able to see anything anyway. Not to mention which, 'everything in trousers' is horribly vague. Women wear them, you realise.

"We'll go indoors, a gay bar. A gay men's bar."

Very well. Get your coat. I won't tolerate you catching pneumonia.

"Aww, you do care."

About my host body, yes, I do. About my host, not so much.

After much arguing, they settled on a location, but only after Harry had pointed out that Snape's cruising days were in the distant past and London had changed somewhat.

Fine, Snape had agreed eventually, but we're not going to some place full of upscale twats. I prefer my men to look like men, not mannequins.

"How about that one?" Harry asked after he'd found a table in a dimly lit corner and ordered a pint. He stared intently as he pointed, wanting to give Snape the opportunity to 'see'.

Weedy. Too pale. He looks like a vampire. I think not.

"I think he's...cute. How about that one, then?" Harry pointed at another guy with stringy black hair.

For fuck's sake! Look at his inseam, Potter. He has nothing on offer.

"You don't know. He could be a grower."

Not with those slumped shoulders and that hangdog expression. He obviously has as much in the way of length and girth as he does in personality.

Rolling his eyes, Harry told Snape to pick someone. The mechanics of affording Snape a good view in a crowded space were difficult, but eventually he drew Harry's attention to a nicely muscled lad with curly, chestnut-coloured hair and grey eyes.

That one.

Harry licked his lips before realising that the impulse to do so wasn't his own. He took a good look at Snape's choice. Outraged, he sputtered, "He looks nothing like me!"

Surely your narcissism isn't so great that you want to bed yourself?

"Well no, but—"

Spit it out.

"Oh what do you care? It's not as if you'll be able to see him."

Please don't tell me you have sex...excuse me...make love with your eyes closed. What am I saying? Of course you do. Romantic tripe a speciality, eh?

"Damn it! It's you I want, you fucking wanker! If I can't have you then I at least want someone who looks like you."

How touching. It won't be me. And it won't matter what he looks like when he's fucking you face down into the mattress.

"When I'm fucking him, you mean."

Not if he's a stand-in for me, you won't be.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

The worst of it is—

Harry stopped listening, momentarily distracted by the pleasant fantasy of a flesh-and-blood Snape lying beside him in the sun. Wearing shorts. Shirtless. The sun painting his long, sallow limbs with the faintest tinge of pink.

A nasty thump inside his skull brought Harry back to reality.

I've never worn shorts in my life, not even as a child. Even were I to regain my body, I wouldn't be caught dead like that. Now, pay attention, I'm waxing philosophical.

Snorting, Harry rolled onto his stomach, pillowing his head on his arms. "Sorry, Socrates. You were saying the worst of it is..."

You stopped listening as far back as that? I've a mind not to tell you the rest, after all.

"Don't be like that. It's your own fault. I told you lying in the sun makes me lazy. You're the one who wanted me to build a solarium, which I've never understood since you can't get any pleasure from it." Smiling, Harry used his wand to set breezes dancing about the exotic flora Snape had suggested he import.

Au contraire, my little dwarf. The sun makes you lazy, laziness makes you stupid, stupidity makes you malleable and open to suggestion. It works out quite well for me. Endless hours of amusement to occupy an otherwise torpid life. Stop playing with your wand and focus your attention where it belongs, to whit, on me.

"The worst of it is..." Harry prompted again.

The worst of it is...damn! I've forgotten what I was saying. Apparently your idiocy is contagious and prolonged contact with you has dulled my wits.

There was a prolonged, pleasant silence as neither Harry nor Snape thought about anything at all. Harry idly cast another charm, creating just enough current to make the spinny thing spin and set the wind chimes giggling softly.

I wasted so much of my life.

"No, you didn't. Not wasted. We couldn't have defeated old whatshisname without you." His words were flippant, but Harry knew Snape would recognize his sincerity.

I could have done it differently. I needn't have hated your mother as much as I loved her. I needn't have hated you at all. I could have...well, it's too late now and mattered not at all in the end. You did what was expected of you, what was needed.

"Good lord. Have you been drinking without me? I've never known you to be so soppy."

It will be over soon, you do realise? I hope you realise. It's distasteful to worry about what will become of you, but there you have it. Soppy is right. I'm fading, Potter. My mind is foggy. I can go hours without thinking anything at all. How odd that I longed for my own death for years and now that it approaches, I find myself strangely reluctant to experience that next great adventure. Fucking Albus.

"Stop it!" Harry said, sitting upright as panic squeezed his chest. "It's not over! You're not dying! Hermione will find something, she has to! She said—"

Hush. I'm tired. It becomes difficult to stay present. I think, with or without your kind permission, I'll rest for a while. Do try to refrain from dressing me inappropriately while I'm gone.

Harry felt a whisper of something unexplainable, like a hand stroking his hair. His heart pounded painfully beneath his ribs. "Snape! Damn it! Talk to me! SNAPE!"

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

The rusty creak of the gate's hinges sent a shiver of fear rippling down Harry's spine. He almost laughed, mocking himself for his superstitious dread. For a moment he stood, hand wrapped tight around a wrought iron bar, listening. If anything would bring Snape forward, it would be the chance to disparage Harry's courage. There was nothing; no voice in his head, no thump against the interior of his skull, no sense at all of the presence that had haunted him for months. Shoulders slumping, Harry passed through the gate and pulled it to behind him.

"Lumos!" he whispered, his voice breaking. His wand flared with a steady light, sending the moon shadows skittering away as he stepped into the small crypt.

He wasn't prepared at all for what he saw. He had expected Snape's body to be enclosed within a coffin, but it was laid out atop a stone slab, still wrapped in the winding sheet that exposed nothing but his face. Wild hope flared in Harry's chest. Snape look no different than he had at his funeral! There was still colour in his cheeks, his eyes were still rounded under the closed lids. It wasn't too late!

Legs suddenly wobbly, Harry sank to his knees, tears of relief streaking down his cheeks. He raised a hand and rested it on Snape's chest, half-expecting to feel it rise with breath, but of course there was no movement.

"Right!" Harry said out loud, months past the habit of keeping his thoughts in his head. "Of course, he's not breathing. You knew that. Oh god, Snape. It's going to work. It's got to work!"

He waited, hoping against hope that Snape would answer at last, but there was still nothing.

"You fucker! You're doing this on purpose, I know you are. Fine. You've got something to prove or you want me to prove something. Well I will! I'll prove it! You're not dead, damn you!"

Fumbling in his pocket, Harry pulled out the crumpled scroll Hermione had thrust into his hands earlier in the day. "Hermione found this. Some archives, somewhere. Catacombs in Rome, I think she said. I don't remember. I really wasn't listening, you know? Bet that surprises you. What was the name? Caratacus? Something like that. Anyway, she said he was a prisoner of um, Claudius? One of the emperors anyway. And you don't care, do you? I can almost hear you saying, 'read the fucking thing or get the fuck out!' OK, I will. This is going to work."

Strengthening his Lumos, Harry let his wand hover in the air as he unrolled the scroll. "Hermione put a translation spell on it, because I couldn't even begin to sound out the words. I don't even know what language it's in. I hope it works in English. It has to work, right? Just because it's translated, it's still a spell. Intent is what matters, that's what you said. Right?" Harry rubbed his hand nervously over Snape's chest. "Are you ready?"

Standing with difficulty because his legs still felt rubbery, Harry adjusted the angle of his wand so its light was cast squarely on the scroll. Haltingly, he began to read: "O King, return thy spirit regal from the realms of shadow and light. Fill again this cup, thy vessel. Once our king, our lord of battle, again our king, our battle lord, pick up thy sword anew. Your kingdom trembles. Do not fail us in our hour of most grievous need."

Nothing at all happened, no change in his mind, no change in Snape's body. Harry stared intently at Snape's face, at his cloth covered chest, hoping for some tiny sign of movement, hoping for something, anything at all. "Breathe," he whispered. "Breathe. Just one little breath. C'mon, Snape!"

Suddenly, before he even realised he was moving, Harry was charging through the gate to the crypt. His feet slipped on dew-wet grass as he sprinted towards Dumbledore's white tomb. "Fawkes! Fawkes, please! Please!"

Fire leapt in his breast in answer to a brilliant shimmer of light in the darkness. Flame seemed to streak through the night as the achingly sweet notes of phoenix song filled the air. "Yes!" Harry followed the burning vein of light back to Snape's crypt, bursting through the gate just as the fiery brand resolved into Fawkes, hovering over Snape's chest, still singing. The phoenix stretched its neck and a single shining tear slipped from its eye and splashed Snape's cheek. Then with a flash, Fawkes was gone.

And still nothing happened.

"I'm not leaving this fucking crypt until you leave with me, you bastard. Snape! Come on! Wake up. Please."

Harry sank to his knees beside the stone slab. Reaching up, he separated Snape's clasped hands, shuddering at the coldness, the lifelessness of the flesh. Alternately clutching the hand in both of his, or chafing it briskly, trying to impart some warmth, Harry waited.

A single shaft of sunlight penetrated the crypt's iron gate, shining down on Harry's face, waking him. He sat up and blinked. It wasn't until his shoulder brushed the arm hanging limply over the edge of the slab that he remembered where he was. Except for the dangling arm, Snape hadn't moved at all, hadn't changed, hadn't breathed.

Not weeping, Harry stood and looked down on Snape's pale, still face. The shaft of sunlight was gone, and the crypt was nearly dark. Harry's bones ached with the cold. He knew that outside the moon had already risen, knew it'd had been nearly twenty hours since he'd arrived, knew that Snape would not breathe, would not get up, would not return to Grimmauld Place. With infinite care and tenderness, he crossed Snape's arms back over the still chest and pressed a kiss to the icy fingertips. Finally, feeling utterly lost and alone, he took the vial of Snape's memories from his pocket and tucked it between the cold, folded hands.

Harry touched his fingers to the entwined snakes that formed a double S at the centre of the gate. "Good-bye," he said softly. "Say hello to my mum for me."

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Closing the door behind him, Harry stood in the entryway of Grimmauld Place, unsure of whether to go forwards, into the sitting room where he knew his friends were waiting, or backwards, out the door into the night. He scrubbed his eyes with his hands, wanting to cry, wanting to scream, unable to do either. He wavered, his other hand on the doorknob, still undecided.

"Harry?" It was Hermione's voice, calling from the sitting room, but it was Ron's arm Harry felt wrap around his shoulder. "Come on, mate. We're all in here. Unless...would you rather be alone? It's OK, you know. I can see it didn't work. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

It was obvious Ron wanted to say more, but he didn't and Harry was grateful. "Ron, I—"

"I know. It's OK. Go on up to your room. I'll tell the others then come up and sit with you for a bit, yeah? Just until you fall asleep."

The tears might have come then, but didn't. Still, Harry let himself go limp in the circle of his friend's arms, and pressed his head against Ron's shoulder, his whole body trembling with exhaustion. Ron stayed silent, simply holding Harry, occasionally rubbing his back soothingly, until the trembling subsided.

Harry wanted to apologise for his weakness but didn't, only smiled forlornly as Ron gave him a gentle shove towards the stairs. He was halfway to the first landing when he heard Ron call his name. He paused mid-step, but didn't turn.

"Go to bed. Don't go into Snape's room, all right? Not tonight."

"No," Harry said and continued numbly up the stairs.

If Ron came to sit with him, Harry didn't know it. He barely had time to toe off his trainers and collapse onto his bed before he was asleep. Once, but maybe he was dreaming, he thought he heard voices outside his door, but they faded and Harry slept again, or slept on.

Through a gap in the curtains, a shaft of sunlight stole across the room and touched hotly on Harry's face, waking him. He lay there for a moment without opening his eyes, feeling the sun's warmth, imagining himself in the solarium with Snape. A minute or two of forgetfulness before memory came crashing back. Grief and guilt nearly crushed him. He had failed.

Pressure from unshed tears built up behind his eyebrows, making his scar throb. Wishing he never had to move again, Harry rolled over and looked at the clock on his bedside table. Past noon, past time to get up, past time to start living his life. He could do this. The time Snape had occupied his mind was a time of suspended animation. There was no point in wallowing; he'd done enough of that already. Six months had passed since Voldemort's death. Three months since he'd failed to become an Auror. A day and a half since the desperate journey to Snape's crypt. Eight hours since he'd accepted that Snape was gone.

Snape was gone. With a grunt, Harry pushed himself upright, swinging his legs over the bed. Snape was gone. He'd get up, shower, have some breakfast. Snape would still be gone. He'd see his friends, maybe owl Ginny, put one foot in front of the other and get on with things. Snape was gone, but Harry wasn't and that was just the way things were. Harry would survive. Surviving was what he did.

"Hey!" Harry stuck his head out his bedroom door. "Anybody here?"

"Yeah," Ron called from downstairs. "Me and Hermione. You all right, then?"

"Good. I'm good. I'll be right down. Going to shower first. It's hotter than fuck."

In the shower Harry almost cried, but he didn't. He avoided his face in the mirror as he towelled off and dressed, thinking about Snape seeing from his eyes. But Snape was gone.

"Breakfast. Good. I'm starved," Harry said as he walked into the kitchen. He smiled at his friends. "Thanks."

"Oh Harry," said Hermione, looking stricken.

"I'm fine. Really. Sad, you know, but...I'm OK. I mean what the hell. He got a few extra months he wouldn't have had, and you know, we managed to lay all that shit between us to rest."

"What will you—" Hermione began, but fell silent as Ron gave her a look.

"Hey," Harry said. "Hey, it's OK. Don't cry, Herm. I'm not going to crack up or anything. Already did that, right?"

"I'm not crying," Hermione said, wiping her nose with her napkin. "And don't call me Herm."

"Women," Ron said. He put his arm around Hermione and hugged her. "Always crying at happy endings. Oh fuck me. I'm sorry, Harry. I just meant—"

"I know. You're happy I'm not going to go 'round the twist."

"Well, no guarantees of that, surely. You've always been a bit off. Listen, if you're sure you're all right, we should go. Rumplety'll use an Unforgivable if I don't show up to tonight's exercise."

"You go, Ron. I'll stay with Harry."

"Not necessary, Hermione. I really, truly am fine, except I'm tired. Stressful night, you know." Harry winked at her. "I think I want to go back to sleep, and then after, I need to talk to Ginny. See if I can't patch things up again."

Ron looked at him hopefully. "You two going to get back together finally?"

"Don't think so. Too late for that. She's moved on and I'm...I'd just like us to be friends again, that's all. I'd rather not have a chaperone when I talk to her though. Hermione, don't look at me like that. I'm OK. I've made my peace with it."

"When Harry? You haven't had time to make your peace with it." It was obvious Hermione was gearing up for an argument. Harry had no idea how to convince her.

Once again, Ron stepped into the breach. "Don't fuss, sweetheart. Maybe it's a guy thing, wanting to be alone. Coddling just makes it harder, right, Harry?"

"Yeah. That's right. I'll see you tomorrow, I promise. Bright and early. You can make me breakfast again, how's that?"

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Once, while he slept the day away, Harry had awakened with Snape's name on his lips. His heart had thumped an excited tattoo in his chest, then almost stopped completely as he realised he'd only been dreaming. Sinking back into his pillows, Harry wept.

It was early evening before Harry dragged himself back out of bed. He'd been awake for an hour or two, but achy, cold, and unable to think of a reason to rise. And then he'd been unable to think of a reason to stay in bed. Shivering, he left his room, paused only briefly at the door to Snape's room, and then made his way down the stairs.

There wasn't enough hot water in the world to thaw his bones. Snape was gone and with him, it seemed, all colour, all interest in anything. In the kitchen he found a plate of food, left by his friends, he assumed — come and gone, mercifully without waking him — or Kreacher. It made no difference, he wasn't hungry anyway. Pushing the plate away, Harry folded his arms on the table top and rested his head, knowing he shouldn't, knowing he should get up and do something, go out, find his friends, take comfort where he could, but he really didn't care enough to try.

Snape had died and come back and now died again. Harry had died and come back and...No, he couldn't let himself think like that. With a huge effort, he pushed back from the table and stood, swaying a little. The walk to the sitting room seemed endless, and cold as he was, he just didn't have the energy to set a fire blazing in the hearth. He collapsed on the sofa and slept again.

He woke again at two in the morning, shivering, and knew he needed to make the long climb upstairs to bed. At the front door he hesitated. He could open it, step outside, walk off into the London night and never return. It would be a relief, in a way. To leave the world he knew. It was tempting. Killing himself was not really an option, but self banishment was. He could go back to being a Muggle. Why not?

With no more thought than that, Harry opened the door, stepped over the threshold, stumbled over something, and took an ungainly dive into the bushes.

"For fuck's sake, Harry. If you don't want me here there are easier ways to get rid of me than kicking me in the ribs." The voice was hoarse, familiar and not.

It was Snape. Of course it was Snape. Stupid, sodding, melodramatic wanker! He was on the landing, back leaning against the door jamb, long, bare legs stretched out in front of him.

"Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to leave me out here, naked, cold, half-dead, for the postman to find?"

Still in shock, Harry hadn't moved. He watched, unbelieving as Snape — naked as the day he'd been born — struggled to stand. The second Snape managed his feet, still shaking with the effort of standing, Harry struggled out of the bushes and lunged. Hips thrusting forwards, Harry took Snape's head in his hands and tried to pull it down to a kiss, but Snape jerked away.

"Trying to fuck a corpse," Snape said, his voice raw from lack of use, "is a new low, even for you."

"You're not a corpse! That's the whole point. You're alive! Alive!" Once again, Harry tried to pull Snape into a kiss, with no better luck.

"Regardless of your opinion on my general hygiene, Potter, even you cannot think so poorly of me as to imagine I'd want to inhabit this body for a second longer than I have to before having a bath. Or two. I've been dead for months. I'm desperate to wash off the stench."

"I don't care! Do you have any idea how long I waited? Do you know what it felt like to give up?"

"Harry. I'm naked. Even the great cesspool of London has its standards."

"Right!" Harry said, grabbing Snape's hand. "Clothes! You're fucking alive!"

"Bath," Snape said, "and then we'll see if I'm still alive. I believe you once expressed interest in seeing my back." He gave Harry's hand a tug as they stepped through the door. "That's good, because I don't think I'm up to washing it myself."

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Harry lay gasping under Snape's touch, but part of him was curiously detached, as it seemed was Snape, who looked at Harry as intently as he ever had a potion, as if judging from colour and heat whether it was time to add the next ingredient or stir three times anti-clockwise. Being the object of such fierce focus was arousing, but Snape's gaze also contained something of experiment-gone-awry and that was a bit...deflating.

"You're limp," Snape said, giving Harry's cock a determined but gentle squeeze. "Have I done something to displease you?"

"You keep looking at me as if I was Neville's cauldron and you're expecting me to explode any minute. And not explode in a good way, either."

Snape rolled onto his back, folding his arms under his head. "You know I'm leaving."

Harry nodded. He'd been expecting this, bracing for it. The idea made his chest ache, but it hurt less than he'd expected.

"What are your plans? What will you do?" Snape didn't look at him as he asked.

"I don't know. Wait. I guess. For a while."

"Harry."

"What? What do you expect me to say? We know each other better than any two people have a right to, and we don't know each other at all. Who, if not you? I never spent any time thinking about what would happen after. Never took it any further than getting you back in your body." He grinned. "I'm sure that surprises you."

"No. I wouldn't say it surprises me." Snape's hand entwined with Harry's but he still didn't look at him. "Don't wait. It's time for you to actually have a life. It's time for me to do the same."

"What will you do?"

"Ah, unlike you, I did think about what would happen after. I had months in which I had nothing to do but think. In spite of that, I don't have plans. I just know I can't stay." At last Snape rolled to his side and looked at Harry. "Barring your admittedly tempting flesh, there's little for me here. Wizarding Britain is too small and people have long memories. I've been a pariah long enough."

"Funny how our lives are so different and yet the end result is the same."

Snape cocked an eyebrow and Harry laughed.

"It's good to see your ugly mug again, Severus Snape. I just meant...you'll always be the man who killed Albus Dumbledore and I'll always be the man who killed Voldemort. No one will ever see either one of us for what we really are."

"And what are we?"

"Lonely. Adrift. Angry. Tired. Homosexual."

Laughing, Snape took Harry's hand again and rested it on his chest. "You could—" He stopped. His eyes closed and he was silent for so long, Harry thought he'd fallen asleep. "You could come with me."

"It would never work," Harry said, smiling.

"No."

"We'd fight."

"Constantly."

"You'd grow tired of me."

"And you of me, no doubt."

"You'd end up hating me."

"I have hated you since you were fifteen months old, since your mother died to save you."

"All right, I'll come."

"Good," said Snape, pulling Harry closer. "I need someone to finance the journey. I haven't a Knut to my name."

The End.
- 6
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Death and the Open Mind