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In the Cold, Cold Night	By : KohakuShadow Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 7230 -:- 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-ch. 1
- 2-ch. 2
- 3-ch.3
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A/N: I wrote a mass of
christmas gift fics this year and will be gradually uploading them
here. If you can't wait, you can always check out my LJ account, as
they are already posted there in full. I am doing my best to
remember the proper warnings to put on these fics, but as I started
writing in October, I may have forgotten some things. If you see
something that should be among the warnings in the summary that I
forgot, let me know and I will add it.

As always, I DO
have a mailing list. If you wish to be notified when I post a new
fic, email ladyloire@yahoo.com. I will not add blank emails. You
must in some way (and two words is fine) state that you wish to be
added to the list. I will never spam you. You will only receive
fic-related emails.

Gift Fic Written for:
carolinelamb

inspired by: 'In the Cold,
Cold Night' by the White Stripes

I.

Harry shivered. He hated this. It wasn't the silence in
the dead of night that bothered him, it was the sounds. It was all
of those little things that you didn't notice during the day like the
wind beating against the front door, the rain thundering against the
roof, Kreacher's mumbling, and the creaking of the stairs. And it
wasn't the nightmares, but how horribly awake he felt after them.
Most of all, what Harry hated was how everyone had spent the last
four years expecting him to grow up, and now that he was nearly an
adult he was being treated like a child.

Ever since Cedric died, Harry found he hated most
everything. It had nothing to do with Cedric. Yes, he died, and yes
it was traumatic and horrible, but they'd barely been acquaintances,
let alone friends. It shouldn't affect him like this and if he
thought about it logically, he would know his complicated feelings
had very little to do with Cedric Diggory, but about seeing someone
die, and about Voldemort's return, and about being absolutely
terrified and just as absolutely unwilling to admit it.
Unfortunately for Harry (and everyone around him), logic had never
been a particularly Gryffindor virtue, and Harry was a Gryffindor
from the fly away hairs on the top of his head to the big toe poking
out the end of his threadbare socks. All he was certain of was that
he was frustrated and angry and he didn't know why. No one
understood how he was feeling! No one understood what he was going
through! And if he didn't find some way to relieve the cold dread in
the pit of his stomach soon, he was fairly certain he would combust.

Warm milk. That was supposed to calm the nerves, wasn't
it? He'd heard that somewhere once. Since he was sure he wouldn't
get back to sleep tonight, he padded down the stairs, trying to avoid
the ones that creaked but finding them too numerous to miss entirely.
He paused in the kitchen doorway and let his eyes adjust to the
single lantern burning in the corner. It was floating above the
counter beside a dark clad man. Oh, it was Snape – looking a
bit extra lank from the way the rain affixed his normally billowing
robes to his narrow frame. He seemed to be haloed by a ring of
flame. Harry felt the too-familiar flop of his stomach and the race
of his pulse. He may not be well-attuned to subtlety, but he knew
what his body was telling him.

In front of Snape, Sirius's brow was knit and his lips
curled back into a sneer. Harry didn't know what they were
discussing (which annoyed him to no end because he was sure he must
be the subject at hand – he always was), but given their usual
discourse, he doubted either man had anything complementary to say to
the other.

Sirius opened his mouth to say something when Snape,
without turning his gaze from the other man, drawled, “Potter”
in that deep-throated way he always had that raced right down Harry's
spine. Harry didn't know when he'd started feeling that way about
the professor he loathed beyond all others, but hormones are a bitch
like that.

Sirius shot his gaze towards the doorway and forced a
charming smile. “Harry, what are you doing up?” he
asked, taking long strides toward him.

“Thirsty,” Harry barely whispered.

Sirius nodded and pat him on the shoulder. “Well,
don't stay up too late,” he said. “I'll never hear the
end of it from Molly.” He remembered Snape at the last moment.
“Snape.”

“I was just leaving, Black,” Snape droned.
“As soon as I finish this tea. Surely I can be trusted
well-enough to pass your golden boy in the night without being
suspected of something uncouth.”

Sirius bared his teeth but quickly turned away. The
last thing he needed was another comment about his more canine
personality traits from the sardonic bastard. “Well. Goodnight
then.”

“Night,” Harry answered absently.

The kitchen door closed. Harry shifted his weight and
winced at the sound of Snape's teacup clinking against the saucer. It
seemed too clamorous at this hour. Even his heart racing – he
was certain the older man could hear it.

“Spit it out, Potter.”

Harry startled. “What?”

“There is obviously something deeply engaging
going on between your ears. As it appears there is something you
want to say, I suggest you spit it out and be done with it.”

“I...it's nothing, sir.” Harry sputtered
over his racing pulse. “Goodnight.”

Snape gave a curt nod and started to leave.

“Ah, sir, wait,” Harry blurted before he
knew what he was trying to say.

Snape turned back towards him, arching a brow, but Harry
didn't know how to proceed. He opened his mouth, closed it,
moistened his lips. Opened it again, sighed. “...just...try to
stay dry,” he said lamely. “The weather is, you know.”

“It has not escaped my notice,” Severus
answered.

“Yes sir,” Harry drooped. 'How lame was
that?' he thought as the focus of his teenage libido exited the
kitchen. He listened to the man's boots clicking up the hall, and
the sharp howling of the wind outside when the door whipped open, a
creak, then a slam, and the soft pop of Snape's disapparition.

He leaned against the wall and raked his fingers through
his hair, imagining how Snape would look if he were to peel those wet
robes off of him layer by layer, the goosebumps that would dance up
his forearms when exposed to the chilled night air, and thin lips
parting softly if he leaned in and dragged his tongue across the
man's nipples just so.

Warm milk and nightmares forgotten, Harry retreated
upstairs to spend the rest of his sleepless night in the most
entertaining way he possibly could with only two hands and an
overactive imagination to keep him company.
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In the Cold, Cold Night