Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Until Last Night	By : KohakuShadow Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 5847 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not making any money off of it. If I did, it would be porn, and I'd be rich, got it? Good.

Chapter List
- 1-i
- 2-ii
- 3-iii
- 4-iv
- 1
- 2
Warnings are to the best of my memory. If there's anything that should be warned that I haven't. Let me know and I'll add it.

Written as a gift for CarolineLamb, who loves bottom!Snape as much as I do.

I.

The war was over. How much longer would he have to keep being The Boy Who Lived? It was ridiculous. He hadn't been a boy in years, but, apparently, you could never outgrow a name. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. As if living was a heroic act in and of itself. Yes, okay, fine. It was true that Voldemort was gone in great part due to his own actions. He accepted being famous for that was something he would probably never completely be free of, and it wasn't without its perks. He always got the best seat in the theater, and a prime spot to park his broom, even if he was the last to arrive. He could usually go into a bar and get utterly sloshed for free, because everyone and their mother wanted to have a drink with THE Harry Potter. It was just...enough was enough, you know? When did the constant state of celebrity end, and real life begin?

And, he was lonely. He hated to admit that, even to himself, because it was kind of depressing. Harry Potter knew people everywhere he went, so how could he be lonely? But he was. When he went home, it was just him and a pair of goldfish he'd named James and Lily, and all the damn things did was stare at him with their big black eyes and pout their fish lips at him when he tapped the glass, and swim away. His fish didn't know he was famous, but apparently as just a nameless London-dweller, he wasn't worth much time.

He almost preferred wandering amongst the muggles because of that. To them, he was nobody. He must exist on a piece of paper somewhere: a birth certificate, or a school record, proving he had, once, existed in this world, but that was such a long time ago, it was likely that no one remembered. In a very real way, he was scarcely real at all.

Sure, he had Ron and Hermione. They still kept in touch, or tried. It was just hard when their entire lives had been consumed. First, a honeymoon period. Then, a new baby. Now, there was talk about Junior Quidditch. Ron wanted it, but Hermione kept scolding him, saying five years old was "a little early to be sticking our child on a broom and sending her off to death via bludger to the head. Do you want Rose to have brain damage?" Then they would bicker a little – in that more or less loving way they had – about how Hermione was an overprotective nerd, and Ron was still a thirteen year old boy on the inside. Harry thought all men had an inner thirteen-year old that never really went away, but he knew better than to join in to the argument. He knew very well how Hermione got when she was angry. In short, they had this busy life that just didn't have much to do with him. As for Ginny, well, he'd never really had her in the first place, had he? If he had, it had only been a fleeting, childish moment that was easier to let go of then hold onto, for both of them.

And thus, the life of Harry Potter had quickly degenerated into him, a pair of indifferent goldfish, one lonely, if very good seat at the theater, and counting down the days on his calendar, in red ink, until the next holiday dinner where, for a few hours, he could feel like plain old 'Harry' again, because it was the only time of year left that the people he loved could find the time for him.

They would make time, of course, if he wanted. Harry knew that, but he couldn't bring himself to push the subject. There was a formula – grow up, get married, have kids – and if you don't, you get left behind, and there's no one to blame for it. Ron and Hermione did coupley things now, even when they could get a babysitter for the night (which wasn't nearly as hard as they made it sound. Mrs. Weasley adored her grandchildren.), and Harry wasn't part of a couple, so it was awkward. Apparently, if one was to listen to the media, the key to all human happiness was even numbers. 'Third Wheel', 'Three's a Crowd' 'Takes two to tango'. Harry knew he was feeling a bit depressed and just going on a pointless mental tirade, but he had to admit, it was true: one IS the loneliest number.

Mostly, he would lie about in front of the tele at night, and idly wonder what had become of all the people he hadn't seen in years. Dean had married Ginny – after all the fuss over their break-up, they'd gotten back together in the end. Neville and Luna were the happiest couple anyone could have ever met. Seamus was stopping fires instead of causing them – in Romania with Charlie. And Snape...come to think of it, what had become of Severus Snape? He hadn't heard word of him in ages. It was as if he'd dropped off the face of the planet since his release from St. Mungo's, nearly a full three years after the war.

Harry wondered how many people wondered about Snape, now. To most, he was probably just a phantom of a bad memory that was distant and only barely real. Not evil, not entirely good, both cruel and kind in the same breath. There were not many, he realized, that would feel much either way if Severus Snape disappeared. In fact, the world as a whole, might fail to notice that he'd disappeared at all. But, Harry still remembered him. If he closed his eyes he could see that large nose upturned at some affront, hear some sarcastic sneer falling from his lips. Arrogant bastard. But, oh, he'd always loved that voice. He was sure the sound of that deep voice alone could make him orgasm. He wanted to hear it again. That small thing is what settled it. Just a voice, and Harry decided, he was going to track Snape down. Severus Snape, after all, was one man he knew who had never treated him, not for an instant, like The Boy Who Lived.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He started in the logical place, with a letter to Professor – no, Headmaster – McGonagall. If anyone had stayed in contact with Snape, there were only two real possibilities, so Harry decided to start with the one that didn't make his eye twitch and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

It took nearly two weeks to get her reply. He didn't blame her – she must have loads of paperwork brought in by owls all the time, and he hadn't been able to buy himself a new one after Hedwig. He knew he should. It had been ages, but every time he walked by the pet shop window, he just saw his owl exploding. He walked all the way to the Owl Post now. It was tedious and more than a bit out of the way, but the fresh air did him some good, probably. So, he had no owl to speak of, and certainly none she would recognize. He still liked to think if she realized she'd gotten a letter from him, she might not leave it to sit unopened on her desk for weeks on end.

Dear Harry,

It's wonderful to hear from you. I last saw Severus four years ago, at the commemorative ball, but I did not have the opportunity to speak much with him, and believe he sneaked out a bit early, as was always his habit at such events. I did receive information shortly after that, that his house in Manchester was burned to the ground. It appears no one was harmed in the fire, but he neglected to provide a forwarding address. I am afraid I am unable to supply you with any current information.

If you do happen to find him, do send another owl and let me know if he is quite well. Professor Flitwick, when I inquired on your behalf if he had heard from Severus at all, asked me to add that, should you locate him, if he does not collect his winnings from their last game of Wizard's Chess by the New Year, he intends to waste it all on a bottle of Firewhiskey and a box of cigars, but that, for the moment, it is being held on reserve in his pocket at all times, and that Severus is to retrieve it from him personally.

Also, please extend him an invitation to our annual Solstice Ball. His invitations to the previous four were returned to me as undeliverable. As such, it is my belief, that wherever he has gone, it may well be that he does not wish to be found.

Sincerely,

M. McGonagall

Harry reread her last statement several times. 'Does not wish to be found'. He didn't know why those words cut so deep. If he thought back, he knew Snape had no reason to want to see him. The six years he'd spent under Snape's tutelage had been nothing but a pissing contest. Severus Snape had called him out in his first potions class when he was eleven, and Harry had been so humiliated, he'd been determined to hate him ever since. The feeling had been fairly mutual. The fact that Snape had also been the object of all of his best wanks made things a bit complicated, but no one ever said the brain and the cock had to agree on such matters. Now that he knew the whole story, Harry wanted to believe he'd have done better in Snape's situation, been kinder at least, but he'd made more than a few poor judgment calls of his own and there was a voice in his head that told him not to be unfair. More than how much he looked like James, Harry knew he must be a painful reminder for Snape of all that he'd lost, the trials he had to endure. Even if Voldemort was to blame, he could understand how easy it would be to pin all his discontent on the boy who lived when the woman you loved had to die.

And now, Snape didn't want to be found? He could understand the appeal, if only it were possible. He knew he didn't have the luxury of dropping off the face of the planet. But, if he wanted to, where would he go? He decided to start looking around Snape's old house. Surely, someone would know something, right? But the trip to Spinner's End was pointless. Most of the locals thought the house that burned down had been abandoned, and there was talk of ghosts, and it just spontaneously bursting into flame – those were the more creative stories, the more muggleish stories were about vandalism and squatters, which were apparently common in the all but abandoned mill town. Those who knew Snape at all only referred to him at all as 'oh yes, that boy. Well, I suppose he must be grown, now.' And if his complete lack of progress wasn't insult enough, it started raining on the way home. He thought the walk would do him good, give him time to think, but as he kicked off his soggy boots and fumbled through his pocket for a handkerchief to use to wipe off his glasses, the only thought in his head was, if he was really serious about this, he would have to contact -ugh!- Malfoy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When he first asked, Draco had flat out denied any knowledge of Snape's whereabouts, but he denied it too quickly. Harry returned the next day and asked again. Draco slammed a door in his face. On the third day, Harry stubbornly returned. Draco muttered something about causing undue stress on his pregnant wife, and slammed the door in his face again – though, a bit less forcefully. On the fourth day, Astoria went into labor while Harry was at the door. With several curses and a 'make yourself useful, Potter', Harry somehow found himself driving the Malfoys to St. Mungo's to deliver the baby. It was a surreal experience. He'd been there when Hermione and Ron's baby was born, of course, but he'd arrived a bit belatedly, and missed all the screaming and cursing and the frantic husband look. It was bizarre to see it on Draco's face.

Several hours later, he found himself looking down at young Scorpius Malfoy and declaring, arms crossed over his chest, "With that name, he'll grow up to be a prat."

Draco gave him a sideways sort of glare, that wasn't really all that much of a glare when he was still busy being a proud papa. "As long as he doesn't grow up to be a Gryffindor, like certain idiots I know."

Harry rolled his eyes, and after a stretch of silence, Draco asked, "Why do you want to find him so badly?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted in a brazenly Gryffindor fashion. "I just do."

"And?" Draco said firmly. It didn't sound much like a question.

"And?" Harry repeated quizzically.

"And what do you intend to do when you find him, Potter? He's had enough of all this bollocks."

"...I don't know," Harry muttered. "I just..."

"Just what?" Draco demanded.

"I miss him, okay!?" Harry blurted. It surprised them both. He didn't realize that's what it was until the words spilled from his lips. "I just...want to see him," he grudgingly admitted.

Draco sighed as if Harry was slow, and he often thought that most Gryffindors were a little slow. As a new father, Draco didn't want his child to be slow, so Gryffindor was out of the question. Ravenclaw would be alright though, if Scorpius turned out not to be suited to Slytherin and all it's drama. "He's in Maui. Far away from all this nonsense."

"Where?"

"You can't be serious. It's an island, you git. One of the Hawaiian Islands..." Draco gave him a look, wondering if Harry could really be slow, after all. He knew their studies didn't include all that much of mundane things like geography, and proper grammar, but he must have some knowledge of such matters.

"The American ones?" Harry blinked. Were his ears going? What in the world would Snape be doing on a tropical island? He coudln't imagine him sprawled out on the beach in bermuda shorts and a lai, sipping something that ended in '-tini'. It made his brain implode to try.

"How many Hawaiian Islands do you know?" Draco spat, eyebrow twitching. Leave it to Potter to ruin even his new father moment.

"None of them," Harry replied. "Why would Snape go to Hawaii? It's halfway across the planet."

"My guess would be to get away from you."

They both knew, however, that wasn't going to stop Harry from going there to find him.
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Until Last Night