Harry staggered as he was shoved from behind. He threw out one sweaty hand against the damp stone wall in an attempt to right his balance—a quick, deep breath as he struggled to right his breathing as well. Another shove and he started forward slightly, fingers scraping lightly against the rough stone, his gait uneven and his steps reluctant.

He had never actually thought it would end like this. The dark robes of his captors swirled around him, as they pressed closer, closing off any chance of escape. He stumbled again, slowing his gait, praying for an opening in the white-faced ranks of his enemies, any opportunity to break and run. They had taken his wand first thing. Without his invisibility cloak or his wand, he was helpless, hopelessly outnumbered and out-magicked.

One of his captors, more impatient than the others, shoved him again, hard. He would have fallen if one of his guards had not taken pity and grabbed a fistful of his robe, pulling him roughly upright, the harsh woolen material rubbing painfully against his naked chest. Kidnapped from one’s own dormitory in the dead of night was not his idea of how these matters should be attended to, but his captors clearly had other ideas. It was, in fact, just their style—surreptitious, sneaky, and above all underhanded and devilishly clever.

Harry wiped his damp palms against his robe and struggled to take another deep breath. He was being marched to certain death—forced to walk to his own execution. He was to be presented to the one being in the universe who hated him beyond all others, beyond all reason, simply because Harry had defied him. Behind the door at the end of the hallway his executioner waited.

Harry struggled to maintain his semi-calm façade, to meet Death with Gryffindor courage. His own pride demanded nothing less. He would look Death in the eye before he died and meet his end with determination and grace. It seemed to take forever to march down the dim, musty hallway, but conversely they seemed to arrive all too soon. One last shove brought him before the somewhat scarred oak door. His final destination at last.

Harry stood, staring straight ahead at a small knurl in the wood. He might be willing to face this with some pride, but he’d be damned if he would assist in his own murder. One of his captors reached over his shoulder and rapped sharply on the door. He wasn’t certain which one, as his focus never deviated from the small imperfection in the woodwork. Within moments heavy footsteps could be heard approaching on the other side of the door.

Harry took a deep breath and braced himself for the inevitable.

A pounding knock that reverberated through the stone rooms of his dungeons brought Severus Snape out of the most peaceful slumber he had enjoyed in weeks. Being a Death Eater spy as well as a former Death Eater did not make for pleasant dreams. Unwilling to risk possible addiction to Dreamless Sleep Draughts and other potions that would assure blissful slumber, he made do without. Consequently, he slept well only about one night out of every fortnight.

The knock came again, louder this time, and the vibration was enough to make his teeth ache. “Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he muttered to himself, struggling to pull his black robe around his shivering form. He quickly glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle before stumbling into the darkened sitting room, banging his knee on the coffee table in his haste to reach the door. It was nearly 2 am. By Merlin, he thought to himself, the situation must be critical if Albus was desperate enough to roust him out of bed at this hour.

He knew instinctively that this had something to do with the Potter boy. He had warned the Headmaster just last week that his latest information indicated that Voldemort was currently implementing plans to kidnap the boy from Hogwarts. Albus had promised, dammit all, to impress upon the boy the need to stay put, no more nocturnal wanderings with his invisibility cloak and no more trips to Hogsmeade without a chaperone. In short, Potter was supposed to be under house arrest. Somehow he just knew that the boy was not where he was supposed to be. He sighed and flung the door open, allowing it to strike the dungeon wall with an impressive bang.

Harry swallowed hard as he felt the blood drain from his face. Lips parted, breathing shallowly, he looked into the cold, steely black eyes of the man who would murder him without mercy or pity. Through movement and peripheral vision, he watched his entourage, his so called friends, scatter like swamp rats. Dear God. Snape was going to kill him for this.

It only took Snape a moment to register the slightly trembling form of Harry Potter and the muffled giggling of the scurrying brats who were peeking stealthily from behind the corner wall. Realization set in with the force of Cruciatus. I’m going to kill the boy for this, Snape thought to himself.

Waiting for the axe to fall was never a good position to be in when staring at an absolutely enraged Severus Snape. Silently, Harry vowed that if he lived through this night he would never play Truth or Dare with the Weasley Twins ever again. He allowed the events of the evening to drift across his consciousness, wondering how in all the bloody hells he had allowed this to happen.

“Come on, Harry,” Ron’s voice drifted up into a high tenor in his excitement. “Fred and George are here.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Harry replied, stuffing his Potions homework in between the pages of the text and folding it closed with a light slam.

It was Christmas break and Molly and Arthur Weasley were spending this year in Egypt with Ron’s brother Bill, so like Harry, Ron was spending Christmas break at Hogwarts this year. Ginny was spending Christmas with her best friend and fellow Gryffindor, Alicia Kent, down in Surrey, leaving Ron the sole Weasley presence at Hogwarts.

To cheer up Ron, who was missing Hermione more than he tried to let on, Fred and George had received special permission from the Headmaster to spend the weekend at Hogwarts. They spent Saturday afternoon laughing, listening to music, and experimenting with some of the Twins’ latest prototypes. In the two years since the Twins had graduated, Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes had become more successful and profitable than either of them had ever dreamed.

After dinner, they had returned to the Gryffindor common room, where they had spent an evening playing Exploding Snap. Bedtime found them all too wired to sleep. That was when Fred had suggested a friendly game of Truth or Dare.

“And just to make it interesting,” he smirked.

“We’ll change the rules a bit,” George finished. “You can’t refuse a dare,” George continued.

“And you don’t get to know what the dare is in advance,” Fred finished with a slight flourish of his wand as he brought the lights down.

“Everybody okay with that?” George enquired smoothly.

Neville and Seamus, who had been pressed into playing as well, looked at bit nervous at the new rules, but gulped audibly and nodded their heads.

The game progressed as expected, with much laughter and teasing. It wasn’t long before George produced a bottle of Firewhiskey from his trunk. “Wasn’t easy gettin’ that by old McGonagall,” he grinned as he took a swig and passed the bottle to Ron. By 1:30 everyone was inebriated to the point where pretty much everything was funny, tongues were loosened and inhibitions shed like sweaty Quidditch robes after a long match.

Of course that would be when George dropped the bombshell question. “So tell us, Harry. In your deepest, darkest fantasies, who is it that makes you scream, makes you moan, makes you come like a waterfall, huh?” George whispered with a gleam of malicious humor in his eyes.

Harry was certain that the sudden pain in his chin was from his jaw hitting the floor. He silently berated himself; he should have known they would ask him this. If he could have gotten to his wand at that moment, he would have hexed himself for his own stupidity. As it was, there was no way he was going to answer. He had thought he would be able to bluff himself out of this question, should it come up, but the way Fred had phrased the question entirely precluded one of Harry’s more elusive answers, an answer of the type the American transfer student, Jimmy Wilcox, called English bullshit.

Had he been asked who he was in love with, he could have honestly said no one. If they had asked who he had a crush on, he could have given the same answer without a single guilty qualm of his conscience. But no. Since Harry’s feelings bordered on single-minded lust and obsession, the phrasing of the question meant that he would have to tell the truth. And that would happen when McGonagall performed a striptease from atop the Teacher’s Table in the Great Hall.

As he was about to take the Dare, Ron leaned over and whispered, “Tell the truth.” The look on his face left no doubt in Harry’s mind that Ron’s instruction had nothing to do with his own idle curiosity and everything to do with advance knowledge of what the Weasley Twins had planned. Harry swallowed hard and re-thought his position.

Revealing the object of his obsessions was not going to go over well. First of all, he had been delaying having a little talk with Ron. He had hoped to avoid it, but his attempts to set Harry up with the pretty Hufflepuff girl, Susan Bones, had led Harry to conclude that poor Ron was totally clueless, as usual. Since he hadn’t yet told Ron he was gay, this was not the forum in which he wanted to announce that little tidbit of information. He strongly suspected Hermione already knew, or at least had her own suspicions; however, blurting out his secret now would assure that it was all over Hogwarts by 8 am, and it would hurt Ron terribly to find out this way.

Added to that, of course, was that revealing the identity of his secret obsession would leave Ron, and everyone else, in apoplectic fits. Sometime during his sixth year, he had looked up at his Potions master, and as fate would have it, Snape had looked down at the same moment. From that moment on, he had felt drawn to the man as the moon draws the tides. There was no denying that Snape was a powerful wizard, and that aura of Dark power was being interpreted by Harry’s body as sexual -- raw, potent male sexuality. Added to that was the man’s brooding nature, and a flair for the dramatic, and Harry’s hormones went into overload whenever Snape was near. And that voice… Oh, Merlin that voice. Snape could probably talk him to orgasm with little or no effort. If Harry’s cock thought that anti-itch potions, as explained in that voice, were sexy, imagine how it would interpret erotic foreplay, purely aural sex. Harry would never admit it out loud, but he had it really bad for bad-boy wizards, and Snape was the ultimate bad-boy, in a purely Byronic sense -- mad, bad and dangerous to know.

Briefly, his intoxicated brain toyed with the idea of simply admitting, “I’m desperately in lust with Severus Snape.” Something Dark and Slytherin in him came near to blurting it out, and to hell with the consequences. Thankfully good sense reasserted itself, and Harry regained control of his wayward conscience. Despite Ron’s warning, he opted for the Dare. Which, of course, was how he found himself standing outside of Snape’s doorway in nothing but his robe and pajama bottoms. In a sick and twisted bit of irony, the Dare being to proposition Potions master Severus Snape.

Red hair. It was unmistakable. Weasley red. With a flash of another type of red, Snape put the whole thing together. He dismissed not having seen it before as the product of a sleep drugged mind. After all, he would have to recognize this particular joke; he had been the sole victim of it ever since Bill Weasley, or was it Charlie, had thought it up. Apparently this little prank had been passed down in the Weasley family, and it appeared as if it was to become a staple at Hogwarts, like Albus Dumbledore, a ceiling enchanted to look like the night sky, moving staircases, and the funniest joke of all time—proposition the Potions master, that greasy git Snape.

He sighed after a moment, melancholy and sheer tiredness winning out briefly over his anger. Albus, of course, was absolutely no help whatsoever, returning house points and dismissing the whole thing with a gentle, “Now, Severus it was only a joke. You were young once yourself.” He wondered briefly if the ostensibly omniscient Albus Dumbledore had any real idea of the dangers he faced, from spying on Voldemort to the pitfalls and traps, set by a guilty conscience, awaiting his somnolent mind. Merlin dammit all; he needed his sleep. Every moment of rest he could get. And these obnoxious children had begun to play their silly games with some frequency. Never mind that he would never admit that this particular prank hurt, hurt sometimes like the skin had been flayed from his bones, knowing that they chose him because he was the most undesirable of all. No, he would never admit it, not to anyone else, at least; and although he could scarcely admit it even to himself, he knew that it was true.

In a brief flash of epiphany, he saw the future. The Weasleys bred like locusts. Percy had straightaway upon graduation married that Clearwater girl, and they now had two children of their own. Both Bill and Charlie had also started their own families, and to top it all off, Arthur and Molly, apparently bored when their last child left to begin Hogwarts, had started producing more little red haired menaces. The last he heard, they had another set of twins, girls this time, and were expecting another child in June. From the way Granger and the youngest Weasley boy were eying each other, it wouldn’t be long before they entered the Weasley Breeding Competition ™. If he lived to be Albus’ age, he faced having to instruct more than a century of Weasleys. It was an absolutely terrifying thought.

He envisioned a century of nighttime prank propositions, courtesy of the Weasleys. Oh the horror. He eyed Potter carefully, wondering exactly how much detention he could give the boy without Albus interfering and letting the Gryffindor boy off the hook. He was almost ready to simply hex the boy into next summer and be done with it, when Potter decided to make matters worse. He spoke.

“So, … uhm…. Professor… Do you … Uhmmm … Wanna shag?” Harry’s voice sounded like Minnie Mouse on crack, but at least he had gotten it out. He had completed the Dare. He stood red faced, knees knocking, waiting to see whether Snape was going to kill him outright or torture him first. The muffled giggles coming from down the hallway angered Harry into making a mental note. If he survived this, he was definitely selling his share of Weasleys Wizarding Wheeze to Lucius Malfoy.

Snape saw white. Anger, pure white hot, as bitter as rancid bile choked his throat and obliterated his sight. For some reason, a reason he deigned not to look at too closely, propositions from students annoyed and angered him; a cruel proposition from Potter, though, was like gasoline on an open fire. Oh, this prank hurt -- and hurt deeply. Cruel, just like Black, like his father, like all of the damned Marauders. And in that instant it came to him – the solution to his problem. He really should have thought of this years ago, he decided. So, Perfect Harry Potter, whose antics would have gotten any other student expelled, The Boy Who Lived to Torture His Existence, the boy who was currently in collusion with the Weasleys, wanted to shag, did he?

Severus felt a smile curling his lips, and from Potter’s sudden attempt at channeling a House Elf, it must have been a truly terrifying smile indeed. Good. He would have to add that one to his collection of sneers, glares and other patented expressions. Very useful, his repertoire.

With his conscience snickering, he decided to take the boy up on his generous offer. So, the boy wanted to know if he wanted to shag, did he? Hmmm… He considered the wording of his answer carefully. He leaned slowly down, and gathered a fistful of the boy’s robe, high up around his neck. Using this new leverage, he pulled Potter up onto his very tiptoes until he could look directly into the wide emerald eyes. Still smiling his wicked smirk, he growled just loud enough for the Weasleys to hear, “I top,” before he jerked Harry into his quarters and slammed the door on five stunned Gryffindors.

“We have to save Harry,” Ron yelled as he made for Snape’s door. He was thwarted, however, when Fred and George grabbed a handful of his robes and pulled him backwards into the cold, stone wall.

“Are you insane?” Fred shouted. “That’s Snape. He’s probably got enough wards up to repel Merlin himself. Plus, he’s a lot more powerful wizard than any of us. Harry’s his equal though; he can take care of himself.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you confiscated Harry’s wand, and he hasn’t had much practice with wandless magic. He’s practically defenseless.” Ron was shouting by the time he made another abortive attempt at Snape’s door.

“Look, it won’t do him any good us throwing ourselves at Snape’s barriers.” George sighed.

“Well, we can’t just leave him in there,” Ron argued. He looked at Neville and Seamus who both nodded their support.

“There’s nothing for it, I guess,” George started.

“It’s the only way,” Fred agreed.

“What?” Ron demanded.

“We’ll have to get Dumbledore,” Fred and George voiced together.

Ron hated it when they did that stereo thing. “Well come on then,” he cried impatiently, breaking into a run. The others followed immediately.

“How long do you think Harry can hold the greasy old git off?” Neville whispered.

“Dunno,” Seamus replied, “but I don’t think we have a moment to lose.”

Severus Snape, Slytherin to the bone, immediately pressed his tactical advantage. The boy opened his mouth, emitting a tiny squeak, as his back was pressed to the door. Snape wasted no time in sealing his lips to the lush, hot mouth of his arch nemesis.

It was the perfect plan, Snape’s little mental voice whispered. Even now, the Gryffindork Five were on their way to Albus Dumbledore. They would fetch the headmaster, and hogtie and carry him too if he wasn’t quick, Snape was sure. Now, he had to time this just right. Dumbledore and the Gryffindorks should be coming down the hallway in about 20 minutes, 30 tops, just in time to run into a sobbing, tearful Harry who had just “escaped” from the clutches of the evil Potions Monster. A few kisses and a little slap and tickle, and the boy would be ready to run screaming into the night. The Gryffindorks would lead a distraught Harry back to their dorms. That would be the end of his proposition problems. Once the gossip spread through Hogwarts, no student would ever darken his doorstep again. Oh yes, he would finally teach the Perfect Harry Potter a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget and rid himself of the Weasley menace for good.

Of course, Albus would want to have a long talk with him about this, but he already had that planned too. He would let the Headmaster have his say, and then, when he finally wound down, Severus was going to sweetly (well, as sweetly as he could anyway) reply, “Now, Albus it was only a joke. You were young once yourself.” That should take the wind out of the meddlesome old fart. Yes, he loved the man like a father, but that certainly didn’t mean that he was unaware that the old man was, in fact, a meddlesome old fart. It was the perfect plan. It couldn’t possibly go wrong. Revenge was so very sweet.

“Snape’s got Harry,” Ron blurted as the five agitated boys spilled into Dumbledore’s office, having rousted the man from his bed in the apartment behind his office.

It had taken them thirty-one tries to outwit the gargoyle and guess that candy cane was this week’s password. They had arrived out of breath and very nearly hysterical from what the Headmaster could tell.

“Sit down, boys, sit down. Gumdrop?” he asked as he reached for the candy bowl to pass around.

“Respectfully, sir, we haven’t time for this,” Ron replied. The others nodded their heads in agreement.

“Now, now … there’s always time for tea,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled merrily.

“Fred … George,” Ron said, nodding to each in turn.

“Right,” George confirmed. Fred merely inclined his head.

“Sorry about this, sir,” Fred muttered as he and George linked hands behind the headmaster’s back and behind his knees, lifting and carrying him quickly toward the moving staircase.

“We’ll talk on the way,” Ron said firmly. “Neville, get the Headmaster’s wand. Seamus, bring his tea.” The Gryffindors rushed to fetch the items.

“Now, Headmaster, you’ve got to save Harry,” Ron began, as the awkward little group moved quickly toward the dungeons, Albus Dumbledore still wearing his neon purple nightcap.

There was something wrong with the plan. Severus knew he could figure it out if he could just stop stroking his tongue into the boy’s silky, hot mouth. Somehow, though he couldn’t remember exactly how, they had shed their robes and worked their way over to the couch. He was currently comfortably ensconced on top of the boy, his weight pressing Harry even deeper into the soft, green velvet cushions. Neither had been wearing much to begin with, but Harry’s pajama bottoms were now hopelessly twisted up somewhere between his knees and his ankles, and judging from the frustration levels of both men, the thin piece of flannel was not long for this world.

Sliding down a bit, he teased and tasted the skin of the boy’s neck. Oh, but he tasted good, like honey and mint and clean, soft flesh. He nibbled gently, delighting in the arch of the warm body below him and the soft moans of male pleasure. Meeting the gentle arches, he took the lush mouth once more and coaxed them both into a steady rocking motion, pleasure mounting as they neared the inevitable conclusion.

Yes, there was definitely something wrong with the plan. Harry should be running down the hallway, screaming for Dumbledore and his friends. Instead, he lay underneath Severus’ taut body, whimpering into his mouth and sucking his tongue. He’d figure it out later, he decided, nibbling the slick invader with sharp, white teeth. Much, much later…

“I’m sure Harry is perfectly all right,” Albus Dumbledore offered to a near frantic Ron. A near frantic Ron who was not listening.

“Faster, George. Faster, Fred. Hurry up.”

Harry moaned and pressed himself more tightly to Snape. By all that’s holy, the man can kiss, Harry thought briefly before letting the thought slip away like a spider web in the wind. Other thoughts took its place, intruding slightly into the pleasure. He had wanted this, dreamed of this, but had no clue why he was acting on it now. He wasn’t the promiscuous type, had no real experience, and yet here he lay trying to join with Severus Snape in the most intimate and carnal way possible.

He felt it then, power and pleasure, not just sex, but sex magic, older even than blood magic; it was pulling them together, urging a union. With a blinding flash of light, Harry knew. It was rare, and he had never felt it before, but he knew what it was, something every wizard or witch longed to find, but only a rare handful ever did. How utterly odd. He and Snape had sympathetic magics. The power seemed to swirl around them; all they had to do was unite and reach for it. Firewhiskey was water in comparison to the intoxicating lure. “Merge and reach for the power,” it whispered, swirling around them in eddies and currents of magic. It was irresistible. Together, they could clear Sirius Black, implement sweeping reforms in the Ministry of Magic, quash the Death Eaters, destroy Voldemort…

“Fuck me,” Harry whispered against Snape’s swollen lips. “Fuck me now.”

Ironically, it was Harry’s demand for more that prompted Snape’s immediate retreat.

“Merlin’s bloody fucking owl,” Snape cursed fluently, hands gripping the stone mantelpiece, his black silk shorts tight enough to split the seam.

“What?” Harry murmured in surprise, the sweat on his nearly naked body cooling quickly. He shivered.

“What, indeed?” Snape mocked. “I’m your Professor; you are my student. We cannot do this. It would be a violation of the most sacred of trusts. I will not break that trust, and neither will you,” Snape finished, retrieving Harry’s torn flannel pajamas and his robe. He literally threw the items at the boy. “Now, get out.”

The command would have been far more effective if Snape’s hands and voice hadn’t been shaking so much at the time.

“Didn’t you feel it, though?” Harry demanded. “That was sympathetic magic.”

“I know what it was, boy. It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you realize what we could do together? We could…”

“Yes, I heard you before.” Whether the boy had spoken aloud or whether the powerful magic had transferred his thoughts, Snape did not know. “Together,” Snape mocked, “we can appear on the front page of tomorrow’s Daily Prophet—Death Eater Fucking Boy Who Lived. Together, we can leave Hogwarts when you’re expelled, and I’m dismissed in disgrace. Together, we can blow up the dungeons, the arboretum, and most of the East wing. Sympathetic magic is notoriously difficult to control. Remember, Potter, it demands that you amalgamate and use another’s magic along with your own. That magic is compatible with yours, but not identical. Don’t ever forget that.” Snape cursed again as the search for his own robe proved futile.

“You’re not just going to leave me like this, are you?” Harry demanded.

“Like what?” Snape muttered, spotting the couch throw across the coffee table. It would do. He made the mistake of turning to look at the boy as he spoke. Harry looked like a shy, debauched nymph, if there were such things as male nymphs. He opened his mouth to speak, the words drying in his throat.

Harry made a slight gesture indicating the straining erection currently attempting to split his underwear right down the middle. Well, yes, actually he did intend to leave the boy just like that, but …

“Severus,” Harry whispered demandingly. “Make me come.”

Well, not so shy after all.

He felt himself drawn back to the couch, to the boy resting supine, slightly raised on his elbows, hair mussed, lips swollen, bruises and bite marks on his collar bone and neck; he was beautiful. So very beautiful. He settled gently into his former position, lying atop the boy, between his splayed, muscular thighs, his greater height leaving his belly pressed against the boy’s straining erection. A saint could not have resisted, and Severus Snape was no saint. He took the boy’s mouth in a hard, bruising kiss, leaving his mark, staking his claim. Sliding his lips over to the boy’s ear, he registered the slight shiver as his hot breath tickled the sensitive lobe. He nibbled and worried the tender flesh delicately with his teeth, before pulling back slightly.

“Harry,” he whispered. Passion-glazed emerald eyes struggled to focus on Snape’s features. “Valde Connubialis Delectatio,” Severus murmured softly.

It had to be a spell. Harry’s lust fogged mind had just a moment to translate the Latin into ‘intense sexual pleasure’ before his body seized and his eyes literally rolled into the back of his head. It was the most intense orgasm he had ever experienced. Some indeterminate amount of time later, he opened his eyes to find Snape smirking at him. He could feel his face wet with tears, his shorts damp and sticky with his completion.

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” Harry managed to gasp out finally.

Snape smiled then, a true and genuine smile—the only one Harry had ever been privileged to see. It transformed his face, for just a moment Snape’s mask vanished, and Harry looked directly into Severus Snape’s soul. Astounded, Harry just stared. Perhaps it was the magic, perhaps it was something else, but for the first time he saw the real man and knew that he was right. He and Snape were just alike, oh not in personality, but in other things, the things that really counted. Both had grown up shunned, living lives where they were judged based on events that other people really knew nothing about; both were terribly private, willing to endure and accept public functions but never revealing anything of themselves. He saw at last what Severus Snape tried so hard to hide—fear, loneliness, rejection, need—a decent man underneath incredible intellect and a sarcastic exterior. Snape would never be a nice man, but he was a good man.

Snape probably now knew as much about him too, as Harry imagined this connection went both ways.

Harry understood at last. The magic had been pulling them together, probably all along. But it could only pull as much as they allowed, and it could only pull them because they were supremely compatible in the first place. A perfect match.

Harry felt the couch shift, felt Snape’s intent to pull away. Unthinking, he slid his hand up, gently tracing the strong jaw line, tucking back a stray piece of hair, bringing his hand to rest finally against the nape of Snape’s pale neck, using his leverage to pull the taller man in for a gentle kiss. Breaking the kiss, Harry chewed his lip for a moment, struggling to remember.

“Valde Connubialis Delectatio,” Harry whispered.

Severus Snape had just enough time to do his own impersonation of a House Elf, when the first spasm of orgasm hit. Harry felt the tremors pass through the other man’s flesh, felt the damp stickiness on his own leg, and sighed with contentment. Somehow they would make this work.

His sentiments lasted a few more minutes before, “You’re crushing me,” Harry whined, trying to squirm out from under 12 and a half stone of Potions master. Snape sighed wearily and pushed himself up.

“Harry, we can’t …” Whatever he was going to say was forgotten. “Get your clothes on this instant. The outer wards have been breached. Dumbledore and the Gryffindorks will be here momentarily.”

Snape hurried to straighten the room up.

“Where’s your robe?” Harry asked as he buttoned up his own.

“I’ve no idea,” Snape replied, as he emerged from what was presumably his bedroom, tying the belt on a Slytherin green robe. “Now, when Albus breaches the last inner ward, I want you to do something for me. Run for the other bloody Gryffindorks and tell them I tried to molest you. Cry if you can; a few tears would be quite helpful, yes.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, laughter beginning to bubble up.

“If you don’t, the brats will continue to interrupt my sleep, playing their silly games and tormenting me for their enjoyment.” Snape sighed and turned back toward the mantle.

Harry nodded his understanding. Snape did look tired. Harry had been viewing himself as the victim in the Weasley’s little charade, at least until a little while ago. Now he knew otherwise.

Still standing, staring at the mantle, Harry addressed Snape’s back. “Professor?”

No answer.

Harry refused to give up. “Severus.”

“What?” Snape said with a tired sigh.

“If… if I leave, … can I come back?” Harry asked, one hand gripping the doorknob.

Harry clenched his teeth at the prolonged silence, but he knew better than to ask again. Snape could only be pushed so far.

“When you grow up,” Severus murmured tiredly. “When you grow up.”

Harry nodded, although Snape couldn’t see it. Flinging the door open, Harry rushed out into the joyful mass of his friends. “Oh, Ron! Thank God! It was horrible.”

Snape gave a bemused half grin. The boy would never be an actor, but the Gryffindorks would be impressed.

“Severus, we need to talk.” Albus Dumbledore’s voice brooked no disagreement.

All in all, it went just as Severus expected it would. Dumbledore had figured out exactly what he was up to, but felt that he had perhaps gone a bit too far. Snape listened and nodded at the right times, finally inserting, “Now, Albus it was only a joke. You were young once yourself.” into the conversational lull. He took no joy in it, though. He had a very bad feeling that all of the joy in his life had just rushed down the hallway, sobbing in a strained and melodramatic falsetto.

What was the Muggle expression? Out of sight -- out of mind, wasn’t it? Harry would wake up tomorrow morning and realize exactly what he had done and with whom. The boy would never look at him again.

Dumbledore rose to leave a few moments later, and Severus breathed a sigh of relief that the old man had no clue as to what had really happened in his rooms tonight.

“Oh, Severus, before I leave, I wanted to ask you about a strange and powerful surge of magic that came from your quarters earlier this evening. Know anything about it?” Dumbledore inquired, peering intently over his half moon spectacles.

“Not a thing,” Snape lied smoothly. “It must have been the boy’s magic interacting with my wards.”

“Quite, … yes,” Dumbledore murmured.

Snape breathed a sigh of relief.

“And Severus,” Dumbledore paused in the doorway.

Would the old meddler never leave? Snape clenched his teeth until his jaw popped.

“Might I suggest you remove your robe from the chandelier? It is a fire hazard you know.”

Laughing, Dumbledore turned down the hallway.

“Meddlesome old fart,” Snape muttered.

“I heard that, Severus. Ten points from Slytherin.” Dumbledore laughed again.

Snape slammed the door and leaned heavily against it. Some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed.

“Come on, Harry,” Ron called impatiently. “We’re going into Hogsmeade. Fred and George are gonna demonstrate some of the bigger stuff at the shop, and then they promised to take us to dinner in Muggle London. We might even get to see one of those Muggle movies at the theater, if we have time. So, hurry up, and go put some Muggle clothes on.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Just gimme a sec.”

“Where are you going, Harry? The dorms are the other way.”

“I know, but McGonagall’s office is this way.”

“Have you gone barmy?” Ron’s voice took on an incredulous tone.

Harry sighed. “Look Ron, you know Dumbledore’s orders as well as I do. I can’t leave without a member of the staff as a chaperone.”

“Oh come on, Harry. Fred and George will both be with us. They won’t let anything happen to you. Besides, we won’t have any fun at all if McGonagall comes along. We don’t need a chaperone.”

Severus Snape stood concealed in the dim archway behind a dusty suit of armor. He should have felt guilty for spying. He did not. If that little fool tried to leave this castle without a chaperone, he wouldn’t be sitting on his broomstick for a week. Snape himself would see to it.

Harry sighed again. “Flitwick can’t go into Muggle London, and Snape…”

Ron snorted softly.

“Snape is still sleeping off the effects of those experimental potion fumes…”

Snape snorted softly.

“It’s McGonagall, or no go. I will not leave Hogwarts without a chaperone,” Harry finished.

“I know you’ve snuck out plenty of times before, even if You-Know-Who is after you—that’s nothing new. And Fred and George will both be with us. They’re both qualified wizards. So, why not sneak out now?”

“Because I gave Dumbledore my word. Because neither Fred nor George has ever faced a Death Eater attack. Because after Cedric Diggory’s death I have a much clearer idea of exactly how ruthless and evil Voldemort actually is. Take your pick.”

“God, I hate it when you get stubborn like this. But, tell me the truth. Why are you really being like this, Harry?”

“Maybe I’m just growing up, Ron,” Harry shrugged as the two boys set out for McGonagall’s office.

In a dim alcove in Hogwarts, Severus Snape smiled. Maybe the joy in his life hadn’t left after all. Maybe it just had a little bit of growing up to do.

END

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