Warning (highlight to view): For not readily apparent dub-con.
Word Count: 2400
Summary: Harry goes looking for Snape's body and finds more than he bargained for.
Disclaimer: This work of fan fiction is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling and owned by J. K. Rowling and various publishers, including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from (and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by) the posting of this fan work.
Author's Note: Written in response to nevereverposts' 600 Friends' prompt of Snape/Harry: Harry's in the pensieve, and Snape pulls him out?
It had happened too fast and ended faster than Harry had had time to think. Filling the flask had seemed the most important thing, and when Snape's eyes had . . . emptied, well, there had been no doubt in Harry's mind: Snape was dead. And then there'd been the Pensieve and his parents and Voldemort and death and resurrection and battle and, well, death, and Harry hadn't thought much about anything but whatever he'd had to think about at the time.
But in the quiet of the dormitory, his stomach full and his mind suddenly clear, Harry remembered.
Snape had loved his mother.
Snape was spying for Dumbledore.
Snape had wanted to see his mother's eyes, one last time, before he'd died.
Snape. Snape, who I wanted to ki—
Harry threw off his coverlet and rose from bed, dressing hurriedly before running all the way to the Great Hall. The bodies—he didn't want to see them, but he didn't have to; there was an Auror standing before the now-closed doors.
"Did they bring his body here? Snape's?" Harry asked, breathing heavily.
The Auror looked confused. "You want to see—"
"Just a moment, Mr Potter," the Auror said, before slipping into the Great Hall.
When he returned, Kingsley Shacklebolt was with him. "Come with me," he said, walking towards the wreckage of the outer doors and then beyond them.
Harry could see other Aurors on patrol of the grounds and in the sky above the castle, but there appeared to be no one close by.
"We didn't find his body, Harry," Shacklebolt said quietly, "only a bloodstain."
"What? But, but how is that possible? I saw him—we saw him—die!"
"I believe you. I believe you saw what Snape wanted you to see."
"You think Snape faked it?" Harry asked, incredulously.
"Can you think of a reason why he wouldn't have?"
"Well, no—but didn't you search? I mean, couldn't someone have taken it, his body, I mean?"
"That's possible, but we didn't find anything. I still have people looking, but—"
"The office," Harry interrupted. "If he's dead—"
"Harry. There's no portrait, either," Shacklebolt interrupted.
"He faked it."
"I think so. I imagine he was glad to be done with it."
"But he was inno—I mean, I know everything, now. I told everyone. There's no reason for him to have . . . to have . . . ." He loved my mother. He wanted to see her eyes. He . . . he wanted to die, didn't he? It seemed like—
"You're still angry with him?"
"What? No, uh, I mean, I don't know. I just . . . I just wanted to see his body," Harry replied, although not truly understanding why.
Shacklebolt sighed and clapped a hand on one of Harry's shoulders. "It's over now. You don't need to worry about Snape. If he is dead, there was nothing you could have done. If he isn't, well, it's obvious that man doesn't wish to be found. . . . Given what he's done, perhaps you should respect that."
Harry frowned. "He loved my mother."
"So you said."
"It feels wrong, not . . . not burying him—or making sure that he's—"
"I promise you that we'll keep searching, Harry. You should get some rest. I'm leaving for the Ministry in the morning, and you can contact me there if you want an update."
Harry couldn't think of anything to say, so he followed Shacklebolt back inside the castle and began walking back to the dormitory—only, instead of returning to his room, he changed direction and made for the Headmaster's, well, the Headmistress' office.
He wanted to see Snape's memories again.
He wasn't the only one, it seemed.
"Snape," Harry said, moving to stand next to the disheveled, blood-soaked Potions master as he stared at the young redhead swinging a bit too recklessly.
"You're not dead."
"Is that a problem for you?" Snape asked, with surprisingly little rancor in his tone as he continued to stare at Lily.
Harry stared, as well, but not at his mother. There were tear tracks in the dirt on Snape's face, and seeing them made the man seem surreally human.
"You loved her."
The emotionlessness of Snape's response made the hair on the back of Harry's neck rise. He wasn't used to the man being calm. Harry found it rather disturbing, which was saying something, given everything he'd been through.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, not sure what else to say.
Snape made an impatient sound. "I'm not."
"No, I meant . . . I'm sorry for—"
Suddenly, Harry found himself outside of the Pensieve, Snape looming over him.
"What is it you want, Potter?"
"Well, I . . . I wanted to know where your body was, and—"
"Why? You've won. You're free. Why aren't you enjoying it?"
"Y—you're free, as well. Why are you hiding?"
Snape's eyes widened. "You think I'm hiding?"
"Do you imagine what you think is of any interest to me?" Snape demanded, beginning to sound more like himself, which, strangely, made the moment less awkward for Harry.
"I don't know," Harry replied. "I just thought that I should . . . ."
"Should what, Potter?" Snape demanded, striding toward a cabinet on the far wall of the office and opening it to reveal several bottles.
Liquor, Harry thought. "May I have one?" he asked, watching Snape pour something amber into a glass.
"Pour it, yourself," the man ordered, shoving the bottle into Harry's hands and throwing himself down into the chair behind the desk.
Harry took a swig from the bottle.
"Sorry," Harry murmured, hastily pouring himself his own glass and sitting across from Snape. "You . . . everyone knows. I mean, I told everyone about you, what you did. They know, now."
Raising an eyebrow, Snape sipped from his glass, swallowed, and then retorted, "What do you want? Gratitude?"
"No! I didn't come looking for you for that," Harry said, feeling, for the first time in, well, several hours, almost angry.
"Well? Are you staying? Or do you want everyone to think you're dead? Shacklebolt said you might want that."
"What our Interim Minister thinks is really no concern of mine. Why aren't you shagging your girlfriend, Potter? Worn her out already, have you?"
Harry squeezed his glass so hard that it shattered. "Damn!" he exclaimed, starting to feel the shards cut into his skin.
Snape moved quickly, almost too quickly, really, for at once he was before Harry and examining his wounds—none too gently, either.
"Don't talk about Ginny that way! Ow!"
Snape shook his head as he murmured a spell, and Harry felt the pain ease and watched his wounds close—but Snape didn't release his hand.
"Wh—what are you doing?" he asked, as Snape's thumb moved slowly over his palm.
"What do you think I'm doing? I'm healing you. Hit your head, did you, at some point?"
"Snape, I think I . . . I am healed," Harry replied, swallowing hard and shifting a bit.
The caress was making him hard. Lots of things did, of course, but Harry didn't actually want an erection because Snape was touching him.
So why haven't you pulled away? he asked himself, staring up at the wizard.
"That is a good question."
Snape was kissing him before Harry could ask anything, and for some odd reason, Harry found himself kissing back. The hard, bruising lips against his own opened, and Harry opened his mouth, as well, and then Snape's tongue brushed his, and a guttural sound issued from Harry, a sound he'd never made before.
Snape recoiled. "Get out, Potter! Leave me alone!"
Harry leapt to his feet, his eyes, which he hadn't known were closed, opening to find Snape breathing heavily and leaning against the desk, clutching the edges of it as if to restrain himself.
"I'm . . . I'm not the one who kissed me. I mean, why did you kiss me?"
"Because," Snape growled, "I'm not healed."
Blinking in surprise, Harry said, "But you loved Mum. You . . . you asked me to look at you to see her eyes. Her eyes, right? In the Pensieve, the doe Patronus, you told Dumbledore—"
"What I wanted. Him. To. Know," Snape ground out, his knuckles whitening. "Get. Out."
"Potter. You really should . . . get out. Go to . . . go to your friends. They won't . . . hurt you."
Harry licked his lips. "You won't, either," he replied, with what he knew was feigned confidence.
"Idiot boy," Snape snarled, hurling himself at Harry.
It was almost like fighting, really, until their grappling ended in one of Snape's legs pressed between Harry's as Harry was pressed into the wall.
"Oh," he moaned, thrusting his hips forward in erotic surprise. "Fuck."
"At least you have some understanding," Snape hissed, before licking a hot stripe up Harry's jaw to his ear to bite its lobe.
Harry didn't like how he squeaked in response, but then Snape's hand found his erection, and the squeezing made him forget about any embarrassing noises he might be making. Snape's hands, they were big, his fingers, strong, and Harry didn't fight the man as he ripped open his trousers.
Somehow, Snape had got his own trousers open, and he was holding both their cocks together in one long stroking pull.
"Yes, I will be fucking you, Potter—but not yet."
Harry came, hard, to hear Snape's words, and then he slumped forward. He didn't fall, however, because Snape—who really did move amazingly fast—somehow managed to spread Harry, now completely nude, over the desk. Harry felt hands prying the cheeks of his arse apart, and then a tongue where he'd never imagined feeling one. It made him rear back, but not far, because his arms were suddenly pulled forward by invisible hands and bound at the
wrists to the chair before the desk.
"H—how? Oh, ho—what are you . . . yeah . . . plea—fuck!" Harry babbled, as Snape, who had pushed Harry's legs apart, continued to bathe the delicate folds of his flesh with his tongue.
Harry was hard again, so hard, harder than he'd ever been.
Air, cold and unexpected, shocked him as Snape stopped the wonderful thing he'd been doing, only to begin doing something else equally as fantastic.
Finger—fingers! "Ohng! I want—"
"I know, and . . . you'll get . . . it. Just as you . . . always get . . . whatever you . . . want," Snape panted.
Something inside him went squishy, allowing the fingers to slide in and out of Harry's arse more easily—until Snape replaced those fingers with his prick.
He wasn't particularly slow in his initial thrust, and Harry squeezed shut his eyes against the blunt pain.
"Am I hurt—ing you?"
"Ye—no! Don't sto—oh, fuck!"
Snape grunted and pulled back, and then he pushed inside again faster.
Harry started laughing. He couldn't help it. It felt so good, what Snape was doing to him—even better, when Snape seized a handful of his hair and jerked his head up.
"Don't. . . . Laugh. At. . . . Me."
"Not. Not laugh—oh, ha—I li—ike it! Don't stop!"
The cord around Harry's wrists fell away, and he wriggled over onto his back at once, almost smacking Snape in the face with one of his legs as he did so.
"Looking . . . looking at you," he panted, his eyes fixed on Snape's.
Snape fell over Harry, coming with a deep groan, and Harry, who could barely breathe for the other man's weight, felt his orgasm rip through him: it was like breaking apart in the best way imaginable, and Harry's last thought before consciousness left him was, Want to break again.
He did break, in a way, once he woke up. Snape was gone. He was in his dormitory again, naked but covered by blankets, and clean. For a moment, he thought he might have dreamed it, but an examination of himself in the mirror—hand print bruises on his hips, sucking marks on his neck—were proof of the reality of his encounter with Snape.
The wizard wasn't in the Headmistress' office, and Harry found the memories gone, as well.
No. You can't be gone! he thought, taking frantic flight over the school and scouting the area in vain. "No!"
Floating in place, high above Hogwarts, Harry felt confused, sore, and, eventually, as the cold of near-dawn seeped into his bones, rather embarrassed.
I fucked, I mean, I let Snape fuck me. And I liked it. But . . . but I don't . . . I . . . fucked him.
The sense of surreality that Harry had experienced upon first seeing Snape in the Headmistress' office returned, but it wasn't as strong. In fact, Harry felt very much as if he'd awoken from a dream. He was also, he realized, extremely hungry. After a few searching scans of the grounds, he decided there was nothing for it.
"Another sandwich, I suppose," he said, as he leaned into his broom handle and flew back towards the castle.
The house elves were ecstatic to see him, and Kreacher brought Harry a sandwich without delay.
"Thanks, Kreacher," he said, after taking a bite. "This tastes a bit different, though."
"You don't like it?"
"I do! It's just that, well, I mean, did you, uh, use another kind of ham?"
"The Headmaster made your first sandwich, Harry Potter. Kreacher just brought it to you."
Harry's eyes widened in shock. He forced himself to swallow his food, and then, with an effort, smiled. "Well, I . . . like this one better. Thank you."
The house elves all preened in proud pleasure, but Kreacher sent them away, telling them to leave Harry alone as he followed them to the farthest corner of the kitchen.
Snape. He told me to go. He said . . . he . . . . He's gone. We fucked, and now he's gone.
Harry decided that that was just as well, given his certainty that Snape had got what he'd come for in returning to the castle.
His memories, and . . . and me.
Somehow, Harry knew that Snape had never used whatever potion he'd put in that first sandwich on his mother. Knowing that he'd not scrupled against using it on him, well, that was telling.
He loved my mother. He wanted to see her eyes. I was just . . . there, a stand-in.
For some strange reason, Harry wasn't angry about that—but he found that he didn't want to see Snape any longer.
Shacklebolt's right. If Snape doesn't want to be found, then . . . then he can stay lost. He . . . he was always lost. This . . . it . . . it never happened.
Resolving never to think about what had happened ever again, Harry pushed himself away from the table.
I really should be shagging Ginny now.
Hadn't Snape told him so?