::.. Witlingville ..::

Notes: This is in thanks for Fit's generous contribution to Jolie's anti-leukemia marathon fund. Thank you so much, Fit! I hope this "Fit"s the bill!

Fit asked for Snarry with Veritaserum--no preference as to who takes the serum, but she specified "inappropriate revelations and ensuing action!" I'm not sure this fits the bill entirely, but I'm giving it a shot.

For the record, I don't know the first thing about the HP fandom or canon apart from the few fics Jolie has forced me to read. So I tend to make mistakes, leave things out, screw up timelines, etc.--all of which I excuse by stamping a big old "AU--Grade B, Damaged Goods" on the thing, and forging ahead. Caveat lector.

Shame the devil part 1

Harry was in the teachers' lounge, eating a late, truncated lunch with George Weasley, when they brought Snape in. Bill Pale put his head around the door and said, "Guys, come on--Snape's been done for spying."

Harry and George looked at each other over the plate of stale bread and cheese they were sharing.

"Sod off," George said, narrowing his eyes at the door--Bill had already disappeared, leaving it open.

"Spying for who?" Harry asked, standing up and brushing crumbs off his lap.

Nobody really knew, it turned out. The front hall was full of people, standing around looking wide-eyed and sheepy. The air was vibrating with whispers and supposition. Crucio...did you see him? White as a ghost. Serves him right. Both sides against the middle, my da says...

Harry pushed through the crowd, reflecting as he did so that it really wasn't much of a crowd. There were maybe a hundred students and alums gathered in the hall, the thin home front left behind now that the youngest had been sent home and the rest were taking rotation in the skies and fields. He was due, himself, at Tunbridge Wells by six o'clock.

Cho and Parvati were standing by the big newel post at the foot of the stairs--George had already found them.

"Did you hear?" Parvati asked, turning to Harry. "They caught Snape."

"Who caught him?" Harry asked, still feeling this was a considerable and unanswered question. "Them, or us?"

"Them," Cho answered. "The Death Eaters. They found out he's been spying for Dumbledore. He's lucky to be alive."

"He didn't look lucky," Parvati said. "He looked..." She trailed off, and the girls looked at each other, then both turned to look up the stairs. All was dark past the first landing, now they were in blackout.

"That's rough," George said, staring up the staircase with them. "What do you think they did to him?"

"I don't know," Cho said, with a little shiver. "McGonagall and Trelawney took him up to the infirmary."

"He was Crucio-ed," put in another student, leaning into their conversation. "Did you see him? He could barely walk."

"He's going to die," said a girl in a Slytherin cloak, her expression somber but unsurprised. "And then they're going to come for us, and we'll all die too."

George raised an eyebrow at Harry, who swallowed hard and tried unsuccessfully to think of a reply.

Trelawney came down and shooed everyone away with flicks of her long, spidery fingertips--"You, Bill Pale, I see a sad and dissolute future for you if you don't get back to trimming broom straws right now"--and Harry went back with George to finish the lunch they'd left behind. One thing he'd learned about wartime was, you didn't abandon food when you got it. But when they got back to the lounge the house elves had already cleared their plate and recycled their leavings into toasted cheese for a couple of young Ravenclaws.

"Easy come, easy go," George said ruefully, watching the boys plow through the food. "I'm supposed to be cutting firewood, I think." He turned and started off for the back of the school, then turned back. "Don't worry--it'll be okay. Slytherins are just dour fucks."

"I know." Harry tried to smile. "Anyway, I expect they'll tell us pretty soon if there's going to be...trouble."

"They always do." George sketched him a little salute, and went off whistling an off-key version of Yes sir, that's my baby. Watching him go, it was hard to believe he'd been blown off his broomstick a thousand feet off the ground last week, and only saved by a third-form Hufflepuff girl who'd cast an Immobilis at the last moment. Apparently Fred had had a fit about it. God knew what Mrs. Weasley thought. Maybe they didn't tell her these things. Maybe that was a good idea.

Harry wandered back to the Gryffindor wing, climbed through the Fat Lady ("Harry, love, did you hear what happened to Sn--" "Yes.") and trudged up the stairs to the bedroom, where he spread out across the spare bunk he'd slept in the night before, and stared at the ceiling. A couple of other boys were sacked out snoring in their own beds, and after half an hour or so of worrying at the question of what, exactly, had happened to Snape, and what might happen to all of them as a result, Harry slept too.

He woke up to the flump of a floo, and found McGonagall regarding him from the fireplace. Confused, he fumbled to put his glasses straight and sit up.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Harry," she said. "But I'd like you to come to the infirmary, please."

"To the--" He blinked, taking in the late-afternoon fall of the light. "Am I late? I'm supposed to go out again for patrols--"

"You're relieved of that duty," she said. "The infirmary in five minutes, please." There was another flump, and she was gone.

Harry sat still for a moment, trying to think. Her tone hadn't been panicked, but it had been very firm. If she wanted him in the infirmary, maybe it had something to with Snape. Maybe Snape was dead. The thought made him jerk physically, as if someone had laid a cold finger on the back of his neck. Snape was... Snape couldn't be dead. It wasn't possible. But they'd said he couldn't even walk on his own--

"Gerrout, will you?" snapped one of the other boys, lifting the pillow from over his head just long enough to deliver a weary squint. "And close that curtain while you're about it."

Part 2

Harry stood at the door of the infirmary, not stepping inside. He had a terrible feeling he was about to see a dead body. He'd seen plenty lately, but he wasn't getting used to it--in fact, every time he saw another one, he thought it made him feel worse. The thought of seeing Snape's body laid out on Pomfrey's white sheets, shrunken and still the way corpses were, maybe with bruises or marks--who knew what they'd done to him?--had frozen Harry's feet. He stood staring at the doorknob, feeling as though he were standing on a very small, high platform.

Then the door opened and he jumped back, feeling inexplicably guilty. McGonagall was there, looking tired and a little frazzled, but not hopeless. When she saw Harry's expression, she gave him a small, weary smile.

"Come in, Harry," she said. "It's all right. Professor Snape is resting."

Resting. The word itself was terrific, wonderful. Unless--Harry felt a cold pebble drop into the warm pool of his happiness--unless she meant... He searched her face, trying to think how to ask.

"He'll be all right," she said immediately, understanding him despite himself. "Honestly, Harry, I'd think you'd have more sense than to listen to whatever gossip is circulating right now."

"Of course," he said, firming his shoulders and trying to look like someone who never gave ear to idle chatter. "Right, I know."

"Come in," she said, ushering him and in and closing the door firmly behind him. Inside, the hall smelled of liniment and laundered sheets. A few white-clad student assistants ghosted around, carrying stacks of blankets and wheeling trolleys. They were doing a brisk business in there, with a skeleton crew of half-trained volunteers and semi-recuperated patients pitching in. As Harry watched, a boy with a half-shaved head, a white poultice surrounding his left ear, walked slowly past with an armload of bottles.

"This way," McGonagall said briskly, and started off. Harry followed.

Most of the hall was taken up with beds, vacant and occupied, some surrounded by tall white curtains while mysterious things went on behind. Harry kept his eyes down and tried not to think too much. He kept seeing George drop through the sky, a small black blot too far off to do anything about. It was amazing how long it took to fall a thousand feet.

"Through here," McGonagall said, opening a door he hadn't noticed before. He followed, glancing at the shelves of jars and bottles they passed in a short hallway before coming to another door.

"Where are we?" He leaned close to a bottle and read its label, written in a small black script that looked somehow familiar: Digitalis.

"Madame Pomfrey calls this the apothecary," McGonagall said, her hand already on the next doorknob. "It's a storage area for medical supplies. And there is a private sick room here as well, for situations that require...discretion."

Harry glanced at her, then back at the bottle. "This is Snape's writing."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Of course. Who do you think does our decocting?"

"But--" Harry lifted the bottle and showed her the label. "This is foxglove. It's poison."

"Yes." She inclined her head toward the shelf, silently asking him to put it back. He did. "It's also a vital ingredient of several heart-healing potions. Sometimes, Harry--" She broke off, pressed her lips together, then seemed to revise what she'd been about to say. "Sometimes things are more complicated than they seem."

"That's the story of my life," he said, brushing his hands off on his jeans. "What did you want me to come in here for, anyway?"

Without answering, she turned, opened the door, and went through. Harry stood alone in the dark little hallway for a moment, then followed.

The sick room was small, almost cramped, with a high ceiling and stone walls along two sides. It gave every impression of having been an afterthought, an addition of false internal space to what had once been an exterior wall. As soon as Harry entered it, he could feel the chill coming off the stone. There was one window, too high to see out of, throwing a sparse square of white eight feet up the wall above Harry's head. It was like a prison room, he realized, not leaving the doorway. What kind of place was this for a sick person?

There was nothing in the room but a small bed and a little table with a lamp on it. McGonagall was standing by the head of the bed, speaking quietly. Harry looked around the room again, to avoid looking at the bed. He wasn't quite ready, just yet, to see it.

"Harry." He looked up--McGonagall had turned back to him, her hand resting lightly on Snape's shoulder, as if she didn't realize it was there. Snape himself was lying in the bed on his back, his face sallow, his eyes closed, his hair very black against the white pillow slips. Harry swallowed.

McGonagall motioned him over, so he picked up his feet and went. When he got closer he could see marks on Snape's face--a cut in his bottom lip, the potato-yellow of bruises around his eye. They didn't look like recent injuries, but he'd been away for weeks, so who knew when they might have happened? For some reason, Harry found himself suddenly incensed that Snape hadn't healed himself. He taught Potions, for God's sake. Surely he could have taken a healing draught, instead of walking around with bruises on his face for days on end?

"Professor Snape is very tired," McGonagall said. "But he wanted to speak with you. I'll ask you not to stay long." She patted him on the shoulder, so that for a moment she had a hand on each of them. It was bizarre, Harry reflected, to see her touch Snape. Nobody touched Snape. He was like a toad, or a tiger.

"All right." He stood with his hands dangling, feeling unbearably awkward, while she stepped back and went quietly out. The click of the door closing put a tight knot in his throat, as if he'd just been sentenced to fifty years in gaol.

Snape's eyes opened to dark, glittering slits. Nothing else moved. Harry stood frozen, thinking of the way snakes hypnotized mice.

Then Snape's lips parted. No sound came out. The tip of his tongue, fascinatingly pink, moistened them. Harry looked away at the foot of the bed, where he could clearly see the outline of Snape's feet. They were long and (he imagined) bony.

He heard a laborious intake of breath, and looked back to see that Snape's eyes had opened further, enough to reveal his frame of mind as tired, irritated, and unhappy.

Which makes two of us, Harry thought. Then he thought, For fuck's sake, he's been tortured--try for a little charity.

Snape's lips parted again and Harry leant his head forward, trying to be still and attentive and charitable.

"Potter," Snape hissed, with unmistakeable vitriol.

Harry drew his head back sharply and crossed his arms over his chest.

"That's right," he said. "Professor McGonagall said you wanted to see me."

For a brief moment, Snape's eyelids sank again, as if he simply couldn't bear the sound of Harry's voice. Harry felt all his good intentions mash together into a familiar stew of anger and dislike.

"I can come back," he said. "If you want." Privately thinking, I should be halfway to Tunbridge Wells by now.

"Sit down," Snape said, without opening his eyes.

Harry looked around, then shrugged. "There's nowhere to sit."

Snape worked his mouth as if he were trying out a variety of curses, without settling on one he liked. He shook his head minutely and pulled one arm out from beneath the sheet. It seemed to take him a great deal of effort to do so. His hand, Harry noticed, was scraped and battered, almost as if he'd been fighting. The first two knuckles were bruised almost black.

"Then stand up straight," Snape said, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb.

Harry swallowed his first response--I am--and took a deep breath. When he let it out, he felt a little calmer. "Are you all right?" he asked. "I mean--do you want me to call Madame Pomfrey?"

"I will be fine." Each word was separate and considered. When they were all out, Snape lowered his hand and opened his eyes. His expression was cold. "There's no need, thank you."

"Were you--" It seemed crude and invasive to ask what, exactly, had happened. "People are saying the Death Eaters found you out. That you're spying for us, I mean."

"People," Snape said, with heavy disdain. "I presume by that, you mean 'students'."

"Well, yes."

"I can only imagine what else they're saying."

"They're saying you were Crucio-ed." Put that way, it was easier to get out. "And that we're all going to get hit any minute, now that they know everything."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I see." With effort, he hauled his other arm out from beneath the sheet and pushed it fussily away from his throat. He was wearing a white shift, Harry saw--the same hospital shift all the patients wore. The neck was loose and open, and it showed the hollow of Snape's throat. When he started to push himself up to a sitting position, it slid askew and revealed a thin white shoulder, striped with old-jam red. Harry stared, then realized he was staring, and looked away. Then he realized Snape was still struggling to sit up, and put out his hands to help, but couldn't touch.

"What happened to your back?" he asked, without thinking. Snape answered with a surly llama's grunt, and Harry took his hands back. He watched in silence while Snape leant his head against the stone wall behind the bed, his breath coming quick and hard.

When he could speak again, Snape said, "If I had been subjected to the Crucio curse, Mr. Potter, I can assure you I would not be in such...fine fettle." He lost wind a little at the end, and tried to hide it by plucking sourly at the neck of his shift. "I am merely very, very tired."

"What happened to your back?" Harry asked again, putting his own emphasis on each word. Two could play at that game, he'd decided.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Games, Mr. Potter. You-Know-Who's servants are stupid and bored, and they pass their time in stupid, boring games."

"What--like whipping people?"

"For a start." Snape fingered his own shoulder, absently and with distaste, as if it were an old lamp or bookend he'd decided to throw away. "How I spend my time is none of your concern. And I have neither the energy nor the will to try once again to cudgel your cheese-lump of a brain into an understanding of Shades of Grey."

"Fine," Harry said. "Have fun with your sadist friends, I'm supposed to be five hundred feet over Tunbridge Wells." He started to turn for the door.

"Potter."

Harry stopped, his hands fisting at his sides. "What."

"I'm not finished."

Harry took another deep breath, then turned back and pasted a very false smile onto his lips. "I'm sorry. Please go on."

Snape leveled a snakeish glare at him. "I called you here to tell you something important." Then he just stopped. His expression seemed to lose firmness and clarity, and for a moment he looked almost frightened.

Harry frowned, suddenly aware of the chill in the room again. "What?"

Snape studied the ceiling, his jaw clenching visibly. Then he closed his eyes and said, "These...games. One of them was more serious."

Harry waited.

"The Death Eaters," Snape went on, opening his eyes and looking directly at Harry, "do not trust each other. They are constantly on the lookout for spies in their midst. As are we. I am under particular suspicion, for obvious reasons."

Harry felt his hands tighten back into fists. They're going to come for us, and we'll all die too.

"I was given Veritaserum," Snape said, his eyes never leaving Harry's face. "It was put into a drink, without my knowledge."

"Oh," said Harry. He saw George fall again, a small black blot, like an insect.

"I did not," Snape said clearly, pushing himself up an inch higher in the bed, "betray Dumbledore's forces." His eyes were bright and narrow, his mouth taut as if he hated everything he was saying. "Do you understand? I revealed nothing they did not already know."

"Oh," said Harry again. He put out a hand and wrapped it around the post at the foot of the bed. The solidity felt good. "But..."

"I realized what had happened," Snape went on, "because I did reveal one thing, which under normal circumstances I would never have said. After that I used Occlumency to defend myself from the effects of the serum. The Death Eaters do not know anything of my agreement with Dumbledore."

"Right," Harry said. Just barely, he prevented himself from adding, Occlumency--good on you.

There was silence for a few seconds, while Harry tried to think it through. He kept trying to imagine Snape in the midst of a crowd of Death Eaters, hammered with questions, defending madly and invisibly. And the marks on his back--what had gone on, exactly? Not for the first time, but more vividly than he ever had before, he caught a glimpse of what it might be like to walk amongst Death Eaters, to betray them and to hide any fear you might feel, because the fear itself would give you up.

"Dumbledore knows all this," Snape was saying. "McGonagall sent a message immediately upon my return."

"Good," Harry said. He looked at Snape, who was scowling at him with startling emotion. "But--that's good, isn't it? I mean, you didn't tell them anything they could use." He felt baffled, off-balance.

Snape's eyebrows drew together even closer, until his expression was as close to hatred as Harry could remember ever seeing it. "That is correct," he said. "But in your typical slipshod manner, you've forgotten to ask the one relevant question there is."

Harry stood frozen, clinging to the bed post. After a moment, his brain coughed it up. "Well--what did you tell them? Before you realized about the serum, I mean."

The corner of Snape's lips drew up into a taut, artificial smile. "Very good, Mr. Potter. That is indeed the relevant question. What did I tell them?"

They faced each other for a beat in silence. High up in Snape's cheeks had bloomed two hectic spots of color.

"I told them," he said simply, "that I was in love with you."

Harry opened his mouth.

"Past tense," Snape added, almost snarling. "I told them that there was a time I wanted nothing more than to kiss the divine hem of your heavenly robes, when I would gladly have laid myself open with a garden trowel to suit your slightest pleasure, when I had long, marvelously guilt-ridden summertime fantasies of tracking you down in your little Muggle tip and spiriting you away to a better life of glorious romance among the beakers and thistle tubes of the Potions laboratory, to which I am regrettably tied till death, but which you would no doubt forgive in light of my slavish devotion and elegant, not to say refined, lovemaking style."

He finished on a near-wheeze, his breath exhausted, his mouth twisted and white. His eyes stayed open, red-lidded and fixed with vicious intensity on Harry's face.

"That," he said, and paused for breath. "Is what I told them."

Harry shifted his grip on the bedpost, and said nothing.

Snape raised an eyebrow, giving him the opportunity to speak. A trickle of sweat ran down Harry's side. He looked down.

"Well," Snape said, with a kind of furious cheer. "As you can imagine, that tipped me off to the serum. I spent the next several hours deflecting questions about my allegiances and associations, Dumbledore's troop sizes and formations, and the exact disposition of my family's estate in Wales."

Wales? Harry thought.

"As I said," Snape went on, "I revealed nothing of importance. And it is possible that that first slip will never come to anything either. But if nothing else, the Death Eaters will bandy it about and you may hear it from them, or from their allies. I thought it important you hear it first from me."

Harry dragged his attention away from the clamminess of his palms and the jumping muscle in his cheek. Snape was still watching him, his eyes less intent now, his shoulders sagging as if he were shrinking into the sheets. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, like pencil shading.

"Thank you," Harry said numbly. "I...that was thoughtful of you."

"It was good strategy," Snape corrected him, sagging further. "You'll hear a perverted version from some Death Eater's lackey before the week is out. They'll use it against me if they can. Better for me to--" He waved a hand as if the rest were too tiring and irrelevant to say. He'd sunk all the way down into the pillows again. The conversation, Harry realized, was over.

"Do you need help?" He stepped forward, hands out, and Snape practically bared his teeth.

"Get out," he snapped, and Harry jumped back. "Get out and let me sleep."

Harry didn't wait to be told again.

Part 3

"You," said Fred, "look like five different kinds of tragic." He sat down on the sill beside Harry and offered the crumpled wrapper of chocolate he'd been working on. Harry peered into it and fished out a frog leg.

"Thanks." Morosely, he popped the leg into his mouth and stared out the window again.

"Come on now," Fred said, knocking shoulders with him. "Tell Uncle Fred what's the matter."

"Not now," Harry said, shrugging off the contact.

"It's all perfectly natural for a boy of your age, Harry. Soon you'll meet a nice girl and then all these pesky feelings you're having will make a lot more sense."

"Knock it off, will you?"

"And all that nonsense about it making you go blind--that almost never happens, except if you do it more than once a day, or have a scar shaped like a wee little lightning bolt, or sit mooning on windowsills all day long."

"I'm not mooning!" Harry scowled at Fred's grin. "I'm...I have some things on my mind, that's all."

"Lose them," Fred suggested. "And come to Hogsmeade with me. Pint of butterbeer'll set you right, and if it doesn't--"

Harry gave him a hopeless look.

"Two pints," Fred said, and slid off the sill.

It was four pints, in fact, before it came out.

"Sweet leaping rabbit raisins," Fred said, leaning back in his chair with a solid thunk. "Old Jaws of Death? Mashing on you?"

"Shut up." Harry had his fists piled one on top of the other on the table, his forehead resting on the top one. "Shut up shut up shut up."

"Cor blimey."

"I didn't ask for it, okay?"

"You sure you didn't lead him on?" Fred leaned forward again and poked Harry in the shoulder. "All that fiery back-and-forth in the Potions classroom, all that I hate you, No, I hate you--" He stopped when Harry sat up and punched him hard in the shoulder. "Ow!"

"It's not my fault," Harry snapped, his fist ready to fly out again at the slightest provocation. "I didn't have anything to do with it, I didn't even know about it until today."

Fred regarded him in silence, massaging his shoulder. Harry looked down at the tabletop in front of him.

"Sorry," he said, when he couldn't stand feeling like an ass anymore.

"That's okay," Fred said at once. "Sorry if I said the wrong thing. It's just...you know. Snape. Christ."

"I know," Harry affirmed. "I really, really know."

"Could be worse," Fred offered. Harry looked at him. "Okay, not really."

"I'm supposed to leave for Tunbridge Wells at six tomorrow morning," Harry said miserably, staring into his glass.

"I'm due over Slough at five," Fred said cheerfully. "I'll get this round, shall I?"

He staggered off for the bar, listing considerably to starboard. Harry watched him go, then laid his head back down on his fist and thought to himself, Shut up shut up shut up shut up.

He was gone for five days, long enough to shake the weird, world-tilted feeling, long enough to stop seeing Snape's bruised, furious glare every time he tried to go to sleep. Long enough to stop feeling guilty and stupid--well, not quite that long. Long enough for the edge to wear down a little, dulled by velocity and lift and torque. Long enough to come to earth in a little piece of nowhere, a bit of scrub field behind some farmer's wood, so he could have a pee against a tree trunk. And to find himself looking down the barrel of the farmer's shotgun when he was done.

"Harry Potter," said the farmer, a Muggle with deep-set, alcoholic eyes and a needle-thin nose. Harry's heart jolted. He fell back a step. The man raised the shotgun a hair, following his movement. Then he smiled, revealing tobacco-browned teeth, and lowered the gun. For a moment, his eyes glimmered with a visiting darkness.

"Harry Potter," he said again, in a strange, sing-song tone. "We know all about you, Harry. Teacher's pet, isn't that right?"

"Shut up," Harry gasped, reaching blindly for his wand. The farmer raised the gun again.

"Ah ah, Harry--we wouldn't want you to lose that pretty face. Then what would Severus jerk off to?" The dark eyes traveled down his body to his fly, and the grin widened. "Oh, well."

Harry felt his whole face explode into a flush. He took his hand out of his pocket and reached for his broom instead.

"I'll see you again," he said, as coldly as he could. The man laughed, and Harry got onto his broom and took off. Below him, he could hear the man laughing until he choked.

"People are saying very strange things," Hermione whispered, leaning her head close to his. She smelled of potions, which was apparently what she did a lot of the time now. The tips of her fingers were green. "About Snape. And you."

"I know," Harry said, his jaw tight. He made no effort to keep his voice down. "If they're saying Snape had a crush on me, it's true. Everything else is a lie."

Hermione glanced around, at the few other students in the lounge. Several seemed to be casually trying to listen in. She frowned at Harry, then sat back and squared her shoulders.

"Oh," she said, her voice clear and pitched to carry. "That's fine, then. Everybody knows you can't help who you get a crush on."

Harry picked at his thumbnail, and gave her a dark look from under his brows.

"I used to have a crush on Dumbledore," she announced, then colored slightly. Harry felt his gaze turn incredulous. Several other students looked up from what they were doing. Hermione scowled. "It was an intellectual crush. After I read his Histories."

"I don't have a crush on anybody," Harry said. "Not on Snape or anybody else. He's the one who liked me, but now he hates me, so it's all ancient history anyway." He looked around, noticing how everyone immediately ducked their heads. "You can all just forget about it, okay? Isn't there a war on?"

"Right," said Hermione firmly. "We all have more important things to think about anyway."

But later, as they went their separate ways in the front hall--him to collect his kit to go back on patrol, her to floo back to the Ministry--she grabbed his arm and held on.

"They're not just saying he had a crush on you," she whispered, pinning him with her gaze. "They're saying he's in love with you."

Harry writhed, looking anywhere but at her. "Do you know how stupid that is?"

"Stupid doesn't enter into it, Harry. You can't help who you love."

"It doesn't matter anyway--he said it was past tense."

"If you used to love someone, chances are you still do. Unless they did something really terrible, or, I don't know, turned into someone else completely."

"Well, I've done plenty of terrible things in Potions class, so I'm sure he's over it."

"Harry." She dug her green fingernails into his arm, stopping him from twisting away. "Stop pretending this isn't serious."

"What do you want me to do?" He shook her off irritably. "I have to go, I'm supposed to be on patrol."

"If You-Know-Who knows Snape loves you, he'll find a way to exploit it."

"There's nothing I can do about that." He took a breath and tried to smile. "Look, I really have to go."

"You should talk to him," she said, watching him retreat backwards up the staircase. "It's all too strange--you need to know whether he still feels that way about you."

"That's funny," Harry said, "my plan was to stay as far away from him as possible, and not give a damn how he feels about it."

That was his plan, but he had to admit it wasn't born of the noblest motives. Rather, he wanted to keep clear of Snape because after the weirdness and guilt and initial repulsion had passed, another set of feelings had moved in. They made no sense and they were deeply troubling. They distracted him while he should have been thinking about much more important things, like where he was in relation to the rest of his flight group, like whether the horizon was clear of dark, pursuing bodies, like whether there was a farmer with a shotgun waiting for him to zip his trousers. They kept him from sleeping, and killed his appetite. And the more he didn't think about them, the stronger they grew.

Hermione was right, he decided. It had been another week, and he was starting to feel like he was going crazy. He'd had several dreams. The last one, he'd woken up wet and had had to sneak down to the lavs, past the Fat Lady ("Harry, love, are you all right?" "Yes." "Not sick, are you, pet?" "No." "You look a little peaked, dear boy--is it your tummy?" "No. Please just...no.") and through the halls, certain at every moment that he was going to run into some hapless, big-mouthed fourth-former or possibly Snape himself. The thought of that made his blood run cold. He had to take this thing in hand, he decided--he had to talk to Snape, get the whole truth, and drive a stake into its heart before it got him any more turned around.

He went to the Potions labs late on a night he didn't have to be on patrol. It was past eleven--they were still on blackout, so the halls were dark and he kept his wand at half-glow. His palms were clammy, and he was repeating in his head the various phrases he'd already worked out for the situation: I need to know more about what you told me. About what you told them. You said 'past tense.' You can't just tell someone something like that and not explain a little more. People are saying things-- All of it sounded stupid and whiny, and stupider and whinier the more he tried to make it sound impressive and authoritative. I don't want to know anything more than I have to-- But he did want to know. Or, he felt like he had to know everything.

He reached the door to the laboratory and hesitated, his light faltering. Inside was silence. Maybe Snape wasn't there. Maybe he was still in the infirmary--but he couldn't be, it had been weeks, he wasn't that hurt--

"Come in," Snape said, and the door swung open.

Harry stood on the threshold, his wand raised and flickering, staring into the gloom. There was a small glow at the teacher's cauldron, which was bubbling and steaming. Snape stood beside it, bent over the countertop, cutting something into very fine bits with a silver knife.

"Close the door," he said, without looking up.

Harry stepped in and closed the door. "Nox," he muttered to his wand. He didn't want light on his face just now.

"What do you want?" Snape asked, collecting a handful of something finely chopped and scattering it into the cauldron.

"I, uh--" Harry tried to gather his thoughts. "I need to know more about what you told me..." Too late, he realized he'd forgotten basic courtesy. "I mean, are you feeling better?"

Snape said nothing. In the very faint light from the cauldron, his expression seemed to indicate that he had heard nothing to reply to.

"I need to talk to you," Harry said, abandoning his script. "I mean, I need to know some things."

"Agreed," Snape said. "You could start with basic charms and work from there."

"Don't be a bastard." Harry walked forward, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell from the cauldron. "You know what I mean."

Again, Snape said nothing. As Harry approached, he turned away to rinse the knife in the sink. Harry stared at his back.

"I'm getting...comments," he said, feeling heat rise in his cheeks again. "People have been saying things about me."

Still Snape said nothing. He took a small white cloth from a drawer, dried the knife, and slotted it back into a block riddled with handles.

"And about you," Harry persisted, feeling worse with every word. This wasn't at all how he'd wanted this to go, but it was exactly how he'd foreseen it. "For God's sake, will you please at least look at me while I'm talking?"

Snape turned and looked at him. Harry stared back. When Harry didn't say anything else, Snape turned back to his cupboards and started searching them. Harry resisted the urge to overturn the cauldron.

"Why do you have to make everything so hard?" he asked.

"Why do you expect anything to be easy?" Snape returned, pulling a small metal jar out of the cupboard. He twisted the lid off and sniffed the contents, gave it a so-so look, then added some to the cauldron. "I know exactly what is being said about both of us, Mr. Potter. If you recall, I told you this would happen."

"I saw a farmer," Harry said, through gritted teeth. "A Muggle, with a shotgun. His eyes were all..." He shook his head. Snape was watching with slightly more interest, he noticed. "He called me 'teacher's pet.' It was like You-Know-Who was talking through him."

Snape considered that. "Unlikely," he opined. "More probably one of the stupider Death Eaters. They enjoy those sorts of games."

"It was awful," Harry said. "He had a gun."

"And you came here specifically to tell me so." Snape recapped the jar and put it back in the cupboard. "I'm afraid past events are out of my control."

"Sorry," Harry said, feeling his teeth bite at the word. "I guess I just thought you'd be more concerned about the welfare of someone you used to be in love with."

"You were wrong."

Harry stood still for a moment, watching Snape go about the small businesses of potion-brewing with an air of total indifference. In the dark, it was impossible to see whether his face was still bruised. No doubt he was healed, though. It wouldn't be like him to wander around with any sort of weakness or humanity showing.

"I came here to talk to you," Harry said, "but it's pretty clear you don't want to talk to me."

"There is nothing for us to talk about."

"Right, because you got to say your part. You made me listen to you, but you don't want to listen to me. That's very generous of you, Snape."

"It's not a question of generosity. There is nothing for you to say to me." There was a slight edge in Snape's tone now, although he continued to rummage in the drawer beneath the cauldron, frowning distractedly.

"There's a hell of a lot for me to say to you, actually. Only you're a coward and you don't want to hear it. So instead you pretend it's all over with and you ignore me when I try to talk to you."

"And what would you say?" Snape withdrew a shredder from the drawer and laid it delicately on the counter. "That I frightened and disgusted you? Thank you, I am aware of that. That I owe you an apology?" He gave a mock half-bow. "I am very sorry."

"You are not."

"No, I'm not." Snape snatched a bulb of something from a basket without looking, and began to shred it. "I don't like the situation any better than you do, Mr. Potter. If it makes you feel better, less threatened, more manly, I humbly apologize for my misplaced emotion. But please remember that it is only a stupid mistake on my part that ever allowed any of this to see the light of day."

"I'm not threatened," Harry said, aware that he was lying, and that Snape must know it. "I'm just...it's just, if you used to love someone, chances are you still do. Unless they do something really terrible or turn into someone completely different or something."

Snape paused and glanced up from beneath his brows. "Who have you been talking to?"

"Nobody. It doesn't matter. It's just...if you still have feelings for me, it's a liability for both of us."

"And if I did," Snape asked, brushing grated bits into the cauldron with a courtly air, "what would you have me do? Apparently lobotomies are very good at curbing unwanted emotion."

"Don't tempt me," Harry muttered.

"I have managed to survive thus far," Snape went on. "And I honestly can't see what practical danger my personal stupidity offers to you. My emotions, or lack of them, are my own business, Mr. Potter."

They're a practical danger if I'm stupid too, Harry thought. But didn't say.

"Good night, Mr. Potter," said Snape, gazing critically into his cauldron.

"But--"

Snape turned his back.

Harry left, closing the door hard behind him.

Part 4

Things got worse, in every way. Death Eaters attacked a village in the south, killing half a dozen Muggles and two wizards. Ron was lost for hours afterward, and Hermione was frantic until he limped in on the back of a Ravenclaw's broom, both of them singed and banged up. They kissed in front of everyone. Back at Hogwarts, the infirmary was full and there was nothing to eat. There were rumors of a massive Death Eater offensive coming soon, but nobody knew exactly when. Dumbledore went to Vienna on a top-secret diplomatic mission to the Aeltestenrat. McGonagall was sharper than ever, and snapped at Harry more than once over little things. All that, and Snape resurfaced to take up some of the slack while Dumbledore was away. Immediately, the rumor mill began to buzz.

In the space of three days, Harry overheard five conversations about his love affair with Snape. In some versions he was a willing participant; in others, a victimized youth. In a notable Slytherin rendition, he was a heartless manipulator who'd pulled the wool over an innocent old man's eyes.

"Have any of these people even met Snape?" he asked in disgust, lying on his back on one of the big stone plinths overlooking Hagrid's house. Hermione hugged her knees to her chest, and Ron looked thoughtful.

"I heard someone saying you're going to run away together," he offered, thumbing the corner of his eye. "To the tropics, I think it was."

"Bora Bora," Hermione supplied, with heavy irony.

"Maybe. I can't remember now."

Harry stared at the sky, trying to stop his rib cage from trembling. He was cold, but not that cold. "I hate this so much."

"It'll pass," Hermione said. "Something new will happen, and everyone will forget all about it."

Harry saw the doubtful look Ron gave her, and covered his own face with his hands.

"The thing is," Harry said. Then he stopped, biting his lip and waiting for a group of hearty drinkers to pass by their booth.

Hermione waited.

"It's just..."

"Harry," Hermione said gently. "Whatever it is, you can tell me." He looked at her hopelessly. "We've been friends forever, Harry. I'm not going to judge you, and I'm not going to stop being on your side."

"You sound like you've already figured it out," he said miserably, staring back down at his glass. She said nothing, so he took a deep breath. "It's about Snape. I think I kind of...you know."

When he looked up again, her brow was furrowed in confusion. Oh God, he thought. You didn't figure it out.

"I think I kind of like him," he muttered, and actually saw the color leave her face.

"Oh...Harry."

"I can't stop thinking about him."

"Oh no, Harry."

"I know, but I can't help it. When it was him, you said everybody knows you can't help who you love."

"Love?"

"I don't know." He thumbed a splinter in the meat of his palm. "Maybe. Either that or I hate him."

"You hate him," Hermione said firmly. "You've always hated him, Harry. He's mean and cruel, and he makes fun of students, and he's a Death Eater, for God's sake. He's got the Dark Mark on his arm!"

"I know," Harry whispered, closing his eyes as one of his more recent and disturbing fantasies crowded back into his brain. "I honestly can't help it."

"It's a phase," Hermione said. "You're under a lot of stress, it's just something you're going through. It'll pass."

"It's been months."

"That's nothing. Edwidge the Younger sent flowers to the Raven King for three years before she came to her senses."

Harry stared at her. She shook her head impatiently. "It's in Dumbledore's Histories. Anyway, it doesn't matter. You. Do not. Love Snape."

He kept staring at her, thumbing the splinter in his palm. It itched and burned. Her mouth pinched, then turned down unhappily.

"Oh, Harry," she said, her shoulders sinking, her face falling. "Oh God, Harry, I'm so sorry."

"How long does it last?" Harry asked, examining the vial. Hermione took it away from him, tightened the cap again, and handed it back.

"Two to three hours," she said. "You should eat something, some toast or something. To settle your stomach."

"Is it going to make me sick?"

She looked uncertain. "I think it turned out a bit strong. I can redo it--"

"No, thanks." He tucked the vial into his pocket, then turned to face them both. Ron was standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. "Wish me luck?"

"Good luck," Hermione said unhappily.

Ron said nothing, but jerked his shoulders and toed the foot of the counter.

"Come on," Harry said. "Worst case scenario, he kicks me down the stairs and we go on as before."

"That's the best case scenario," Ron said, to the floor.

"I don't judge your life," Harry said, a little hotly.

"I'm not courting Snape."

"Ron." Hermione gave him an appealing look, which was wasted on the top of his head. He shrugged, glancing at her, then at Harry.

"It's just...I wouldn't care if it was Bill Pale or somebody like that. I really wouldn't. I wouldn't bloody care if it was George. Or Fred, or anybody. I just..." He trailed off, his shoulders hinching up again, shaking his head. "Snape."

"Yeah," Harry said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "Right. Well, I'll let you know how it goes, I guess."

"Good luck," Hermione said again, squaring her shoulders this time and facing him properly. "I hope..."

Harry waited, fingering the vial in his pocket.

"I hope it all works out for the best," she said, and gave him a half-hearted smile.

He rapped with two knuckles on Snape's office door, then counted to ten. Inside, all was silent. But there was a light on inside--he could see it beneath the door. These days, lights were never left unattended. Harry knocked again.

This time, the door opened silently by itself, and he stepped inside before it could shut him out again. Snape was in one of the leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, reading a large book and making notes on a piece of paper on the small table beside him. He glanced up.

"Potter." His tone was the same as it always was--diffident, acid, a complex net of delicate, razor-sharp wires. "I can only hope you're here to tell me that tomorrow morning's ballistics practice on the Quidditch turf is cancelled due to a sudden upsurge in student competence."

"No." His palms sweating, his jaw tight, Harry walked over and took the chair opposite Snape. There was a glass of cold tea on the table beside him--he picked it up and raised his eyebrows. "Can I have this?"

"May you have that. And it depends on what you plan to do with it." Snape laid his pen down warily, his eyes trained on Harry's face. "I hope you haven't come for another wearisome talk about what I ought to have considered and done."

"No." Harry dug the vial out of his pocket and held it up. "Do you know what this is?"

"Not from here, no." Snape held out his hand, and Harry put the vial in it. Cautiously, Snape unscrewed the lid and sniffed the contents. He recoiled immediately, anger tightening his face. "Are you insane? Do you honestly think I would take another dose of this stuff?"

"No," Harry said again. He held out his hand, and after a protracted moment during which Snape subjected him to intense, hostile scrutiny, he had the vial again. Immediately, he opened it and poured its contents into the cup of cold tea. Then he drank the tea.

"What--" Snape leaned forward sharply, almost dropping the book, grabbing for the cup. Harry kept it away until he'd drained it. It tasted more or less like cold tea, with an understory of vinegar. Truth, he reflected, was bitter.

"It's for me," he said redundantly, lowering the cup and wiping his lips. As an afterthought, he asked, "How long does it take to take effect?"

"It's immediate," Snape said, his expression fascinated and appalled.

"Good." Harry leaned back, trying to decide whether he felt any different. He didn't...and then he thought maybe he did. In some way he felt a little looser in himself, as if he weren't so much Harry Potter as a person closely familiar with Harry Potter, but with no vested interest in him. He felt entirely objective about Harry's life, about his wishes and hopes and dreams, about his love for the impossible man in the chair opposite. He also felt eminently qualified to answer any questions about Harry Potter that might come his way.

"Why did you do that?" Snape asked, closing the book and narrowing his eyes, already picking up the thread.

"Because," Harry said affably, watching himself speak and approving. "You're completely impossible to talk to. I needed you to see that I'm sincere, and I know you wouldn't believe me unless you had proof."

"If I needed to test your sincerity, I could simply use Legilimency."

"But you wouldn't."

"True." Snape raised an eyebrow, conceding the point. "Very well then, what is so important that you had to drug yourself in order to say it to me?"

Harry hesitated. For a brief second, he felt a struggle happen inside him--his ego, perhaps, rising up in one final, futile last stand. Then it was done, and he relaxed. "I love you."

Snape drew back in his chair as if stung. His eyes were wide, his face white. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just noticed a coiled snake at his feet. Then his eyes narrowed and he turned his head sideways, catching Harry in a skeptical, hawk-like glare. "Say that again."

"I'm in love with you," Harry said. "I don't know how or why, and I really wish I weren't, but I can't stop thinking about you. I have dreams about you. I fantasize about you, I toss off--"

"Stop!"

Harry waited in silence while Snape glared at him, his hands white talons on the arms of his chair.

"You are not in love with me," he said at last. "You're sixteen years old--"

"Seventeen," Harry said, not arguing, but compelled to correct.

"You're a boy. You have no idea what love is."

"Maybe." Harry shrugged. "But I never felt this way about Cho, or anybody else. It feels like..." He paused, dredging for comparison. "It feels almost like I hate you."

"Oh, well then." Snape covered his eyes with his hands and sat in silence for half a minute. Then he stood up, went to his desk, and came back with a bottle and a glass. "You've driven me to drink, Potter."

"It's not my fault."

"No, it is entirely my own."

"It's nobody's fault. And really, I'm not angry about it."

Snape poured a few inches of scotch into his glass, sat the bottle on the carpet by his chair, and sank back, looking at Harry wearily. "I'm glad to hear that."

"I'm sort of getting used to it. The idea of being in love with you, I mean."

"Please stop saying that."

"It's what I came here to say. You wouldn't let me talk to you that night in the Potions lab. And I was too scared then, anyway."

"You are seventeen years old," Snape intoned, his hand over his eyes again. "This is impossible, Potter."

"I know." Harry stared into the fire, feeling the adrenaline of the visit drain away and a deep lassitude start to take hold. "But then, I thought magic was impossible until I came here." He glanced at the little animated clock--ravens and snakes--on Snape's mantel, and smiled.

"Well." Snape sipped his drink, and gave the fire his own meditative look. "Congratulations, Potter. Your campaign to convince me of your sincerity is successful. I believe that you love me, or that you think you do, which is practically speaking the same thing for a boy your age."

"Don't patronize me," Harry said automatically. "And don't fob me off, either."

"What do you suggest I do? Sweep you into my arms in a violent, all-consuming embrace? Whisk you off to a better life in the Potions laboratory?"

"No. I mean, I don't know."

"Really, Potter." Snape sipped his scotch and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what you can have been thinking. Congratulations--you love me. Now we're both in a wretched situation. At least before you came in here with your parlor tricks and potions, we both had some semblance of dignity in our lives."

"But--" Harry felt his brain casting about, searching for some truth to deliver. "But I love you."

"Yes, thank you, I know."

"Then...are you saying you don't love me?"

Snape heaved a sigh. He put his glass down carefully on the carpet and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Harry," he said. "I am only going to say this once, so please listen carefully. My feelings for you are..." He paused, seeming to search for a word. "They are every bit as troublesome to me today as they were when I first discovered, to my horror, that I loved you. In fact, they are more so. Not a day goes by that I don't wish I were a different man, or you a different boy. And it is for that very reason that I am going to ask you to get out of my office now. And if you or Miss Granger were still members of Gryffindor House in any meaningful sense of the words, I would dock you a hundred points each for misuse of Veritaserum."

"But--" Harry sat frozen, a sick quaver growing in his belly. "I don't understand."

"I know," Snape said, almost kindly. "Now please leave."

Harry sat without moving for another moment, aware that his mouth was hanging open, aware that Snape had leaned back in his chair and turned his gaze to the fire. The air in the room seemed to have frozen and tightened. It was extremely hard to breathe.

"Snape," Harry said, leaning awkwardly forward, then toppling off his chair completely and hitting his knees on the carpet. "Severus. Please. I don't--there's nothing else I can do. I mean, I can't do more than this."

"Thank God," Snape said, a little thickly. He cleared his throat and added, "Close the door behind you."

Harry knelt where he was, one hand feebly gripping the arm of Snape's chair, but not quite daring to touch him. Snape continued to stare at the fire. At last Harry got up and staggered out, closing the door behind him.

He went straight to the second floor boys' loo, where he locked himself in a stall and vomited truth into the toilet for ten minutes straight. Then he sank down on the cold tile and cried until he thought his eyes would fall out.

Part 5 - the end

Notes: Herewith concludes the slightly insane saga of Snape + Harry + ill-advised Veritaserum + three days of enforced isolation in a wholesome, white-bread, professionally-oriented environment. Thanks to those who have read, commented (faithful few!), and pointed other Snarry fen this way. This is the end, beautiful friends. This is the end.

"Worst case scenario," he said quietly, stripping a blade of grass between his forefinger and thumb.

Ron was silent, turning a chocolate frog over uneaten in his fingers.

"Right," he said at last. There was no note of triumph in his tone.

Harry was two hundred feet over the South Downs when something slammed into him from the west, knocking him half out of his own skin and completely off his broom. It happened so quickly he didn't have a chance to be frightened. Instead he was just falling, upside down and backwards, the wind cutting his face, his hands fumbling for his wand and not finding it. It was late evening, not quite night, and the sky was pink and blue around him.

At least it's a beautiful night, he thought irrelevantly, through the howl of wind in his ears. And then he realized that there was not going to be a third-form Hufflepuff with a handy Immobilis, and that after all that, the Boy Who Lived was going to die of multiple fractures and internal injuries after a fall from his broom, and he thought of his father and his mother, and wished he'd known them, and he wished that he'd got to kiss Snape, and his fingers touched the tip of his wand and without even getting it all the way out of his pocket he started to say Disappar--

And then the immense, battening concussion broke him apart.

He woke up to a square of white light high up on the stone wall.

He watched it narrow to a rectangle, then a bar. Then it disappeared, and the room was dark.

He fell asleep again.

"'Edwidge the Younger was at this time a woman of sixty and four years, and given to revelry and merriment, such that she traveled to the remotest northern isles to celebrate the ascension of their king to his heavenly throne. And upon her return, stocks and berries were scattered in the roads to greet her, and she brought a good harvest and did not slaughter the menfolk anymore."

Harry opened his eyes.

"Harry," said Hermione, putting down the book and looking at him with pleased surprise. "You're awake."

He blinked at her. Everything was fuzzy and bright, and he couldn't remember where he was supposed to be. Somewhere with stone walls and a high ceiling. Hermione had circles under her eyes, and she was wearing one of Ron's fuzzy old sweaters.

"You're in the infirmary," she told him, reading his mind. "You were hurt--you fell off your broom."

He opened his mouth to speak, and felt a distant pain in his jaw.

"Don't talk," Hermione said, patting his shoulder. "You'll be all right, you just need to sleep a while longer."

"Am I--" He could barely understand himself, and she frowned.

"You're all right, Harry. Or you will be. You broke a lot of bones, but you're going to be okay."

I fell off my broom, he thought, as his eyelids grew heavy and the bed grew warmer. That's so stupid. I wonder if Snape knows.

"Go to sleep," Hermione told him again, from somewhere far above. "It's okay, it's all okay. Just go back to sleep."

Several days later, he was sitting up in bed, groggily studying a newspaper, when the door to the sick room opened and Snape walked in. Harry squinted up at him, trying to make the room stand still. Between his glasses being broken and the concussion, he was having to do that a lot.

"How do you feel?" Snape asked, without preamble.

"Sore," Harry answered, truthfully. His heart had picked up a notch or two, but on the whole he thought he felt pretty steady. Maybe it was the healing process, or the fact that for the last couple of days he'd been half-convinced he'd died and come back to life. In fact, it seemed that the spell he'd tried to cast had half-caught, just enough to halt him thirty-odd feet above the ground, then dump him unceremoniously down again. Instead of falling two hundred feet, he'd fallen thirty. Onto frozen sod. It smarted.

Snape walked to the side of the bed and stood with his hands tucked carefully behind his back. Harry looked up at him. Now he was the one in the white shift, he realized. Ironic.

"You could have died," Snape observed, his face immobile.

"I just about did," Harry agreed. "Do they know yet what hit me?"

"A blasting curse," Snape said. "A search crew found the remains of your broom five miles from where you fell. The curse was extremely powerful, and we have no way of determining who cast it."

"Well, we are at war." Harry folded the newspaper closed on a shouting headline. "I can think of a few thousand people who'd want to."

Snape turned and looked at the white square of light against the wall by the door. "When you're well enough to move, there's a room for you in the visiting scholars' wing. You'll find it more comfortable than this one, I think."

"It's not bad in here." In fact it was restful, away from the bustle and business of Pomfrey's infirmary. It had given him a chance to be alone with himself, to think some things through. Hermione said he was in here because all the infirmary beds had been full when they'd brought him in, but he had a pretty good idea that she'd worked it out for him. For the millionth time, he reminded himself to do something nice for her someday.

"I'm sorry," he said out loud, which was enough to make Snape turn back with a look of faint surprise. "About what I did in your office. The serum. That was a stupid stunt, and I put you in a bad position. I'm sorry."

Snape regarded him for a moment, head cocked. "You are not."

"No," Harry admitted readily. "But I thought it might make you feel better if I apologized."

"You thought lying to me might improve our situation?"

"I thought I should show you the same courtesy you showed me." Harry kept his tone deliberately neutral. It did no good with Snape, of course.

"I appreciate that, Mr. Potter," he said, his tone dry as alum. "And I'm glad to see you are on the mend."

"I am," Harry affirmed quietly, looking down at the paper in his lap. For a moment longer, while Snape stood over him, he kept his head down and said nothing.

Snape walked out without another word. Harry studied the closed door, memorizing its shape and color, until his eyes began to sting and he had to look away.

"He visited you a lot," Hermione said, "when you were in the sick room. Before you woke up."

"That's nice." Harry was sorting broom straws in the blanket over his lap, setting aside the frayed and broken ones. "Ron, what's the weather been like on the coast lately?"

"Windy." Ron sunk his chin into his chest as if he could feel the gusts where he sat. "And bloody cold."

"And he made most of the potions himself," Hermione added. "The bonesetting ones, and the pain killers."

"That's his job." Harry straightened his pile of straws. "It's a new moon, right?"

"Yeah." Ron looked glum at the prospect of darker night flying. "And high tide, so it's really a pain around the cliffs."

"Keep your wand handy," Harry said ruefully, studying his pile. "I wish I had."

"You're not listening to me at all, are you?" Hermione asked.

"No more than I have to."

There was a brief pause, during which Harry tried to remember exactly how long straws were supposed to be for a Nimbus 2000.

"Maybe you should listen to her, though," Ron said quietly. "I mean, he really was there every day."

Climbing the stairs to Snape's office was hard enough without two recently-broken legs, Harry thought sourly, clinging to the banister. By the time he got to the top, he was out of breath and his knees were throbbing. Snape's door was closed, but the light showed beneath it.

Typical Snape, Harry thought, limping down the hallway. Everything has to be as difficult as possible.

He knocked and leaned on the doorframe, taking some of his weight on his good shoulder. The door opened immediately, to show Snape in the chair by the fireplace, apparently deep in study.

"Hi," said Harry. Carefully, he pivoted through the doorway and eased into the hard-backed chair beside the door.

"Hello," said Snape. He glanced down at the mass of papers in his lap and at his feet, then back at Harry. "Is there something I can do for you?" For once, there was no vitriol in his tone. Bizarrely, his offer sounded almost sincere.

Harry adjusted his bad shoulder, wincing. "Yes," he said. "I'd really like to stop playing stupid games. I'm tired and sore and I want to kiss you. I could fall off my broom again next week and if I do, I don't want to die thinking I wish I'd kissed Severus Snape."

Snape looked down at the papers again. "Harry," he said, "it's not that simple--"

"It is," Harry said. "It really is."

"I can't just toss everything up for an insane love affair with a teenaged boy."

"I wish you would."

"Of course you do." In sudden frustration, Snape shoved the papers off his lap. "Of course you do--you're seventeen. You know everything."

"Seventeen and a half," said Harry.

"It doesn't work that way."

"Come here."

"Life doesn't work that way."

Harry heaved a sigh and braced his hands against the arms of the chair. "Are you really going to make me walk over there, on two broken legs?"

"They're not broken anymore."

"They feel like they are."

"Don't exaggerate. And take more potion, if you're in pain."

Harry started to push himself to his feet, grimacing with the effort. With a sigh, Snape stood up and walked over to him. "All right, I'm here. What do you want?"

"Tell me the truth about something."

Snape stood waiting, his expression distrustful. Harry leaned forward and put his head against Snape's hip. He left his hands where they were, on the arms of the chair. He could feel Snape's hipbone against his skull, solid and hard. He could smell charcoal and grain alcohol and must in Snape's robe.

After a long moment, he felt Snape's hand rest on the back of his head. At first it lay still. Then it began gently stroking his hair.

Harry smiled. He leaned back.

"That's what I thought," he said. Snape frowned.

"Don't be insolent," he said, but then something in his face just gave up, and he crouched down and kissed Harry on the mouth. At first it was blameless, warm and comforting. Harry coaxed without words, and the kiss turned harder, more insistent. Snape's hands came up and caught Harry's head. His tongue pressed between Harry's lips, and Harry sank lower in the chair, not caring that his back hurt, loving the warm solid pressure of Snape's body between his legs. It was like his dreams, like every good dream he'd ever had, even down to the path Snape's hands traveled down his spine and around his waist and then lower, to his buttocks. That made him arch like a spring of electricity between two points--mouth, hands--and that in turn cracked something in his back that wasn't quite done healing yet. He gasped, shoving free and doubling over to stop the pain.

"What--" Snape was on his knees on the carpet, hands on Harry's shoulders, voice sharp. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Harry gasped. The pain was gone now--he sat up gingerly, testing his back with his fingertips. "Just, I shouldn't do that for a while, I guess."

"You shouldn't do that at all," Snape said, as if just realizing what he'd done. He started to get to his feet. "You should forget that happened."

"Snape." Harry caught his hand and clung to it. "Don't be stupid. You can tell me to forget it, but you know I can't. For God's sake, neither can you. We're both just going to go back to our rooms and toss off to the thought of it."

"Thank you for that delicate synopsis of our predicament," Snape said, but his tone was half-hearted, and he hadn't pulled his hand away.

"It's impossible," Harry said gently. "It's impossible to do this, and it's impossible not to do it. So I'd rather try it and see, I think." He waited, giving Snape a space to cast his vote. After a moment of stubborn and frustrating silence, he tugged Snape's fingers. "Wouldn't you?"

"It's too stupid for words," Snape said to the ceiling, his tone despairing.

But as if acting of their own volition, his fingers turned and curled around Harry's.

Together, they looked at their knotted hands.

"Idiot boy," said Snape, rolling the words on his tongue.

"Insufferable old git," said Harry, smiling.

In the clock on the mantel, the ravens and snakes danced round and round, suspended in midair by magic.