Lest I Wither (pt. 2), by JiM (HP)

The quiet clinking of cutlery woke him. He was not particularly surprised to find that his robe and shoes had been removed and Dumbledore's stone portkey was sitting beside his wand on the bedside table. He said to the ceiling,

"Surely you have something better to do than to keep tucking me in, Mr. Potter?"

"No, I don't, actually," Potter's voice was calm, if not cheerful. "I seem to be out of a job." Snape heard dishes rattling, then Potter came into his line of sight. "Are you hungry?"

"No," Snape lied, sitting up slowly. "What time is it?" The headache was gone, but his tongue felt like a salted slug.

Snape wanted to snarl at his unwelcome nurse, but the dolt was buttering a substantial pile of toast and it looked rather interesting, all of a sudden. By the time he had gotten up, shrugged his wrinkled clothes back into some semblance of order and made his way over to the hearth, Potter had poured him a cup of tea and was busy building a rather substantial sandwich out of toast and cheese and thin slices of roast beef. Snape watched him take a large bite and chew happily.

"A meal in the middle of the afternoon," his former student replied succinctly and took a long drink of tea. "The House Elves are worried about us both, though. Eat something or they'll start ambushing you with sandwiches in the corridors." He sounded like a man with experience talking.

Grunting at the idea of Potter ordering him to do anything, Snape took a piece of toast and began nibbling it. They ate in silence, for which he was grateful. The warmth of the fire, the pleasant sense of being well-rested and without pain, of having an appetite and being able to feed it - all were novelties he wanted to enjoy in peace and quiet. If he was also enjoying having someone to share all these things with, the silence prevented him from having to acknowledge it. By the time the tea table was empty of food, Snape had made temporary truce within himself regarding his pleasure at Potter's company.

Potter, however, seemed to be taking little pleasure in Snape's company. The younger man stared into the fire, chewing on his thumbnail. The air about him seemed heavier, darker and more brooding. Snape thought about the scene earlier in Dumbledore's office. It was, he supposed, too much to hope that the situation had been resolved while he had been asleep. That same angry energy was still coursing through the young wizard. Although he had a tight rein on it now, Snape could almost sense it swirling behind his eyes. Potter looked like an over-ripe fruit about to split its skin.

Potter's slight jerk showed that his thoughts had been far away, indeed. He shrugged, a little too casually. "Nothing special, Severus. What can I do for you?"

"Sirius left on a mission for the Order yesterday evening. Ron & Hermione went home -- family parties to go to, I think they said."

"They didn't invite you?" Once, Snape would have given the words the most unpleasant and sibilant interpretation he could; now, he simply wanted information.

"They did. But I'm not up to that many Weasleys in any one place just now. Especially not after this morning. Now I have to figure out what the hell to do with the rest of my life."

"Since you're in the mood to ponder weighty subjects, will you take some advice?"

"Go out to a pub tonight. Get drunk. Pick someone up and shag yourselves silly. Come back in the morning and sort out your life then."

His former student's expression of shock was comical. He really did need to be told that he looked like an idiot when he let his mouth hang open. "You...what?"

"Which word didn't you understand, Potter? Pub. Drink. Shag. Nothing more earth-shattering than that until morning."

"For heaven's sake, boy, it's tradition! When you get sacked, you go out and get pissed, then you get fucked." There was a certain amount of malicious enjoyment to shocking the man and Snape was pleased to see that he still had the ability.

"I quit," Potter corrected absently, still staring at Snape. "But who am I to buck tradition?" He got to his feet, still looking a little dazed. "You'll be all right?"

Snape sneered gently. "I believe I will survive the night without your care, Mr. Potter."

"See that you do," the young wizard shot back over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"Potter!" Snape stood slowly, pleased that his head no longer throbbed or spun when he did that. He took a small leather pouch off the mantel and tossed it to Potter. It clinked musically as it smacked securely into the former Seeker's hand. "When that's gone, stop drinking. You're not supposed to poison yourself."

Potter hefted the bag of coins and stared at Snape again as if the professor had sprouted another head. Then he gave half a grin, nodded and opened the door.

"Yes, Severus," Potter sing-songed as he went out and closed the door carefully behind him, a last green-eyed stare leaving Snape feeling a touch feverish. Then he went to prepare a hangover remedy for the morning.

In retrospect, Snape knew exactly what would happen. His subconscious had done a good job of keeping the more alert parts of his brain in the dark, but a Slytherin did not lie to himself. Certainly not post facto and certainly not with the evidence sprawled across his bed.

At the time, however, it had merely seemed like prudence and good housekeeping to fold away the cot Potter had been sleeping on for the past few nights. Then he read a back issue of Potions Quarterly and the cover article of Quidditch Weekly, took a long, hot bath, snarled at Pomfrey's polite inquiries and went to bed. Alone.

Sometime long after midnight, Snape slid from sleep to wakefulness in the space of a breath. More specifically, a warm, whiskey-tainted breath against his cheek. Harry Potter was face down on top of the covers, one heavy arm thrown across Snape's chest, effectively pinning him in place. The drunken sot's head was resting on Severus' pillow, taking up more than his fair share in Snape's assessment. When Snape squirmed a little, trying to get away from the scent of recycled firewhiskey, Potter murmured in his sleep and then nestled his head into the crook of Snape's neck. Now that warm breath was stroking and tickling at Snape's throat, causing all kinds of unlikely ideas to flit across his mind.

"Potter!" he hissed and squirmed again. The arm across his chest merely tightened and Potter turned on his side, the better to plaster himself against his former Potions master. He gave a happy grunt and sleepily kissed Snape's throat before subsiding again.

Snape lay on his back and considered the play of firelight on the ceiling, listened to Harry Potter's sleeping breath and thought long and hard. After serious reflection, he felt that he could reasonably state that this particular Christmas holiday was the worst he had ever experienced.

It easily outstripped the humiliation of being forced to wear a bespelled reindeer suit three straight years in a row at his great-aunt Ermintrude's Yule Revels. The heart attack alone would have done that; falling victim to one of his own potions was a stab at his professional pride that would not soon heal. Being nursed by Harry Potter, bane of his existence for the past twelve years was almost as bad as enduring Dumbledore's twinkling care after one of Voldemort's disciplinary excesses. And lying beside Harry Potter, whose drunken kiss still burned against his skin, was infinitely worse than the holiday season spent with the Malfoys, during which father, mother AND son had all attempted to seduce him, with varying degrees of success. This was, without question, the most disastrous holiday he could remember. It simply wasn't fair.

Then Potter shifted and rubbed his half-hard penis against Snape's hip and mumbled, "Severus," sighing out a cloud of alcohol that made Snape dizzy with the fumes.

It was especially unfair when Potter began to grind himself gently against Snape's body while lapping at the man's neck like a sleepy kitten. Or a very contented viper. Snape tried to distract himself with similes while Potter's drunken befuddled tongue traced warm, wet patterns against his skin. The similes stopped working as soon as the professor realized that he was comparing parts of his own anatomy with wood, stone and dragon scale. He was almost lost when Harry Potter's moist lips moved up his throat and across his cheek and were one lip-length away from his dry mouth.

Snape shoved Potter away and sat up before the other man could recover. "Potter! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" The shout rang reassuringly around the room and he was pleased to see Potter wince. Then a hurt expression crept onto the boy's face and he almost pouted as he said,

Snape suppressed a groan. This really was the worst Christmas of his life. Everything he could finally admit to wanting... sprawled in a drunken heap in a place he'd never dream of gracing were he sober.

"You said," Potter stabbed a wavering finger in the air, "to get pissed, then get shagged, then figure it out in the morning. Well, 'm definitely drunk," he smiled crookedly and just a little blearily in Snape's direction. "So let's fuck," he said and reached for Snape. He overbalanced and fell face first into the mattress, where he laid giggling, head wedged against Snape's thigh.

Snape sighed and laid a hand on the drunken man's hair, petting it gently. "I am going to make your life a misery to you in the morning," he promised, reaching for his wand on the bedside table. "Dormos," and Potter was safely asleep again. Another short spell and a blanket from the chest at the foot of his bed snaked its way up to cover Potter's sleeping form. The young man murmured and then curled into the blanket, rolling away from Snape.

Snape took a precautionary dose of Heartsease straight from the bottle and tried to tell himself the bitter taste in his mouth was merely the potion. He lay back down and listened to Potter breathe noisily through his mouth, the scent of firewhiskey hanging in the air.

Snape woke alone. Hardly a surprise, although he thought he might have preferred the opportunity to listen to Potter's horrified babblings from the comfort of his own bed. But Potter was gone. The blanket which Snape had conjured for him was folded at the foot of the bed and there was a chastened air to the uneven folds of wool that brought a slight and twisted smile to Snape's face.

There was Potter sign in the bathroom; puddles of water around the basin and on the floor suggested handfuls of cold water poured over an aching head. Snape hoped the rotten cock-teasing bastard's eyes were bleeding this morning. Looking at his own pale, lined face in the mirror, Snape understood Potter's retreat; in fact, it made more sense than the idiot usually demonstrated. What he didn't understand, what he resented deeply, was why Potter had made the advance in the first place. Drink, despair and a life debt, he supposed, buttoning his waistcoat sourly. It would be humiliating to a younger man than Snape. As it was, it was merely annoying and would prove entertaining. Snape decided on breakfasting with the rest of the staff - and Potter. He plucked the small bottle of Hangover Helper he'd brewed last night from off the mantel and tucked it into a pocket, just in case his mood turned merciful at the sight of Potter's sufferings. He did not think it would.

Snape's sneer was firmly in place when he reached the small parlor in which the staff ate during holidays. Surprisingly, he was greeted warmly by those colleagues who remained. It was a trifle disconcerting to be patted on the back by Flitwick and clasped to Trelawney's scented bosom. Even McGonagall shook his hand and asked how he was feeling. Pomfrey noted that his color and appetite were good and recommended reducing the dosage of Heartsease. Since Snape didn't mention that he hadn't bothered with the stuff this morning, the topic of conversation passed calmly on to the weather.

Neither Potter nor Dumbledore were at breakfast this morning. Snape sighed as he gnawed at a kipper. He felt like an owl that had missed its strike; bereft of prey, he turned his attention to the newspaper that Flitwick was just laying down. He stopped chewing abruptly.

A photo of Harry Potter glared wildly from the front page of the Daily Prophet. The headline nearly made him spit his tea out.

"Has the Headmaster seen this?" Snape waved the paper at the jabbering idiots with whom he worked.

"He has," McGonagall said in her clipped tones. "Right after Mr. Potter saw it and went crashing out of here. I believe Professor Dumbledore is attempting to determine if this is a prank."

"It's not a prank," Snape snapped, then stood, abandoning his breakfast. "Where's Albus?"

"What the hell is Fudge thinking?" were Snape's first words as he strode into the Headmaster's office.

"Ah, good morning, Severus. Feeling better?" Dumbledore smiled gently at him, as if Snape's demanding tone was more reassuring than irritating.

"Hmm, yes, I did think young Harry was looking a touch under the weather this morning."

"Before or after he saw Cornelius Fudge's vengeful little foray into the realm of dramatic fiction?"

"Who else would it be, Albus? I know it was Fudge. What I cannot decide upon is his motivation."

Dumbledore's mouth crooked slightly. "I would think his motivation would be crystal clear, Severus. Harry rather pricked his pride yesterday and that would be a large wound to a man such as Cornelius."

Snape waved a hand irritably. "Don't play dumb with me. Which is it? Is Fudge a short-sighted idiot trying to make political hay out of slander and cover up? Or is he working for Voldemort and trying to destabilize the Ministry and lay the groundwork for a widespread mistrust and possible panic before the Death Eaters' next big offensive?"

Dumbledore stared steadily at his Potions master, one finger tapping his mended desk thoughtfully. "The difficulty," he said slowly," is that the facts we have at the moment support both theories equally well. Fudge might just be a small-minded opportunist taking advantage of the current situation to eliminate those he considers threats to his political career. Like Harry."

"Or he might be systematically weakening the Ministry from the inside, in order to make any effective defense against Voldemort difficult to impossible. Discrediting Harry Potter, his work and the Special Ops teams would be a shrewd move, once he realized the poison wasn't going to kill the boy."

Dumbledore nodded. "In some ways, it's even more effective than killing him. Dead, Harry Potter would become a martyr and a rallying cry. Alive but disgraced, his very fame works against him. "

They were both silent for a moment. "You know, if it turns out that Fudge is working for Voldemort, I shall have to revise my opinion of the man's intelligence," Snape said.

"You never heard any rumor about a Ministry mole...?" Dumbledore asked delicately.

They were silent again. Snape noticed that it was snowing outside. Finally he asked, "How do we find out?"

"I have put several agents to work on different aspects of the problem. We should have some definite information in the next forty-eight hours. In the meantime, my dear boy, I am afraid that I shall have to ask you to make another largish batch of that new..."

"I won't do it," Snape said quietly. "No more poisons, Albus. There's enough of Potter's poison to cure someone else, but I won't make any more to be used as a weapon."

"... that new Veritaserum variation you have been researching," Dumbledore continued smoothly. "The one that erases the short-term memory."

At Snape's half-apologetic, half annoyed look, Dumbledore smiled. There was an edge to the twinkle in his eyes when he said, "I believe that I'll be inviting the Minister to tea tomorrow, Severus. After all, it's Hogmanay."

Snape reflected again that it was never wise to make assumptions about the headmaster of Hogwarts. Cornelius Fudge was in for a hell of a surprise. He found that the thought gave him no pain. Potter would certainly enjoy it.

Dumbledore's shrewd look over his glasses made Snape wish he'd phrased the question differently. Perhaps a drawling slight would have headed off the conversation he could see coming. But Dumbledore said only,

"He was rather upset by the article. He was certainly in no mood to be reasoned with, so I let him go. Let's see where he is, shall we?"

The old wizard drew a scroll of parchment out of one of the desk's innumerable drawers. Unrolling it, he tapped the blank sheet with his wand. A complete and marvelously detailed map of the entire school shimmered into existence. Tiny numbers written to the left of the page revealed the plans of different floors when they were tapped. Exquisitely small letters spelled out the names of each of the castle's occupants, down to the last house elf. Harry Potter's name was finally found - at the top of the unused tower beyond the owlery.

Snape sighed irritably. It was going to be a long, cold walk up the tower's outside stairs. In the snow, no less. He hated snow. Inconsiderate brat.

"Shall we talk about your feelings for Harry Potter now, Severus?" Dumbledore asked in a considerate tone. Snape stared at him, stricken by the unexpected attack. Smiling gently, with just the tiniest glint of malice in his eyes, Dumbledore said only, "Wear a hat, my dear boy. It wouldn't do to catch a cold so soon after leaving Madam Pomfrey's excellent care."

It was a petty and childish response that made him venture out into the snow with neither cloak nor hat but it made him feel just the tiniest bit better. Dumbledore probably knew that, too. Snape sighed again and started climbing the spiraling tower steps. The snow was fluffy and thick, falling quickly. It had already filled in Potter's footprints, although the faint outlines were still visible.

He had to stop once before he made it to the top of the tower. The last trace of Perpessio-induced exhaustion, he assumed. Or maybe it was Potter-induced. After all, he hadn't slept especially well last night. One last twist of the stairs and he gained the open-air observation gallery just below the top of the tower. Harry Potter was standing at the end of the parapet, in the lee of the tower, watching the snow fall onto the forest far below.

Although he had to have heard Snape's footsteps creaking in the fresh snow, the younger man made no sign. Potter, Snape noted, had worn a cloak. After a long pause during which Snape watched the occasional errant snowflake spin into Potter's hair and cling, he gathered himself and said,

"If you're thinking of jumping, at least wait until the hangover passes. You'll enjoy the trip more."

Potter turned and glared at him and Snape almost smiled. The boy had received enough sycophantic sympathy in his life. Then all desire to smirk faded when Snape saw Potter's face. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He hadn't shaved and his beard was a dark smudge across his jaw and high up his cheeks. Even in the directionless light of a snowy day, his face seemed shadowed and ill. In fact, he looked disturbingly as he had the first hour of his return to Hogwarts as a dying man.

"Come, come, Potter. Surely you understand elementary tactics after your years as an Auror?"

Potter shrugged one shoulder and turned back to watch the snow fall on the forest. "I don't recall that lying was in the handbook."

"Why use tactics against me at all?" And Potter's voice was that of a grieved child. "I work for him. At least, I used to."

Snape crossed his arms. It was colder out here than he had thought. "Use your brains, boy! You're Famous Harry Potter! You're more than capable at your job and every time you wave your wand, it's on the front pages. You could be Minister in a heartbeat, if you wanted. Fudge's heartbeat, to be precise. And he knows it."

Snape ground his teeth. "Stop acting like a child, then. What are you going to do about Fudge? He may or may not be mounting a campaign against you. One that is potentially quite dangerous for the Order and all who oppose Voldemort."

Harry Potter turned and then smiled, a nasty, slick smile that Snape had never before seen on any Potter. "If Fudge wants a war, I'll give him one."

"I hardly think he's worth that kind of effort. And, much as I hate to say it, we need the figurehead of a Minister of Magic, if only to ..."

Snape continued, ignoring the interruption. "If only to give us a source of funding when we need it. To rally the public and to protect them."

"But even if he's not a Death Eater, he consistently underestimates the risk Voldemort poses. He has for years! We'd be better off if he were dead and someone competent took over the Ministry!"

This wasn't sounding good at all. Potter was flushed, his eyes fever bright and sharp.

"Someone like you, Mr. Potter?" Snape drawled in his most dangerous tone. Slytherin ambition mixed with Gryffindor's reckless courage could precipitate the wizarding world into a three-way war such as it had never seen. And Harry Potter, win or lose, would pay the cost.

"God, no! I don't want to be Minister. But I wouldn't mind killing Fudge for you." That too-bright, too-sharp smile again. Merlin's Wand, but Potter meant it. Snape could see the hatred roiling in the younger man's eyes.

"You don't want to kill Fudge for me, Potter. You want to kill him for yourself."

Potter's eyes seemed to harden like glass. He nodded jerkily. "He has to pay. They were my friends and he sent them to die. He probably had me poisoned, anyway. Why shouldn't I kill him?"

Wrong. It was so wrong, to see that expression in the wrong face. He had seen anger, resentment, fear, longing, conceit...but never the acid green of implacable hatred. Never in Harry Potter's face.

A sharp stab of pain went up his left arm. Not his heart, but the Dark Mark, leaping like a hound to the call of power. It frightened him badly, and Severus Snape did not deal with fear well.

His hands fisted in the front of Potter's robes and he slammed him back against the wall. Potter's head thumped loudly against the stone but Snape was too furious to care. He leaned in close, until his face was inches away from the dazed man's, and he hissed,

"I did NOT spend three days desperately searching for an antidote to an incurable poison just for you to poison yourself with hatred! DO you understand, Harry?!"

Green eyes blinked muzzily and hands came up to scrabble at Snape's where they held him pinned to the cold stone. Potter's head rolled back and forth, whether in denial or confusion, Snape didn't know. He shook him hard. "Stupid boy! Do you not see? If you go on like this, a day, a month, a year ... you will become him."

"Voldemort, you idiot! How do you think he became what he is? Remember his diary? He was a man, once. A man with feelings, just like you." Snape's arm was throbbing, quick stabs that fed his fury. "Hatred. Rage. Hunger. And power. A lot of power. Just. Like. You."

Comprehension flooded into Potter's dazed eyes, following by a wash of horror. He went pale, then clutched at his gut and folded forward slowly. Snape caught him in his arms and let Potter's head come to rest on his chest. The younger man was shaking and panting for breath and Snape had to hold him up.

His own rage drained away as Potter finally understood the danger he was in, the danger he was. Relieved, and not a little tired, Snape allowed his own arms to rest on Potter's back. The younger man made a small choked noise and pressed more tightly against him. Without thought, Snape began running his hands over the trembling muscles. He might have been appalled if he had heard himself making those small soothing noises or noticed how one of his hands had come up to stroke Potter's dark hair. Fortunately, he did not.

But he was distracted by a smear of blood on his fingers. Snape let his hand explore Potter's scalp and found the wound, blood seeping from it. He could feel the man in his arms flinch as he probed the damage. Snape sighed, realizing that he had inflicted it when he had slammed Potter back into the wall.

Temper, temper, Severus. Harry Potter could upset the most well-regulated mind, Snape reflected as he reached into his sleeve for a handkerchief. He pressed it against Potter's scalp and watched as the snowy linen turned crimson. Potter's panting breath had created a hot, damp spot on Snape's chest though no tears soaked into the fabric. No, Harry Potter wasn't one to cry easily. But he was shaking like a puppy in a storm and Snape was having a harder time keeping them both on their feet.

"And you can tell me what an idiot I'm being?" Harry's voice was muffled against his robes.

And Snape led him away, not especially conscious of his arm around Potter's shoulders, guiding him and clasping him close. Nor did he particularly notice that Harry Potter's face was still tucked against his shoulder, like a child needing comfort. If he noted anything at all as they tramped down the tower stairs, it was merely that he was cold, had snow on his hair, blood on his fingers, his left arm ached and Harry was a warm, solid presence against his right side.

Snape didn't release his hold on Harry until they got to the Infirmary. He knew that Potter didn't need the help. He suspected that Potter knew that, too. But there was something that felt agreeably like sin, touching Harry Potter, feeling him lean into that touch, warm and alive and powerfully there. Being able to lie about it made it even better.

But he deposited Potter on a chair in front of Pomfrey's desk and watched with a scowl as Potter was once again fussed over out of all proportion to his wounds. He felt a kind of twisted admiration when Potter explained that he had gotten hurt when he went up the tower to watch the snow on the Forest. The artful grimace he gave when he mentioned how slippery the stone had become warmed Snape's Slytherin heart. Potter had told no lies, but neither had he told the truth of the situation. He had merely related the facts in an elegantly arranged way. Snape wondered idly how long it had taken Potter to hone that skill in the course of his rather eventful school career.

Madam Pomfrey looked carefully at her patient, poked and prodded, then stared into his face, yanked down an eyelid and sniffed at his breath.

"You look terrible," she said bluntly, one hand reaching for her a bottle of Fogley's Fomentation, which she applied liberally to Potter's bruised skull. "You need more sleep and less stress for a week, at least. Have you been eating?"

Coddling him again, Snape sniffed. He was just arranging his expression into a comradely sneer when the mediwitch suddenly turned and swept down upon him.

"And you, Severus! You have not been taking your potion, have you? What did you have for breakfast? How have you been sleeping?" And it was Potter's turn to sneer, which he did. Then Potter winced when Pomfrey's beavering amongst her medicines caused the bottles and vials to tinkle together musically and altogether too loudly for the amount of liquor he had drunk the night before.

His wan features and pathetic cringing at loud noises finally convinced Snape to grant him mercy. When Pomfrey went sweeping back to her storeroom in search of a nutritional elixir she guaranteed would set Snape's hair curling, he produced the small blue bottle of Hangover Helper from his pocket. He held it in front of Potter's red, running nose.

"Poison," Snape said irritably. "Or would you rather wait for Madam Pomfrey to figure out what really ails you? Her lectures about the dangers of drink are heartfelt and very detailed, as I recall."

Potter's sudden sly grin was all he could have wished. The little blue bottle was drained and back in Snape's pocket before the mediwitch returned with his elixir. Snape estimated that fifteen minutes would see Potter right again, especially if Pomfrey managed to slap some ice on the back of his head to prevent any further swelling. Sometimes magic just got in the way, in his personal opinion.

It took more than fifteen minutes for Snape to extract himself from his healer's determined clutches. He was finally pushed into promising to rest more, to continue taking more of the damned Heartsease potion and to swallowing a healthy dose of her all-purpose nutritive elixir. The bitter flavor of that quackish nostrum promised to curl his lip for a week.

When he emerged from Pomfrey's private examination room, Potter was still sitting on the bed where he'd been left, looking far better than he had. His color was good, eyes brighter and clearer, but there was a tension in him that Snape could feel from across the room. He was fairly certain he didn't want to deal with it, whatever it was, so he kept walking past Potter and out the door. However, his pace was moderate enough that someone who wanted to speak to him would be able to catch up and keep up. It was as much invitation as Snape could bring himself to muster, given the scene on the roof not yet an hour in the past.

Potter strode along beside him, their robes catching and whispering against one another as they paced the empty halls. Potter was like a kettle about to boil and Snape finally got tired of waiting for it.

Ah, the Hangover Helper had kicked in. Potter's faculties, such as they were, were back in working order.

"If you continue to lie to yourself, Potter, you will always be a danger to yourself and to those around you."

"You bastard." A side glance revealed Potter with a clenched jaw and cold stare.

And there was nothing for Potter to say to that. He stormed off in the direction of the Gryffindor Tower, apparently forgetting that he was no longer a student. Snape felt a pang of deja vu.

He barely had time to register the warmth at his shoulder before Dumbledore said, "Some things never change, it seems."

"Potter may be one of the great constants of the Universe," Snape said bitterly.

There wasn't enough Heartsease Potion in the world to counteract a man like Albus Dumbledore. Snape was certain of it now.

The Headmaster seemed completely unfazed by the icy menace in his Potions master's tone. "It tends to clear the air."

Dumbledore fell into step with him and pretended to consider Snape's comment. "No, on the whole, I believe that your goals will be better achieved by kissing him. Rather thoroughly."

Shock made his tone somewhat weaker than the half-insolent drawl he'd planned on. "Have you always had this prurient interest in your staff, Headmaster?"

"It's hardly prurient, my boy. I would merely like you to get on with it, so that things will settle down around here before the new term."

Dumbledore's tone suggested that Snape was dilly-dallying around incensed him more than he had thought possible. And that he was being dilatory about ... about...!

"You are not seriously suggesting that I enter into a relationship with a former student, are you, Headmaster?"

"Severus, not five minutes ago, you claimed to be an honest bastard. Now is hardly the time for either of us to claim not to understand the situation."

"You have cared for him for many years now. He feels the same way. Your working partnership tells me you respect and trust one another deeply. Recent performances on both of your accounts suggest that the caring and partnership is rather deeper than previously suspected." Dumbledore stopped and laid a hand on Snape's arm. "And, my boy, you need to get shagged."

A stroke. That was what he should have had. Obviously a heart attack hadn't been nearly enough. Just when he'd thought this Christmas couldn't get any worse, there it was; a frank and fatherly discussion about his sex life with the Headmaster.

"And so you recommend my seducing a boy more than twenty years my junior? Half my age? Harry Potter, no less?" He hated the squeak that appeared to have crept into his voice.

"He's not a boy any more, Severus. Surely you've noticed?" The twinkle in the Headmaster's eye was appalling. "As to being half your age, well, emotionally, I'd say you're about even." He continued relentlessly, "You've been a bit stunted in that respect, my friend. A younger lover is just what you need to bring you up to speed. And Harry certainly has the courage to see it through with you."

"No one has ever accused Harry of lacking courage; it's the brains that have always been in question."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore smiled. "But he is certainly wise enough to see all that is best within you, my friend. The only question is, are you brave enough to let him in?"

They were standing in front of Snape's quarters and he hadn't even realized how skillfully he had been guided there. Dumbledore's demeanor became suddenly brisk and business-like. "Tomorrow afternoon, I am having the Minister to tea, Severus. I should like to offer him some of our special "House Blend" at that time. Will it be ready?"

Snape nodded, pathetically grateful that the topic of his personal life had been dropped. "You'll have it before morning, Headmaster."

"Excellent," Dumbledore smiled and rubbed his hands together. He certainly did seem to enjoy his plotting. Snape had always appreciated that aspect of Dumbledore's personality -- when it wasn't directed toward him or his love life.

Snape sighed. Dumbledore loved his holiday traditions. Hogmanay, Scottish New Year's eve, required that a tall, dark-haired man be the first person into one's home after midnight to ensure good luck all year. For years, Snape had been the only member of the Hogwarts staff to fit the bill. So he had crossly made the rounds of his colleagues' quarters at midnight on New Year's Night. Most were wise enough not to invite him in for cakes and wassail, although there were a few die-hards every year. Sprout, Vector, and Dumbledore were the only ones with whom he spent any time, usually leaving their quarters with a fifth of very good liquor or a pound of his favorite dark chocolate.

Dumbledore laid a wrinkled hand against Snape's hair. "I prefer the luck that you bring me, Severus," he said gently. "You can send Harry next year."

Then the Headmaster was gone and Snape was left standing outside his own door, trying to swallow around the thickness in his throat.

Brewing the Headmaster's request took several hours and calmed him considerably. This variation required just enough attention and skill to put him into a pleasant conceit with himself and his abilities again. Curing Potter had been a triumph of mastery, but he had been too exhausted and worried to actually enjoy the process. Whereas he was positively humming as he added the last ingredient to the Veritaserum Obliviosus -- three drops of oil of bergamot would make it blend perfectly and undetectably into a pot of Earl Grey tea.

It was just as he was bottling the draft that he realized that it had been many hours since his aborted breakfast and he was feeling a healthy hunger for food and fire and -- well, companionship no longer looked like it was an option, if Potter's snit was still in force. Summoning a house elf, he politely requested that a meal be served to him in his quarters as soon as the serum was delivered to the Headmaster's office. Snape was unfailingly polite to house elves, knowing full well the awesome annoyances they could be if they took it into their heads to dislike a person.

So, while he had no real expectations, he felt a peculiar lack of surprise when he entered his sitting room and found a small table drawn up in front of a cheerful blaze and Harry Potter moodily tearing a muffin to bits.

Potter looked up quickly, then dropped his eyes back to the pastry he was mangling. At least the man had shaved and cleaned himself up. With the Hangover Helper at work, he probably felt no effects from the previous night's overindulgence. A small mercy, Snape supposed. The memory alone ought to be enough to make him cringe for years.

Snape said nothing as he took off his robe and laid it over the back of a chair before taking his place across the table from Potter. It was mistake, he realized, reaching for the cup of tea Potter handed him. Without the crisp folds of dark cloth, he felt unarmored and exposed. Rather the way Potter looked without his glasses, now that he thought of it.

Neither of them spoke. Snape ate his belated lunch quietly and with fair appetite, despite a silence pregnant enough to hatch a basilisk. Potter stared into the fire and jiggled his left foot steadily in a way that would have made Snape drip acid on it only ten years previously. When Snape finally put his drained cup down on his emptied plate, Potter spoke.

Green eyes met his frankly and with a surprising calm in them. "Yes." Then, even more surprising, the Potter smile, open and just a touch wry. "In a few days, I'll probably even thank you for it."

Potter grinned and they lapsed into a friendly kind of silence. Snape relaxed into it enough to play a game with himself. He won - it was still twenty seconds short of the four minute limit he had mentally set for Potter's silent reverie to last.

"So, since becoming an Evil Overlord doesn't seem to be on the list any more, do you have any suggestions for what I ought to do with my life?"

"I think Headmaster Dumbledore would be a better person to guide you in this area, Harry."

Potter was watching him with a disturbing intensity now. It was disquieting enough that Snape felt the need to get up and lean against the mantel, turning his back on his companion and staring into the fire.

Of course he had. Dumbledore was always convinced he was right, no matter how far-fetched or disastrous the situation ultimately became. Snape gritted his teeth over that and meditated on Dumbledore's more irritating habits for a time, before he became aware that Potter was speaking.

"Do you think you could touch me without my being drunk, dying or temporarily insane?"

"It's what I meant." The irritating git shrugged his shoulders in a way that brought the boy he'd been forcefully to mind.

"I am not having this conversation with you, Potter." Snape turned away abruptly, heart hammering painfully.

"All right," Harry said agreeably. Then Snape felt an iron grip on his shoulder just before he was roughly spun around and shoved back against the mantel. His head bounced against the stone and he was actually surprised at how much it hurt.

As first kisses go, it was messy. Clumsy. His lips felt bruised, his head definitely was and Potter was trying to save the situation with guts and enthusiasm, as usual. Well, it wasn't going to work this time, Snape thought irritably. He got his hand between them and shoved until Harry's mouth left his and the younger man stood before him, panting and looking remarkably unrepentant.

"I never could get the hang of it," he admitted, voice rising to a breathless squeak as Snape pulled him back into his arms. Long, strong fingers tipped Harry's sharp jaw to the proper angle for kissing Snape without putting a crick in either of their necks. Much better the second time, he thought muzzily. And the third...

Harry Potter's body wasn't perfect. His skin wasn't milk-white or silk-soft. His ribs showed beneath winter-pale skin, skin as pale as fresh cut ash wood against Severus' dark sheets. A few bruises lingered, greenish shadows above his hipbones and on his shoulder. There was a shiny red patch high on his chest, above his heart, a healed dragon-burn. No, his body wasn't perfect.

Because Harry Potter's body arched beneath his hands, skin rippling over wiry muscles as he shifted, rose and fell according to Severus' touch. His callused hands skimmed up and down the older man's arms, stopping to grip tightly whenever Severus' mouth touched his throat. The third time Severus nipped at the sensitive spot above his collarbone, Harry's hands dug into his hair and yanked the older man's face up. Severus caught a momentary flash of green so dark it seemed black as Harry stared at him, panting and wild, then closed his eyes as he was kissed fiercely. The strong hand that slipped back to cradle his skull made certain that Snape couldn't do anything but be thoroughly kissed. A brief and dizzying moment as they rolled, then Severus was suddenly looking up at his half-naked lover.

Harry Potter was strong and exultant above him, straddling Severus' waist, his face half-shadowed in the firelight. Strong fingers began slipping the buttons of his coat free and Snape felt his chest constrict at the eagerness he saw in Harry's face. He wanted to speak suddenly, to warn him, to protect himself against the disappointment he knew he would see on that young face. There was no chance. Potter sketched one finger over his bottom lip, stroked once, then twice, then slipped his finger into Severus' mouth. The ticklish stroking on his tongue drove every other thought out of his head except the need to hear Harry's gasp when he began suckling on that finger.

He didn't even notice when his shirt slipped over the edge of the bed to join his vest and coat on the floor. The ridiculous business of unbuttoning boots and kicking off trousers finished off Severus' bout of self-consciousness. The smooth curves of Harry Potter's ass as he bent to remove his socks took Severus' attention back to where it ought to have been all along. With one strong hand, he tipped Harry back onto the bed, torn between laughter and lust.

What he noticed was the way Harry loved everything Snape did to him but said nothing, made no sound at all. Instead, his pleasure made itself known in the flex of his thighs against Severus'; in the way he nuzzled his face against Severus', asking for another kiss; in the strong grip of his fingers when they intertwined with Severus'. They rolled and thrashed their way across the bed and back again, striving against one another, sometimes giving control, sometimes taking it, but always silently.

There was, Snape discovered, a hot and shameful joy in being mastered by his former student, even if the illusion was momentary. But it was nothing to the rush of heat when that student knelt between his legs and brought his mouth to touch Severus' cock. And nothing like the tearing tenderness he felt when he had his hand wrapped around Harry's cock and felt the man's moans vibrate against his chest but heard nothing from the panting mouth open beneath his own.

After all the words they had thrown at one another over the years, there were no words for this. Nothing to say when Harry rolled onto his chest and spread his legs. Barely a grunt as Severus sank into heat and rare madness, Harry's fingers gripping the sheets above his head. Wordless as he laid his hands over the younger man's, their fingers interlacing and gripping tightly as he began to move.

They moved together, and it was silent and perfect and he knew it couldn't last very long. He yanked his right hand out of Harry's tangled grasp and wrapped it around his waist, fumbling for a grip on his lover's cock. He had barely touched him when Harry jerked and hissed his name in a long, slow whisper. Then Harry was coming and the very sound of his name from his silent lover's mouth pulled him over the edge.

Severus rested his forehead between Harry's slick shoulder blades and listened to the hitching harmony of their hoarse breathing. An interrogative murmur from beneath him recalled Severus to himself and he slid off of Harry's back, landing face down beside him. He could feel Harry turning to look at him and Severus wanted to groan - this was the part he was always terrible at – pillow talk. With a sigh, he opened his eye, the other still firmly mashed into the pillow where he had landed.

Harry was looking at him, a faintly wicked smile on those debauched lips. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair off of Severus' forehead but said nothing, merely smiled.

Severus finally lost his nerve, waiting for him to say something that would ruin the moment. "What?"

Harry said nothing, just hummed happily, kissed Severus on the nose and got up. He listened to the younger man stumble his way to the bathroom and tried to gather enough enthusiasm to turn over. He had barely managed it and was lying with an arm over his face when Harry came back to bed with a thump. A brisk wipe down with a dry flannel made Severus wince as still-sensitized areas protested the rough treatment.

There was a huff of laughter as Harry lay down again, yanking a handful of covers haphazardly over them both. "Are you always so formal after fucking someone, Severus?"

He made no reply. His lips twitched when he heard Harry say in a more hesitant tone, "Severus?"

He defended himself against the offensive tickling fingers by wrapping his arms around his lover and holding him tightly. A few kisses served to distract them both from the battle. Severus Snape fell asleep with a slightly sticky Harry Potter tucked against his side, laughter still echoing in his ears.

It was, of course, too good to last long. The pounding on his door not ten minutes later had him reaching for his wand, totally intent on cursing someone to death. He was halfway across the room before he heard Harry's amused snort. When he turned to deliver some scathing retort, his dressing gown caught him squarely in the chest. "You look more impressive dressed, Severus." Since there was nothing to say to that, he merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged into the worn velvet with as much dignity as he could muster. Damn Potter.

"Oh, Severus! Thank goodness you're all right! You are all right, aren't you? No trouble ...?"

"It's just that I was down in the village when the monitoring charm went off. I ran back as fast as I could and I was rather worried..." Her voice trailed off again and she stared at him with the oddest look on her face. He crossed his arms and scowled.

"Monitoring charm?" Only then did he notice the tiny blinking red light above his head.

"Yes," she said, now clearly flustered. "I forgot it was still active. It was a very simple one, just to keep track of your heart's action while it healed from the damage you did to it with your Perpessio." Her eyes kept darting over his right shoulder as she babbled. "When it started blinking so quickly, I was certain you had relapsed."

"It was not," he said with icy dignity, "the potion that did the damage. I have my rather unfortunate paternal heredity to thank for that. I am, as you can see, perfectly fine. Now, if there is nothing else?"

The mediwitch's fascinated gaze was fixed on something behind him as she mumbled the words to cancel the monitoring charm. Snape was beginning to have an uneasy feeling that he knew exactly who that something was. It seemed that his dignity was fated to suffer this Christmas, no matter what. "Good night, Poppy." He closed the door firmly in her face and turned around.

Harry Potter, lean and pale, was lounging in the doorway of Snape's bedroom. His trousers hung precariously off his narrow hips and his eyes gleamed beneath his tousled hair. He looked like the beginning of an especially shameful fantasy. The foolish smile on his face did nothing for Snape's affronted dignity, although it did warm him considerably after the dressing gown comment.

Harry pretended to consider this for a moment. "Or this might make it. After all, to have seduced the famously irascible Potions master of Hogwarts is something of an achievement, wouldn't you say?"

"Certainly. I am considered quite a catch; the trail of broken hearts leading to my door should have told you as much."

"If only to see that you wash behind your ears properly. And I am not irascible," Snape added, following Harry and watching with interest as those trousers slipped lower and lower.

Harry absent-mindedly yanked his trousers up, turned the water on, then sat on the side of the tub and looked up at Snape. "What would you call it, Severus? You're certainly not warm, cuddly and approachable."

Something new and rather raw inside Severus had been flicked one more time than he could stand this night. "Then why are you still here, Potter?" He crossed his arms and stared down at him.

Harry's smile faded as he watched Severus' face. "I'm here," he said quietly, "because there is nowhere else I want to be. I like you irascible."

"So you've told me. But you seem to like me that way." There was the faintest hint of uncertainty on Harry's face and Severus suddenly found it easy to say,

That faintly boyish smile on Harry's lips became a great deal more adult, especially when he stood up and let his trousers slither to the floor. He reached out and let his hand trail beneath the lapel of Severus' dressing gown, pulling it away with a heavy-eyed fascination that soothed the raw spots Severus had discovered inside himself.

In short order, Severus found himself nude and drawn down into the hot water to rest against Harry's chest. Soapy hands moved slowly across his skin; strong arms cradling him as the scented steam made him logy and reminded him that he needed sleep. He felt a pang of regret that he would have to disappoint his obviously keen lover; he was too tired and too sated to respond to those admittedly delightful caresses. But Harry was silent, occasionally pressing kisses against his damp temple or neck as he continued to stroke his hands down Snape's arms and across his chest. Severus began to understand this as yet another form of lovemaking for him, one which demanded nothing more from Severus than acquiescence.

In the same bewitched silence, Severus was drawn out of the cooling water and gently toweled dry. He crawled between the sheets once more and reached out to Harry, only to find himself drawn back down to rest his head on that strong young chest. Letting himself slide into sleep was far easier than saying any of the odd thoughts that floated through his mind. The last thing he felt was Harry's lips, warm and damp against his nose.

Potions making was the only thing that had ever run smoothly in Severus Snape's life. Almost from the beginning, he had had an awareness of the subtle interactions between ingredients, the astonishing range of effects that could be produced with only small variations of substances or magic. His nearly preternatural understanding of potions extended to nothing else in his life.

As a child, he had no clue how to handle his peers and as an adult, he no longer cared to try. Relationships confused him; the politics of the most minor interactions irritated him and robbed him of his peace. Teaching seemed to take most of his energy and all of his patience. He neither understood nor liked children; animals shied from him and plants in his care soon withered and died. Still, he was an intelligent man and experience had taught him well. So he had developed no particular expectations from the morning after sleeping with Harry Potter, other than that something would go spectacularly wrong and that Harry would recognize the mistake he had made soon enough.

As expected, he was alone when he awoke. His dressing gown was neatly laid across the foot of the bed, so he shrugged into it, ran fingers through his tangled hair and walked into his sitting room. Where he nearly tripped over Harry Potter, sprawled in a chair and reading a battered copy of "Dragons I Have Known" that Severus had forgotten was still on his bookshelves. The younger man was wearing those ridiculous flannel pajama bottoms and that wonderfully tight, deliciously ripped tee-shirt that had started all of this. Whatever Severus had thought he might say melted away in the face of the pleased expression on Harry's face at his appearance. Harry opened his mouth and said cheerfully, "Dobby!"

Severus felt one eyebrow climbing into his hairline. "I can only assume that you were never taught the proper etiquette in situations such as this one, Mr. Potter. In polite society, it is considered courteous to remember correctly the name of the person one has actually bedded."

The bemused expression on Harry's face was all he could have wished. Before the younger man could open his mouth to reply, there was a pop! and Dobby appeared with a large tray of assorted breakfast dishes. He conjured a folding tea table, placed the tray carefully on it, waggled his ears at Harry and disappeared again with a snap.

"Would you care for kippers or sausages, Professor Snape?" Harry said, eyes brimming with laughter.

Hard-pressed not to smile back, Snape seated himself and allowed Harry to pile a plate full for him. Tea was poured and half a cup drunk before he spoke. "You're up early."

He spent the time Harry was chewing and swallowing what appeared to be an entire piece of toast cursing himself for that faint hint of questioning in his voice.

"Tired," Harry finished with a roll of his eyes. He hunted amongst the dishes until he found the marmalade pot, then spent the next few moments spooning the orange mess onto another piece of toast. A secret smile played in the corner of his mouth.

"Crafting potions does seem to take it out of me," Snape agreed blandly, then reached for the folded copy of 'The Daily Prophet' that the house elf had tucked under the edge of the tray. When he realized that Harry was watching him intently, he sighed and handed over the Sports section in return for a refilled tea cup. There was peace, quiet and the rustling of paper for the next quarter hour.

So far, this morning after was going according to no plan he had ever experienced; he liked it. Of course, if he had done things as other people did, there would have been no peace this morning and precious little breakfast eaten. One of his eccentricities, and he admitted that he had a few, was that he tended to read the paper from back to front. Thus, he had finished a larger meal than he had eaten in nearly a week before he found himself staring at the front page. Once more, he was being confronted by a picture of Harry Potter glaring wildly at him as the headline screamed beside it,

There was more inane drivel and innuendo, but, although had made no sound, Harry was abruptly staring at him. He met Severus' gaze and his lips tightened, then he held out his hand. Severus handed him the paper and waited while he read the article.

There was a brief humming sensation in the air before Harry took a deep breath and it disappeared. "You're sure I can't kill him," Harry asked flatly.

"Quite," Snape said. "But there are a host of other options available to us. Be quiet and let me think."

Potter fidgeted with the dishes and flatware but Snape didn't snap at him. The soft clinking was a pleasant counterpoint to Snape's consideration of the most effective interrogation techniques he knew. Something niggled at him and he seized the abandoned newspaper. Skimming through it quickly, he found the factoid that had slipped through his admittedly less-than-stellar morning consciousness. In the Obituary Section, there was a small notation for one ...

"The Minister appears to be tidying up his loose ends rather neatly," Snape mused.

A not unpleasant surge of pure hatred poured through him as he considered who the next loose end might be. His heart suddenly thumped painfully in his chest and he once again cursed his despicably weak father. Harry handed him a potion-soaked sugar cube before he had even unclenched his fist. He sneered but accepted the medicine. The constriction in his chest became an unpleasant memory as the unavoidable headache bloomed and Snape and Potter brooded.

Potter was abruptly on his feet again and tossing a handful of Floo powder into the fire. "Ronald Weasley, Ministry of Magic."

Ron Weasley's face appeared in the flames but there was no trademark grin for his old friend. "Harry! Have you seen the bilge they're printing?" The greenish figure waved a crumpled copy of the newspaper. "It's utter shite and we have to do something soon, or..." Weasley broke off and stared for a moment. "How are you feeling? Is everything ok? They didn't find any more poison in you, did they?"

Snape got to his feet and joined Potter at the fireplace. "Weasley, is your Floo secured against eavesdropping spells?"

"Snape?!" Ron Weasley looked flummoxed at Snape's appearance for a moment, then visibly dragged his attention back to the question. "Yes, it's secured against any outside interference."

"That is not what I asked, Mr. Weasley. What about spells from inside the Ministry?"

The other man seemed to flush a slightly deeper green, then he made a decision. "I'm coming through," he said. In a moment, Ron Weasley stood before them, a smudge of soot on his chin and a grim expression on his face. He turned and barked a locking spell at the fireplace before asking, "What's this all about, then?"

"Ron," Harry said, "We think Fudge is moving against me. He's the likely one to have poisoned me and the man he used to do it suddenly died last night."

"Bloody hell," Weasley said, blowing out his breath. "I suppose that explains a few odd things Dad and I have been noticing lately."

It was apparent when he noticed one or two more odd things; he glanced rapidly between Harry and Severus, both in morning dishabille and wearing twin expressions of grim determination. With a slight head-shake to show that he didn't want to know, he said, "What's the plan?"

"That is presumably why Mr. Potter summoned you this morning, Mr. Weasley. We need a plan before Potter simply decides to obliterate the Minister and gets himself sent to Azkaban for his troubles." Snape's tacit acknowledgement of Ron Weasley's admitted strategic talents made him half-smile with satisfaction.

Harry lightly backhanded Snape's shoulder. "Like you wouldn't cheer me on and jump up and down on the bits that were left."

Snape glared at him fondly. "I did not say that. However, I would prefer to outmaneuver that idiot Fudge and see him sent to Azkaban in chains, cheering his downfall all the way."

"You know, you're really creepy when you get that look on your face, Snape," Ron commented. "And now Harry's got it, too!"

"Later," Snape said firmly. "The headmaster is expecting the Minister to tea in..." he checked the mantel clock, "five hours."

"Well, then," said the Auror in Ron, "let's see what we can come up with." His evil grin, had he cared to know, was distinctly reminiscent of the Potions master's own.

Snape had cause to be grateful to Ronald Weasley and his strategic abilities. Once he had stopped cursing Fudge as a traitor and a bastard, the young man had laid out the three most likely scenarios for the afternoon, then proceeded to plot exactly how to counter them all. He and Harry worked smoothly over a map of the castle, discussing vantage points and potential ambush sites.

"No. It's not their fault that Fudge is a murdering bastard," Ron said evenly. The six drops of Calming Draught that Snape had introduced into the pitcher of pumpkin juice had obviously worked to good effect. "But I need to assume that he will have ordered them to search the castle and to arrest Harry. So we need to place some harmless binding or sleeping spells here," he pointed with a nibbled quill, "and there. It's not like this lot is dumb enough to eat a couple of floating cakes packed with Sleeping Draught." The grin he exchanged with Harry was pure Boy and it recalled the past to Snape with a hiss. For a moment, he itched to take points.

He manfully restrained himself and said only, "Perhaps some Blind Alley Binding spells would be useful then. We could keep them harmlessly Confounded for several hours that way, no matter their intentions toward Mr. Potter."

"We might be able to pass them off as more of the castle's eccentricities," Ron said thoughtfully.

"And the Headmaster could swear under Veritaserum that he had done nothing to hinder the search," Harry commented. Severus wanted to sigh at the blind adoration the boy had for Dumbledore, all the while knowing that he himself was just as guilty as Potter. He, too, wanted to protect his mentor.

"Is there any chance you could get yourself assigned to the Minister's detail, Weasley?"

Ron shook his head. "None. Everyone knows Harry and I are best mates. Even if Fudge wanted me along for the media splash it'd make, I kind of shot my mouth off in the tea room. Told everyone who'd listen that Harry wasn't responsible for the cock-ups. And I might have gone a little bit mad when he got poisoned." He ran a hand through his hair and grinned ruefully. For the first time, Snape could see what the Granger chit saw in him. "No way Fudge'd trust any Weasley along on this one. Except Percy." The twist to his lips as he spat his brother's name showed what he thought of that.

"I don't think you should go back to work today, Weasley. As usual, your precipitate temper has made you conspicuous. If I am correct, you might find yourself sharing office space with Mr. Braisethwaite."

"Ugh. Not a nice thought, that." Ron was surprisingly unruffled by Snape's smirking jibe. "Guess I'd better get started on those spell traps, then." He rolled up the map and picked up his wand. "Maybe you two should get dressed, eh?" His knowing leer made Harry blush. "And take a bath, Harry-mate. You stink."

With a final smirk at Snape, Ron left. They could hear his tuneless whistle as he went down the corridor.

"Well," Harry said uncertainly, still flushed with embarrassment. Snape drifted over to stand beside him.

"It is the first time, I believe, that I have ever agreed with Ronald Weasley," he said absently running his fingers through Harry's tousled hair.

And before Harry's squawk of protest could manifest, Snape swiftly kissed him then turned him around and shoved him toward the bathroom. The outraged yelp he received in return for the swat on Harry's rump was all he could have hoped. The green glare promised revenge a thousandfold before the bathroom door closed on his young lover.

Ministry mayhem, a little applied potion testing, some confounded Aurors and the splashing of his lover in the bath; the day was showing a lot more promise than it had when he had first awakened. He squelched the impulse to whistle and went to dress.

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