Unexpected,
by Seeker. Rated
NC17. Just borrowing, don't own them. Hopefully nobody who owns these
characters will ever read it. I blame Alan Rickman for being so damned sexy.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Thirty years as a
Death Eater cum double agent and it came down to this. The venerated wizards
and witches of Hogwarts scattered all over the
Snape shook off
the distracting thought and dodged a burst of violent puce majick heading with
deadly intent for his head. Too close. Flying without benefit of broom behind a
nearby tree, he took stock of the battlefield.
Of
course. The only one in sight who
was nominally on his side was Harry Potter. Who was apt to deflect a
death-dealing curse onto Snape out of sheer frustration.
Perhaps he shouldn't have been so tough on the lad for the last decade or so.
Potter deftly
warded off three spells, assorted hardware and a tree branch the size of a
Great Hall Yule log without once losing his concentration or getting a scratch.
Snape grinned internally. No, he'd done what he had to do, and Potter could
handle anything thrown at him. Literally.
Then a flash of
gold and crimson caught his eye, and he cursed fluidly, disaparating and
reaparating between Harry and the spell. No one could stop that one. Leave it
to Voldemort to play as dirty as one could get.
And catch Snape
in the middle of it.
Fire hit him
mid-chest, throwing him off his feet and spinning him round mid-air. The last
thing he saw before the world drowned in pain was the look on Harry Potter's
face.
Disbelief.
The last thought
he had before his mind dissolved was, 'Of course he can't believe it. He never
understood what I tried to do for him.' Then agony crashed over him and the
last thing he heard was his own voice screaming.
<><><><><><><><><><>
One would think
after spending the last eleven years of his life consciously battling the
ultimate evil, and the first eleven in hiding from it, he'd be used to it. But one
never got used to such targeted malevolence. He hadn't ever grown accustomed to
it from his Muggle family, unnatural as they were, or from Snape, regardless of
his motives, and he certainly never became accustomed to the sheer hatred
Voldemort and his followers held for him.
Concentrating
fiercely, drawing on all the stoicism his difficult life had taught him, Harry
fought off attack after attack. He could sense the desperation in his enemies,
in large part from the increasing frenzy of the magickal and physical attacks
centering on him. None were fatal, but all of them hurt.
On his
seventeenth birthday, Voldemort had tried a direct assassination via magickal
attack, and everyone had been surprised at its sheer uselessness. Since
discovering that he couldn't kill Harry directly, he'd tried everything else in
the four years since to debilitate, seduce or immobilize Harry. When none of
them worked, he gave up on subtle and went for an all-out assault.
The denizens of
Hogwarts were dealing with the fall-out from that now. Harry scanned the area
quickly. He was deep in the
What a surprise.
Snape always
seemed to be there, making his life miserable when he wasn't saving it. At the
moment his mouth moved as he cast spell after spell, his hands moving so
quickly in the air they were a blur, eyes locked on Voldemort's followers.
Before Harry could get distracted by the usual attack/protect conundrum of his
relationship with Snape, which had gotten progressively worse since attaining
his majority, a tree branch the size of a boat nearly took his head off. Biting
his lip, he glared at the branch and it burst into a puff of ash.
Then spells were
zinging in at him from all sides again and he lost sight of Snape in the heat
of battle. Until he heard, "Bloody hell!" and out of nowhere Snape
materialized in front of him. Just in time to get hit with what looked like a
cannon ball of a spell. Harry stared in horrified fascination for a moment as
Snape's entire body seemed to expand and contract with the sheer power of the
spell, his screams echoing in Harry's ears, his eyes pinning Harry in place.
There seemed to be a plea in them, to make the sacrifice worthwhile, and Harry
felt his own scream bubble up out of his chest. Of rage, not pain.
Snape's agony
made an effective distraction to the attackers. Gathering every ounce of his
considerable power, Harry called on the universe itself to send the cancer of
Voldemort and his followers to hell where they belonged. For once, the universe
answered.
By the time the
silver sparkles cleared in front of Harry's eyes and his palms stopped burning,
the forest was conspicuously free of any evil presence. Charred spots in the
underbrush, along tree trunks, even in some upper leafy branches, attested to
the passing of Voldemort and his crew in a blaze of retribution. Harry felt two
hundred years old, not twenty, and as if he'd not slept in at least a century.
Staggering slightly, he wobbled over to Snape's body, lying sprawled on the
ground, and fell to his knees beside the corpse.
Who groaned.
Harry nearly
jumped out of his skin. Apparently Snape wasn't as dead as he'd feared. Even
magickal immersion couldn't kill him off. Gingerly, Harry placed a hand under
Snape's shoulder and gently turned him over onto his back.
Then he stared,
fascinated, at Snape's face. Snape's *young* face. The scowl lines and
permanent frown were gone. The sallow skin actually had a flush along the
cheeks. The thin lips were softer, and the lank hair had a sheen to it Harry'd
never seen before. He touched the fall of fringe across the high forehead,
surprised at its silky feel. His hand, of its own volition, traced the rounder
lines of Snape's cheek, the line of his jaw, the firm neck.
Leaning over to
get a closer look, Harry finally realized what had happened. Since Voldemort
couldn't kill him directly, he'd tried to do it indirectly, with an
age-reversal spell that would take a good quarter century off, effectively
erasing him from existence as it took him to a time before he was born. Only
Snape had flung himself between Harry and the threat, and borne the brunt of
the curse.
Grinning slightly
at the startlingly attractive, now-young man inches from him, Harry couldn't
help but think the curse had turned out to be a blessing.
In that instant,
the long dark lashes he'd been staring at flew open, and bright brown eyes
stared back at him, unfocused with shock and lingering agony. Of course. It must have been brutally painful, as every cell
in his body was instantly transfigured, regenerated and rebuilt. Then those
eyes snapped back into focus, intensely, on him, and the strangest thing
happened.
Snape smiled.
Then he kissed
Harry.
<><><><><><><><><><>
He must be dead.
Yes, that must be
it. He must be dead, and there was a God, and he was being rewarded for all his
empty years playing the villain by being embraced by Harry Potter.
No, wait. That
wouldn't be heaven. That would be hell. Because Harry was a
student. Who hated him. Who was convinced he
was hated in return.
But no, that
couldn't be right, either. Harry had graduated, was gone from Hogwarts. No,
he'd come back. To meet a final threat. Yes, that was
it.
Snape's memory
was fuzzy, but it was clearing as he lay there,
weirdly enough cradled in Potter's arms. Underbrush crackled beneath him, his
head was muzzy from the lingering aftereffects of whatever spell -- or lorry --
hit him, and every inch of his skin tingled. He felt more alive than he had in
decades, so he couldn't be dead.
And if he wasn't
dead, he wasn't in heaven *or* hell, Harry Potter wasn't his student, they'd
somehow survived the final assault, the forest was bright around him in a way
it hadn't been since he'd been a boy himself, and he felt vaguely drunk. Potter
was close enough to touch, so he did.
With
his lips.
It was insane, of
course. Even beyond the barriers of age and hierarchy, there was still the
lingering question of past emotional abuse, no matter how noble the cause.
Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to convince his body that it was a bad idea to
be kissing Potter, and Potter didn't seem to mind, either.
In fact, he was
actively participating. Kissing him back. Not like an
amateur, either. With enthusiasm. Feeling an
inexplicable urgency he hadn't felt in a very long time, Snape opened his mouth
and let Potter at him.
Got
more than he bargained for, too.
The tongue stroking along his knew what it wanted, and he echoed the sentiment.
Strength surged through him and he curled his arms around Potter's back,
shifting and rolling them over until he could comfortably blanket the warm body
with his own. It amused him momentarily that Potter was an inch taller than he;
he'd been glaring down at the boy for years, and he wasn't used to their
positions being reversed. Then Potter thrust up against him, pressure of a firm
erection bumping against his own, and he lost his train of thought.
Robes were in the
way, and soon shed. Trousers followed, shirts rucked up and underpants tugged
down, and Potter's hand on his skin felt like perhaps he was in heaven after
all. He broke their kiss to gasp for breath, and tried to mutter a protest when
Potter drew away, until Potter's mouth replaced his hand, and the protest
strangled before it could be uttered.
Whatever he'd
been doing when he hadn't been doing his homework had certainly paid off. It
hadn't *all* been fighting evil.
Mind zipping to
Ron Weasley and away again just as quickly, Snape managed to untangle one hand
from the grass he was clutching and reach for Potter's head. Whether to push
away or pull closer he didn't know, and had no time to decide, because his
orgasm was upon him, and Potter wasn't letting go. Snape's scream was much
quieter this time, no less heartfelt but much more pleasurable than earlier.
Gentle hands held
him, soothed him, and nudged his legs apart. Staring dazedly up into Potter's
flushed face, an expression of concentration in the glittering green eyes
staring back at him, Snape barely had time to blink before Potter was nudging
his thighs back together and thrusting between them. The friction against his
recently emptied testicles bordered on pain, but Snape had never been one to
shy away from pain. In his private moments he'd been known to enjoy it, and
this was an oddly private moment for a shag session in the middle of a forest
in the aftermath of an epic battle.
So he drew
Potter's face down to his, held the shaking body close
and kissed him as he shuddered through his climax. A last gasping moan into his
mouth, and Potter collapsed against him, tension draining from his body as he
fell into sleep.
Snape was almost
as exhausted, from the battle and the unexpected sexual encounter, but the
aftereffects of the spell were energizing him. He lay there for some time,
enjoying the weight of Potter curled atop him, until
he started to itch in places he didn't appreciate scratching. Sighing in mild
disgust, he carefully shifted Potter onto his side on their bunched robes.
Potter twitched once, then settled deeper into sleep.
Snape stared at him a moment longer, then pulled himself up and headed for a
nearby stream.
He kept Potter in
sight as he washed, wincing at the cold water but enjoying the slight sting.
Instinct told him the war was truly over, but he'd been on guard so long, and
guarding that particular young man so long, it was ingrained by that point.
Finally tearing his eyes away from Potter's sleeping form, he splashed water on
his face and glanced down into the little pool of still water by the bank where
he crouched.
What he saw
startled him so badly he nearly fell in.
Impossibly
young. Nearly
as young as young Potter. He blinked. Shook his head.
Narrowed his eyes and glared at his reflection.
The boy in the
water glared back at him.
His eyes widened
of their own accord. That had been one hell of a spell. A rustle behind him
made him freeze, and he saw Potter's uncertain face peering down at him over
his shoulder. Snape took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling an odd burning in
his cheeks. The uncertainty on Potter's face melted into a strange mixture of
defiance and lust. Snape glanced down at his reflection again and set his jaw.
Yes. He *was*
blushing. He hadn't blushed in decades. His teeth ground together. Closing his
eyes briefly, he opened them again with renewed determination. Rising,
circumnavigating Potter carefully so that they didn't actually touch one
another, he stomped as well as he could, being completely nude, over to their
clothes. He dressed quickly, ignoring his trembling hands, trying to ignore
Potter dressing equally as quickly less than a foot away. Watching
him.
Shaking out his
robe, tossing Potter his, Snape told the fabric bunched between his fists,
"We must never do this again. It is *wrong.*" He risked a glance at
Harry, paused with his robe falling off one shoulder. Snape's fingers tightened
against the strong urge to strip the robe right back off again.
The shoulder
shrugged. Snape's fingers clenched harder.
"I've been
breaking rules all my life," Potter told him softly. "I'm not going
to start following them now."
Stepping forward,
he gently tugged the robe from Snape's hands and helped him into it. Snape
stood there and allowed it, feeling strangely helpless. Before he could form an
adequate response, the sound of familiar shouts and trampled brush alerted them
to an incoming rescue party. Snape bit back a growl, and warned, "We'll
see about that!" as he glared as coldly as possible at Potter.
Potter, damn him,
grinned at him. Broadly. "The Glare worked better
when you were old enough to be my father. And when I didn't know what you look
like naked. Now we're of an age, I think it's cute."
Then he blithely
pecked Snape on the lips and turned to stride off toward the Hogwarts
contingent, calling out to them joyfully. Snape watched him go, the glare
down-scaling to a bewildered stare. Eventually, he gathered himself enough to
join Potter, regaling Dumbledore with a carefully edited rendition of the day's
events, ignoring the outcry over his own changed appearance. He stared at
Potter from under his lashes, caught between revulsion at being thought cute by
anyone and the sick conviction that this was one battle he was doomed to lose.
At least losing
this time wouldn't doom the world to evil.
He hoped.
The End