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The Forest of Bowland was considered something of a beauty spot, and popular as a destination for walking holidays. Parts of it were so picturesque that they were snapshotted on postcards in every village post office for miles around.
Snape had chosen the most unprepossessing part of it: scrubby moorland inhabited by suspicious-looking Swaledales with long, ratty tails. His ramshackle cottage that looked as though it had once been a shepherd's hut was at least halfway up the side of the valley, so the copious rain that fell this side of the Penines wouldn't flood it, at least.
Harry took a Portkey to the pub in the nearest village, and set off walking. It was late afternoon, so the pub was mostly empty; but there were several Muggles about, so he wore jeans and a thick jumper instead of his robes. He tramped across the gorse under a louring grey sky, and wrapped his scarf (enchanted with a Warming Charm) more tightly around his neck. There was a chill wind up here that seemed to pierce layers to find any fragment of skin not sufficiently bundled.
He considered not even knocking on the door: Snape knew to expect him, and he would know of Harry's approach from the numerous wards around the place. But he knew that if he waited for Snape to come of his own accord, he'd die of exposure first. Snape would never want to appear to have been waiting for Harry's visit.
So he knocked. Most Wizarding houses had a magical bell system; but not Snape's. It didn't even have a doorknocker, so any visitor was forced to chance their knuckles against the cracked green paint. The cottage didn't quite look derelict, but there was no care expended on 'keeping up appearances'. There was a general air of neglect - except for the total lack of weeds. Unfortunately, this did not make up for the bare stone, unrelieved by so much as a window box.
He didn't hear Snape's footsteps within before the door opened, which was presumably down to part of the immense and complicated system of wards cast on this place, which had taken both Snape and McGonagall's combined efforts. But the door glided silently open, to reveal a glowering Severus Snape.
For a man who'd died once, Snape managed to look less cadaverous than he had as Potions Master at Hogwarts. Harry was tempted to ascribe it to the bracing country air replacing the dungeons, but there was no reason to think Snape spent any more of his time outside than he had to. Every time Harry visited, there was a little more grey in his long hair, though his face didn't seem to age. He'd always seemed much older than he really was, before the War, so maybe his prematurely-aged face was simply being caught up by the rest of him.
"Morning, Severus," said Harry briskly, and watched Snape's thin lips thin a little more at the familiarity. "Nice to see you. May I come in?" To ask can I? would only invite semantic pedantry that Snape delighted in solely to try Harry's patience.
Snape stood aside. Harry entered the little cottage, taking off his gloves and stuffing them in his pockets. No change since the last time he was here. If an estate agent were trying to sell the place, the exposed beams and low ceilings would no doubt be described as 'charming period features'. Any wizard above average height must find it claustrophobic; Snape had to stoop a little under door lintels. There were undoubtedly far worse places to exile oneself to. And yet, it was not a house that encouraged one to spend time in it. If anything, it rather reminded Harry of a fairytale witch's house - the kind that kidnapped Muggle children to eat them.
Harry stepped close to the ancient range that squatted against the wall like a malevolent hellhound, to warm his fingers. There were herbs hung up to dry all around the rafters, as usual. He wondered if he dared fetch the kettle and put it on himself - he was dying for a cup of tea.
But Snape, recovering whatever vestiges of politeness had been drilled into him in his early life, waved the kettle to the stovetop and filled it with a muttered Aguamenti. No wand. There had been talk about not permitting one, but Harry had quashed that sharpish. He'd thought it better not to point out that if Snape really was some kind of triple-agent, he wouldn't even need a wand to get past most Aurors and out of the country.
They stood in silence as the kettle boiled. Harry would have been happy to sit down without being invited, but he preferred to warm his fingers at the range, which seemed to be the sole heating element in the whole cottage. Snape presumably magically directed the heat throughout, like most wizards with similar set-ups; but he hadn't bothered to do so for Harry's visit. Or perhaps he really just didn't feel the cold.
The silence rode the edge between awkward and comfortable. Snape was hardly a gracious host, even though he was now pouring the boiling water into a chipped red teapot. But despite that Harry ostensibly came to pick up potion ingredients - despite that he could have sent an owl - the gloomy world of the cottage was its own respite from the cares of the outside world. Snape wasn't nice, but he was predictable. And Harry, for no reason he could sensibly articulate, liked his company. Not for too long - Snape was too abrasive for that, and got more so the thinner his patience wore. But any excuse to stretch his visit to a whole afternoon excited and soothed Harry's spirit.
With the hot cup - floated over, as if Snape didn't want to risk their fingers brushing - warming his hands, Harry felt able to step away from the range at last. Snape made a sweeping gesture with a sarcastic sneer on his face that Harry took as permission to sit down. The sofa was about as ancient as the range, and surprisingly comfortable. It surprised Harry a little that Snape even had it: he plainly didn't want visitors, and it would be just like him to discourage them by simply not giving them a place to sit. But no, the sofa sat at a right angle to Snape's armchair, with a table between them filled with Potions journals upon which Harry and Snape could precariously balance their mugs - Snape might have a teapot, but Harry doubted he ran to cups and saucers.
Harry could have broken the silence - he usually did, once they were sitting down - but he'd been in meetings and arguing with people all week, and it was nice to shut up for a bit and drink his tea. Snape could make a surprisingly good cuppa. And Snape had picked up one of the journals to peruse, so if he was happy to ignore Harry in silence for a bit, Harry was happy to be ignored. He spent a few minutes reacquainting himself with the strange little cottage. It wasn't brutally tidy, but it wasn't what you'd call cluttered, either: everything had a place. It bore the hallmarks of single occupancy. It didn't quite achieve or indeed aspire to coziness or comfort, but there was something about it that Harry found pleasantly homely. Maybe it was that it suited Snape down to the ground. If Harry had been asked, as a schoolboy, to imagine where Snape might live outside his dungeon context, he probably would have envisioned something like this.
It was a far cry from Harry's house, crammed with personal effects, memories and obligations.
Harry felt warm, though Snape's living room wasn't especially well-heated: there was no fire in the grate. Snape's tea always had that effect on him. Sometimes he thought he tasted a hint of something smoky in it, like Lapsang Souchong. He knew that wasn't it, though he'd never found out exactly what it was. At first, he'd blamed it on Snape storing his tea next to assorted potion ingredients.
He drank more of the tea. He was aware of Snape watching him closely. There was nothing wrong with that. Snape's regard made his skin prickle in a not-unpleasant way. Harry pretended not to have noticed it, though he doubted Snape was fooled. Snape always knew when people were watching him, and frequently imagined so even when they weren't. It was part of what had made him such a good spy: he felt himself permanently under observation.
He felt pleasantly loose by the time Snape stopped pretending to read his potions journal and came to sit beside him on the sofa. He sat close to him, much closer than he had been to Harry since letting him into the house; but Harry wasn't alarmed. It wasn't frightening, once you knew what he was after.
Snape petted him - that was the best word for it. It didn't quite rise to the level of a fondle or a grope, not yet. He stroked Harry's hair, his face, his jumper-clad arm. It was all fine. His touch was exploratory, maybe even comforting. It was nice to be appreciated.
Of course, he would only be satisfied with that for so long. He was even closer now, so close they were pressed against each other all along their sides, and Harry could smell the funny spicy odour of fire-retardant, the stuff Snape brewed himself and applied liberally to his robes. Snape didn't wear Muggle clothes at all that Harry had seen, and it made him curious. As a half-blood, Snape had been raised in the Muggle world; but he'd shed his upbringing so comprehensively that Harry couldn't imagine him in a Muggle context at all.
The smell of fire-retardant gave him a hard-on. It always did, these days. He'd come across some at work last month, and had to conceal the resultant erection behind a desk until he could be sure of keeping his dignity.
So he had a hard-on, and Snape was practically on his lap, the stroking turning into something like fondling. He wasn't rough or anything, not pinching or pulling. But his cold fingers playing with the hem of Harry's jumper and the sliver of warm skin beneath made Harry shiver. Had he always liked a cold touch? The temperature difference sent tingles through him. He'd never wanted Snape to touch him before he'd started coming here, and he still wasn't sure he did now.
Snape liked to feel him up on the sofa a little, like a courting couple engaging in a bit of heavy petting. He never seemed at all concerned that Harry didn't reciprocate. If anything, Harry would say that reciprocation might upset him, frighten him. Harry wasn't meant to have desires of his own in this scenario. He just let Snape touch him up leisurely and relaxed into the gentle blood-throb of his own body.
He'd wondered a couple of times if, should the dose be a little higher, Snape would carry him to the bedroom. He could no doubt do it with a spell, and might even manage with his own strength, despite being thin: Harry was stocky, but only average height. The idea intrigued Harry, the idea of being literally carried to bed like a bride. If this had been about what he wanted, he might have asked for that.
But Snape simply tugged him upright, and led him - literally led him, long fingers wrapped around Harry's wrist - to the bedroom. He had a soft, affectionate look. Harry was obediently tugged along.
The bedroom was in much the same style as the living room: ancient-looking furniture that didn't match, books and journals all around, dim lighting. Harry liked it better than the living room, though, because of how personal it managed to be despite being so lacking in personal effects. Snape clearly didn't believe in putting up portraits or photographs, because there were none in the whole house; but there were his robes, there the book he was reading. His bedding was plain blue and cream where Harry would have expected dark colours; though the eiderdown at least was embroidered and dark green and didn't go; surely a gift, though Harry couldn't imagine from whom.
They sat down together on the bed, pressed up against each other once more. Snape wasn't brusque with him or rude; he wasn't soppy, but he was more affectionate than Harry could have imagined. He was solicitous of Harry, and undressed him with exquisite care. His dragonhide boots, almost inconspicuous when worn with Muggle clothes - off, and his socks along with them. Being barefoot made him feel acutely vulnerable, in a way he'd worry about if he hadn't drunk that tea.
His jeans - off. His warm jumper - off. Harry was down to his t-shirt, which seemed thinner than when he'd put it on this morning. He shivered when the cool air of Snape's cottage hit his skin, and felt his nipples tighten beneath the material.
Snape touched them through his shirt, delicately stroking his fingertips over the furled buds. That was another thing he could never have expected: that Snape would be so interested in parts of his body he had not previously considered erogenous zones. He played with them, pinched them, and a curl of warmth unfurled inside Harry's abdomen. When he got the rest of Harry's clothes off, he'd start sucking and biting them. Harry was embarrassed to admit even to himself how much he enjoyed that.
Snape - although he forced himself to address the man by his given name in conversation, he still thought of him as 'Snape', even when they were in a woozy clinch in bed - continued to fondle him, now moving to inch his cold fingers up under the hem of Harry's t-shirt. Harry was reminded of how sleeping with Snape seemed to have given him a fetish for cold temperatures, though he was sure that previously he'd always considered cold hands unpleasant and slightly inconsiderate in bed.
Harry felt slightly divorced from his body, as if he were regarding himself being touched up from outside it, perhaps floating somewhere near the low ceiling and looking down at the scene on the bed. Snape bent over him like a bat in his customary black robes. It was a menacing picture, as if Snape was meaning to use his supine body for some arcane ritual or sacrifice. Harry was struck by the contrast in their features: Harry himself looked so young beside Snape's grey-streaked mane and deeply lined face. The lines looked less like the soft webs of wrinkles and more like deep grooves carved into his face by care.
Snape continued to touch him unhurriedly, tenderly. Harry came back to himself gradually. Snape's breath was hot on his face, which seemed the most intimate part of the whole proceedings. Snape was watching Harry's expressions. Harry wished he wouldn't. It was more invasive than if he'd just looked at Harry's passive body. His body, Harry had handed over more-or-less willingly; to nobody did he hand over his mind. By this point, Snape knew quite enough about Harry's true feelings.
Snape kissed him, finally. Harry twined his arms about Snape willingly. It was almost like normal foreplay, like something he recognised of the sex act. Snape didn't taste of any of the horrid things Harry had assumed he must do during his time at Hogwarts - because he had thought about it, had joked about it in the common room while they were all complaining about how much homework Snape set and what a bully he was and how repulsive he was in personality and appearance. As it happened, they'd been completely correct: Snape had not been suitable to put in charge of a classroom, and everybody - Snape included - was much happier with the Potions Mistress brought in hastily to replace him after the War.
Snape's kisses had got better since they'd started doing this. Harry was reasonably certain - though he'd never asked Snape about it - that Snape had barely kissed anybody before. So Harry, to save himself from a great deal of unpleasant face-slobbering, had taken it upon himself to teach Snape how to kiss, by example. And Snape, to his credit, had paid attention and learnt. By now he was adept at kissing Harry in the way he liked best: deep, often sucking at his lips, and with plenty of tongue. It wasn't delicate, but it had a certain finesse. Harry kissed him back enthusiastically. If anything, he would describe Snape's earliest attempts at kissing as reverent, and there was still the edge of something in his touch that spoke of cherished care.
Kissing also made Harry randy, randier than the touching alone, because it felt like he was really getting involved with sex rather than just getting touched up by his weird former teacher. The kissing even made it a little sexy that it was Snape, instead of slightly repugnant. Harry wouldn't claim that he'd fantasised any teacher-student romance back at Hogwarts, but it had the thrill of the transgressive. (He had had a few thoughts about how they might have passed the time in Potions detentions far more pleasantly, had Snape expressed any interest at the time - but only well after that time had passed. He'd often wondered whether Snape's sexual interest in him had begun at school; but there was no way he could ask Snape.)
So they kissed and canoodled on the bed a bit, and Harry spread his legs and let Snape settle between them. It was leisurely, almost nice, if you could forget that it was Snape. And that was very difficult, because it definitely was Snape, down to that smell of fire-retardant potion that had turned into an aphrodisiac for Harry - the same potion as he'd smeared on himself at school when working with anything flammable, which was to say any potion Neville Longbottom tried to brew. Poor Neville - he'd actually got quite good at Potions when he'd gone back to get his NEWTs and been taught by Professor Mafalda Faircross instead of Snape. Not being in constant fear had improved his recall dramatically.
At last, Snape moved to get Harry's t-shirt off him entirely. Harry always felt conflicted at this part, because he did want to get this over with faster; yet he also didn't want to expose his chest to Snape's burning gaze. It wasn't that he thought Snape would judge his physique harshly, as he would have assumed back at school; he just always felt very vulnerable when Snape looked at him.
He suspected that Snape rather liked Harry feeling vulnerable - if he gave much thought to Harry's feelings on the matter at all. He was careful, tender, solicitous of Harry - and Harry knew damn well that it wasn't really for his benefit. He wasn't too stupid to recognise why Snape preferred to do it this way, gazing deep into Harry's eyes.
He often wondered exactly how satisfying this could really be for Snape. There were potions that could effect temporary superficial sex change, which would surely have made things a bit more convincing; but Snape had never made him one, nor cast glamours on him. He took Harry looking exactly as he did. He looked over Harry's flat chest with lustful interest. Maybe that was how it really worked: silly Snape, loving a woman but desiring men. Maybe. What did Harry really know? He liked to think he had privileged access to Snape's psyche, after their Legilimency lessons; but that had been a long time ago.
He was always alert to Snape, whether they were in bed or not. Snape only had to be in the same room for Harry to be hyperaware of him. While Snape would appear content to read a newspaper or, more usually, a book or journal, Harry sat there unable to concentrate on anything but Snape's sheer presence.
Snape had turned to kissing and biting Harry's nipples - the bit Harry liked, and would not have known he liked without Snape showing him, which unsettled him. Normally, he would have been eagerly encouraging a partner - but he stayed passive, the way Snape preferred him. He wouldn't be able to help himself, later, so he tried to 'behave' in the earlier stages. Snape's tea had relaxed him, but by no means incapacitated him. He let Snape pay his attentions and press his hooked nose against Harry's chest. It was slightly ridiculous to look down to see Snape attached to his flat chest; so Harry turned his gaze to the rafters and let the sensation carry him away.
He was down to his underwear, and it was hardly surprising when Snape caught the waistband and began to pull it down - of course he would need to finish undressing Harry. But always the hot touch of panic settled around his throat. Why had he let Snape-?
The panic subsided. Snape's fingers had got warmer while they were touching Harry, as if they were sharing his body heat. Being naked in front of Snape wasn't frightening, just slightly embarrassing, especially when his erection came free. They done this - how many times had they done it? Enough for Harry to lose track. And he still got embarrassed when he found himself lying on Snape's bed with no clothes on, Snape looming above him still fully dressed.
He watched Snape's face as he took Harry's cock in his long-fingered hand. Snape evinced no reluctance, and the first couple of times they'd done this, Harry had got the feeling he'd done this before - not on himself. Harry had never had reason to contemplate Snape having a sexual life before, and the idea of him seeking out casual sex with other men had haunted his idle moments for weeks. He hadn't been mind-blowingly good, or anything; it just hadn't been quite as awkward as Harry would have expected.
Looking at Snape handling his hard cock made Harry feel like he was looking at an optical illusion, one of those where you had to cross your eyes to make it into a picture. If he looked one way, it was Snape; if he looked the other way, it was a dark-haired stranger. It was good, anyway: Snape had got enough practice in what Harry liked. He knew to be gentle with the foreskin and to rub the that spot just underneath the head where it joined the shaft. It was nothing Harry hadn't done to himself plenty of times, and with more skill too, but it was always different having somebody else touch you. Harry could hear his own heavy breathing.
When Snape started sucking his cock, Harry closed his eyes. It had frightened him, at first, that he might be required to reciprocate; but Snape never asked. If he closed his eyes against the sight of Snape's dark head between his legs, the rafters above him, it could be anyone's mouth, anyone's long hair brushing his inner thighs. The noises...the room was so quiet that the wet sucking noise of Snape's mouth seemed embarrassingly loud. Harry let his body move as it liked against the hot suction: Snape would only hold him down with an arm across his belly if he got too violent. His mouth was open and he was letting out soft noises, not quite moans. He knew Snape could hear them.
Snape was confident about this, even eager for it. He took Harry's cock deeper into his mouth, and when Harry looked down he could see his own cockhead making a bulge in Snape's cheek. Then Snape took it deeper, almost all the way to the root, and Harry let out a shuddering sigh.
He'd come in Snape's mouth a couple of times, and Snape had simply swallowed the bleachy semen, which was where Harry would have drawn his line. At least he hadn't kissed Harry afterwards. Harry was studiedly passive and accommodating during these encounters, but he would have had to turn his face aside.
Shuffling, the bed dipping and creaking. Harry shifted back up the bed and his cock slipped out of Snape's mouth, looking red and wet and obscene there between his thighs. He disliked that sessions with Snape made him think these things about his own body, as if it were a stranger's. It was as if there were two bodies: one was the one Harry knew, the other the body to which Snape was making love.
He found it difficult to look at Snape's face: the flushed cheeks, the thin lips reddened, and the look in his glittering black eyes - it was all too much to bear. But he couldn't bear to look down either, to see where Snape had got his cock out of his robes. He'd never seen Snape undressed, and for the life of him he didn't know why. Did Snape suppose you generally did it with your clothes on, in case you had to made a hasty exit? Was he shy about Harry seeing him naked? Was this him being kinky in some obscure way Harry didn't recognise?
So he watched Snape watch him, looked at Snape looking deep into his eyes as the blunt head of his cock pressed against Harry's hole. Harry took a deep breath.
Penetration was easy. Harry had thought that might be a side-effect of whatever Snape put in his tea, but he'd looked it up and it looked like nothing of the sort existed. (If it had, the twins would no doubt have delighted in using it in their tricks.) His body simply accepted the intrusion. This was the part that always unsettled Harry, even scared him. He didn't want Snape to do this to him, why had he come, why had he not dashed the mug of tea on the stone floor -
Snape thrust, and Harry's mind dissolved.
The worst part was, it was good. Snape didn't even have the decency to be embarrassingly quick and get it over and done with. No, he continued being attentive. It wasn't the touch of a practised lover, nor even an objectively skilful one; but Snape knew exactly how to play Harry's body. He had done it with him often enough and Snape was certainly no fool - and he was absolutely focussed on making Harry appear to enjoy himself.
It wasn't out of altruism, nor the normal desire to please a partner. It was something closer to worship. He had learnt what Harry liked and he deployed it like a burglar picking a lock. Harry was sure he'd never been able to come just from being fucked, even fucked with far more experience and skill: but he did now, every time, as if something inside him had been reshaped to be the perfect fit for Snape. Surely it was only the strangely spiced tea talking.
After they were done, Snape would hold him. That was the part Harry liked most, the part he kept coming back for. The sex was amazing and frightening at the same time, but the tenderness afterwards was the real reward.
Snape had never let himself say the name that hung between them. Maybe he thought it too crass, or too desperate. But Harry knew it, and Snape must know he knew.
If you had self-respect, he told himself, you wouldn't come back here. You know how it always ends.
But he did keep coming back, every month or so, under the flimsy pretence of picking up ingredients and 'checking up' on Snape. And he could go and write a note in Snape's voluminous file after this, a note that Snape was as surly as ever but still willing to procure ingredients and brew complicated potions in exchange for an allowance and being left alone. It was the same note he'd been adding for the past three years, and it was still true. The department thought he was soft on Snape out of admiration for his devotion to the cause, and he'd never given them any reason to think otherwise.
He'd started coming to get stories about the dead. They weren't nice stories, coming from Snape, and Snape didn't really want to retell them; but he was the only member of that generation left alive to tell them, so Harry bothered him until he got unflattering tales about his parents and their friends. That was fine: it made them sound like real people, at least, rather than sanitised heroes. He also got stories from McGonnagall as a kind of antidote to the bitterness; but she was busy, while Snape was only so busy as he chose to be.
But he'd had to give Snape something in return. Some compensation for annoying him, taking up his time, making him recall things he didn't want to recall. He didn't want money, he didn't want public honours - but then, Harry had never expected him to request either. He'd been so curious about what Snape could want from him that he could possibly provide.
So he drank Snape's smoky tea that made him feel warm and relaxed and randy. So he let Snape fondle his body and pretend it was somebody else's. So he let Snape fuck him and bring him to earth-shattering orgasm - it was barely even a hardship, any more. His body had got used to it, perhaps, because even though he wasn't attracted to Snape, the sex just got better and better, to the point where sex with other people was less and less satisfying. He wanted this sex, and he wanted it all the time.
Maybe Snape had seen something in him, the well in him waiting to be filled up with desire, and taken the opportunity. Maybe Snape knew something about him that Harry himself did not recognise. Maybe Snape had even changed something in him, pressed some button, turned some dial. Because no matter how conflicted or unnerved their encounters left him, he kept coming back for more.