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Severus Snape strode up the staircase and around a corner into the corridor. Something slightly out of place, a sense of furtive activity, made him pause, and he faded into the shadows in the way that only he could. He watched as a blond head emerged from a doorway. Draco Malfoy looked right and left before stepping out of the Room of Requirement. A delicate flush brightened his cheeks. His silver-blond hair, usually so perfectly combed, was ruffled. He straightened his robes, nodded sharply to someone behind him, and walked swiftly away in the direction of the Slytherin wing. Snape smiled to himself. This could be interesting. He waited in a state of rare anticipation, wondering who could entice young Malfoy into a clandestine meeting on this Saturday evening.
Out of the room came an equally rumpled Harry Potter.
Snape remained leaning against the wall, long after Potter had vanished into the depths of the castle. Shock reverberated through his mind and body. His own reaction was almost more intolerable than the revelation that Potter had had a tryst with Malfoy. Snape was shocked on so many levels. How had the two boys – no, the two young men, they were seventh-years now – either overcome, or hidden, their animosity so thoroughly that they had deceived the entire school? Snape called himself a spy, yet he had not known that the Wonder of the Wizarding World, whom he was meant to watch for both his masters, was in a relationship. With Draco Malfoy, his own godson, no less! Snape was livid. Snape was so angry that he could barely breathe. It did not help that he could not decide if he was most enraged with himself or with Malfoy. How dare he? How dare he put those aristocratic young hands anywhere near Potter?
Snape’s progression down to his realm in the dungeons was marked by massive loss of house points. This was hardly a rare occurrence, for Snape’s moods had deteriorated as his position as a spy for both the Light and the Dark became more perilous, but this time Slytherin lost as many points as Hufflepuff and even more than Gryffindor. Snape took points for loitering, for running, for walking fast, for getting in his way, for cluttering up the corridor and just for being there.
Snape’s bottle-hurling rages were legendary at Hogwarts and his petty malice was a marvel of spiteful sarcasm. Today, Snape could out-tantrum Voldemort himself. He smashed glass-ware, shrieked his loss and rage in the well-warded privacy of his potions workroom, then spent twenty four hours attempting to distract himself by brewing complex potions – very badly – and then dumping the lot. He emerged on Monday morning in an icy, brittle silence that in anyone else would have been a sulk, but which resulted in everyone from first years to Headmaster tiptoeing around him. He had a stomach ache, but unfortunately it was only bad enough to make him feel malignant. He almost hoped that it would turn into an incapacitating migraine before seventh year potions, but no such luck.
He watched Potter and Draco throughout the practical lesson. There were none of the signs he expected; no fleeting smiles, no coy glances shared over the cauldrons. He was reluctantly impressed by their self-control. At the very end of the lesson, he made his rounds to check their potions. He gazed down into Malfoy’s almost perfect brew and sneered.
“Too pale in colour, Malfoy. Five out of ten.” The young man looked utterly bewildered and Snape swirled away, having to restrain himself from throwing a hex. “Miss Granger. Slightly too dark. Seven out of ten.” He forced himself to approach the bane of his life, staring down into the delicate blue-green liquid with its silvery haze and iridescent sheen. He sniffed, his highly trained nostrils detecting a perfectly brewed example of the anti-arthritis potion that he had himself invented. He could feel Potter’s gaze upon his lowered head, he could almost smell Potter, under the faint tang of the potion, the scent of his after-shave or soap, the clean, young maleness of him. His jaw clenched. “Did you add peppermint, Potter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“To disguise the taste of the bitter aloes, sir.”
“Next time, use spearmint. Seven out of ten.”
He heard Potter suck in a breath but the young wizard was not foolish enough to answer back; not when Snape was in such a temper that his students could almost see the fumes rising from his potion-dampened hair. He dismissed the class and left the dungeon, silently following as they went outside for their break. Potter and Granger met up with Weasley as usual. Malfoy went off to find a drink with his henchmen. Each group entirely ignored the other.
He kept watch for the rest of the week, and on Wednesday evening his patience was rewarded. Malfoy left the Slytherin common room after dinner, walking neither furtively nor over-confidently, up to the Room of Requirement. Potter arrived five minutes later. Snape sat down to wait.
A vestige of conscience, or maybe just unexpected embarrassment, prevented Snape from challenging them when they emerged. Once again, hair was messy, clothes dishevelled and faces becomingly flushed. Snape felt sick. What could he say or do? There was no rule that prevented two seventeen-year-old wizards from shagging like mink if they wished to. If Snape dragged Potter – Great White Hope of the Wizarding World – in front of the Headmaster for this, it was Snape who would look the fool. Snape, the bitter old Potions Professor, jealous of their youth, their looks, their ability to fall in and out of lust and love. Jealous of Malfoy. Unable to bear the thought of that tongue between Potter’s rosy lips. Wondering if Malfoy’s patrician cock had yet plundered Potter’s tight young arse. Snape was growing hot and flustered over a boy with messy black hair and eyes like green peridots. He was unsure if he hated himself or Malfoy the most. Potter could not belong to Malfoy because Potter, damn him, was Snape’s. Wasn’t he?
Twice a week, Malfoy and Potter, without exchanging any signs beforehand that Snape could detect, met up for their rendezvous. It seemed a curiously business-like arrangement. Maybe that was it. Had they agreed, coolly and dispassionately, that they were in no position for emotional entanglements and had come to a mutually satisfactory compromise? He could imagine Malfoy settling for a purely physical relationship, but Potter? Hot-blooded, restless, passionate Gryffindors surely wanted more than just sex.
Snape did not sleep well at the best of times. He dared not resort to sleeping potions for fear of being caught napping when Voldemort required him, so he began to look more and more like a badly-nourished vampire. He did not care, brushing aside the concerned enquiries from his fellow professors with more than the usual snarling and sarcasm. He might one day come to forgive Malfoy but forgiving himself seemed impossible. Why did he have to care? Potter had always been out of his reach, so why did this hurt so much?
Exhaustion and despair drove him to extreme measures. The following week, he restrained himself, taking only two points each from Malfoy and Potter for imagined faults in their potions. He looked down into the Granger girl’s spotless cauldron with its immaculate potion, and snapped “Ten out of ten. Remain behind, Miss Granger. Class dismissed.”
Hermione Granger, who had learned common-sense to go with her academic prowess, waited silently before his desk. He could barely bring himself to look into her brown eyes.
“Miss Granger, as you are aware, I am responsible for keeping watch over your illustrious classmate. This is not an easy burden to bear, given our mutual antipathy and Potter’s tendency to sneak around where he should not and break rules right, left and centre. In order to once again pre-empt disaster, kindly tell me, what is the relationship between Potter and Malfoy?”
The young witch went an interesting shade of pink.
“I – I’d say that they were school-yard enemies who’ve grown to tolerate one another, sir.”
“Really?” He stood up, folded his hands behind his back and paced across the dungeon, and then came back to stand just a little too close to her. He was a master at ominous looming. “Is that why they meet up twice a week in secret, to emerge flushed and rumpled an hour later? Interesting.”
She gaped, her astonishment perfectly clear. It changed to poorly repressed indignation as she glared at him.
“I’m one hundred percent sure that there’s nothing going on between them, Professor Snape. What’re you insinuating?”
“Insinuating?” His voice was a whisper of silk over the edge of a steel blade, the guileful slither of a serpent. “I do not insinuate, Miss Granger. Ten points from Gryffindor for insolence. Now get out.”
When she had gone, he sat down and laid his arms on his desk, then rested his head upon them and groaned.
oooOOOooo
Typically, the summons came during the night. Snape stuck his head in the Floo to warn Dumbledore and hurried out of the castle, casting a quick charm to ensure that anyone looking out of a window would see only the shadow of a cloud that crossed the moon, not a Potions Master wearing Death Eater robes and clutching a mask. He knew that he was being dangerously indiscreet but he no longer cared. He wondered if he ought to confide in the old Headmaster, confess his miserable secret and his resulting depression. Dumbledore would probably twinkle at him and grin. He could not bear the thought of the accompanying confectionery.
As usual, he was forced to apparate to one of the regular rendezvous points where he was handed a Portkey. Voldemort’s paranoia made life more difficult for his own people than for his enemies. This time, he found himself in a huge stone hall with heavy pillars and a vaulted roof, perhaps an old Muggle church. Voldemort was enthroned upon a great carved wooden chair, stroking one finger across his reptilian mouth as he waited impatiently. Snape glanced around at the usual suspects, then frowned as a figure materialised nearby. Something about the slight build and arrogant set of the head unsettled him. Once Voldemort considered that they had waited long enough, he gave his lipless sneer.
“Welcome, my friends. A special welcome to our newest recruit.” A languid hand indicated the slim figure, who stepped forward and bent one knee.
“My lord,” Draco Malfoy murmured.
Snape’s heart almost faltered and cold sweat sprang out over his entire body. He had been so sure that Malfoy had committed himself to the side of the Light. He stood as still as stone, while his keen mind made lightening-fast connections, and he felt more and more desperate.
“Are you ready to take my mark?” Voldemort enquired, sounding almost good humoured.
“I am, my lord,” Malfoy said steadily, “But as a symbol of my good faith, I would first like to bring you a gift. Maybe it will make up for my family’s marked lack of success in your lordship’s service.”
“And what can you possibly bring me that I could not grasp for myself, young Malfoy?” Voldemort sounded dangerously bored.
“Harry Potter, my lord.”
Voldemort stiffened in his seat.
“How?”
“If your lordship would grant me use of a direct Portkey, I’ll bring Potter here, alone. I’ve built up a trusting relationship with him. He won’t suspect me.”
“Is this true, Severus?”
Snape flinched, licked his lips, and forced himself to speak as if he did not care.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Very well. Wormtail, give the boy a Portkey.”
Pale grey eyes, so like Lucius’s, flickered in his direction.
“I might be a couple of minutes, my lord. I must ensure that Potter is alone.” Malfoy bowed, reached for the Portkey and flicked out of sight.
Voldemort looked down at the great snake, twining slowly around his feet. “Interesting,” he whispered. “So, Malfoy fils wishes to buy his way into my favour.”
“He’s ambitious, my lord,” someone remarked, “for one so young.”
“Indeed, but if he can pull it off, he will have achieved more than the rest of you put together.” Voldemort bared his pointed teeth. “Why have you not done as much, Severus Snape?”
Snape bowed.
“My position as a spy, my lord – ”
“Your position as a spy!” Voldemort sneered, “Yes, yes, we have heard all this before. You begin to bore me. How many times have you come across Potter in the corridors or classrooms of Hogwarts? Why have you not offered to do the same as this child?”
“The risk is great, my lord.”
“Coward,” Voldemort whispered. “Well, we shall see. If Malfoy fails in his endeavour, I shall be merciful, but if he succeeds, then I shall consider that you have failed me. You know how I dislike failure, don’t you?”
“Yes, my lord.” Snape began to wonder if there was any way in which he could take out Voldemort before he lost his own life. He was doomed. So were Malfoy and Potter. How the hell had this happened?
Voldemort was talking again, to Bellatrix this time, and Snape tuned out the conversation, thinking frantically. Why had Potter been stupid enough to trust Malfoy when the two had hated each other since their first meeting? What had caused Malfoy to turn without any warning?
The distinctive rushing sound of a Portkeyed arrival brought him back to the present, and the sight of a reeling Harry Potter, trapped in Malfoy’s arms. Draco Malfoy had a look of pure, unfeigned triumph on his pale face; Potter just looked stunned. The Death Eaters gasped, and a thicket of wands came up to point at the flabbergasted Boy Who Lived But Not For Much Longer. Voldemort let out a huge sigh that gusted around the room.
“My lord,” Malfoy said, his voice clear and steady, “I give you – Harry Potter! And there’s more.” He snatched Potter’s wand and stepped away from the young wizard, leaving him alone, doomed and heartbreakingly vulnerable in the centre of the open space. “My lord, there is a spy in the ranks of your Death Eaters.”
“Yesss, I have suspected as much for some time,” Voldemort agreed, white skin gleaming. “Tell me, my boy.”
Malfoy looked straight at Snape. Something in the young man’s eyes prevented Snape from moving or speaking or even breathing, an unspoken message so at odds with the entire situation that it did not make sense. “Trust us!” Malfoy’s mind was full of those two words, presented for anyone with the slightest hint of Legilimency to read in his eyes as he met Snape’s gaze.
“Professor Severus Snape.” Malfoy walked swiftly to stand face to face with Snape, that message still there, silvery eyes wide with unspoken pleading. He held his own wand confidently, Harry’s tucked under his arm, and he reached out and commanded “Your wand, sir?”
As if under Imperius, Snape handed over his wand. Malfoy gave the tiniest possible nod, and then jerked his head, indicating that Snape should go to stand with Potter. This was how Snape had always expected it to end, although the cold hand that crept into his and squeezed, was a surprise. Under cover of their robes, Potter seemed to be trying to console his hated professor with the touch that Snape had always feared and wanted in equal measure.
“Your silence speaks volumes, Severus,” Voldemort said in a soft hiss. “Ah me, what a day of revelation!”
“My lord,” Malfoy cried, triumphant, “For your greater glory!” His chest heaved as he threw back his head, then he flung himself to his knees. “My lord, their deaths shall be at your pleasure, of course, but may I be allowed to cast the first non-lethal curse?”
Voldemort laughed, a terrible, tearing sound.
“My little Death Eater, you are truly a shining jewel of a Malfoy! Very well.”
“Because I have not a fraction of your lordship’s mighty power,” Malfoy said more calmly, getting up again, “May I have Nagini beside me? So that neither of them can get past my feeble defences?”
Voldemort merely waved his hand, and the great snake undulated its way to Malfoy’s feet. Potter let out a sigh and Snape glanced around. The teen’s eyes were very bright. Snape wondered if his mind was breaking under the threat of agonising death, because Potter seemed to be laughing inside, but they must have been just the tears of shock and grief.
“So silent, Potter?” Malfoy sneered, “No ranting or cursing?” He walked, the snake moving with him, so that he stood slightly to one side of the clear space.
“No, Draco,” Potter said. His voice sounded very small. “I trusted you.”
A few Death Eaters laughed. Snape shut his eyes.
“Are you ready, Potter? Professor Snape?” There was a curious emphasis on the title that might have been mocking but could have been heard as something else, something like respect. Snape opened his eyes again. That was what Malfoy had been waiting for. “Now!” he snapped and all hell broke loose.
Later, Snape pieced together what had happened in that instant. Malfoy tossed Harry’s and Snape’s wands to Snape with a flick of his wrist. At the moment they left his grasp, he transformed into a hooded length of sinuous muscle and bone, a king cobra, greatest of the poisonous snakes, who struck downwards and buried his fangs deep into the thickest part of Nagini’s body. Meanwhile, Snape was thrust to the floor by the towering monster that was Potter’s animagus form. He stared up, trying to make sense of the wide dark wings and the overwhelming brilliance that exploded towards Voldemort. The magical flame, expelled with all the power of which an enraged Hebridean black dragon was capable, blasted the Dark Lord’s blazing remains high into the air. The sound of multiple curses brought Snape back to his senses; he scrabbled for his wand on the floor, raised it and began sending counter-curses and hexes for all he was worth.
The cobra writhed away from the thrashing coils of the dying Nagini, transformed back into Malfoy, ducked under the dragon’s wing to bring himself between Snape and the black scaly body, and yelled “Harry!” The dragon shrank back into a pale and gasping Potter; Malfoy seized Potter’s wand, grabbed the young wizard with one arm and Snape with the other, and activated the Portkey to yank them away from the vortex of diverse and conflicting curses
They landed in a heap of tangled limbs. Snape did not care where he was; he lay on his back, dizzy and shaking. When he saw an upside-down head with a long white beard, blue eyes peering down through spectacles, he clapped a hand over his mouth before he exploded into hysterical laughter.
“Got him!” Malfoy panted next to Snape’s ear.
“Bastard’s fried to a crisp!” Potter added.
“Fuck,” Snape muttered, not caring that Minerva McGonagall clicked her tongue at him. She leaned down and held out a hand, which Potter used to get himself to his feet. Snape realised that the uncomfortable thing he was lying on was Malfoy, and started to struggle upwards. Dumbledore took his arm to help him.
“Are you all unhurt?” the Headmaster enquired anxiously.
“I think so,” Snape told him. “However, I have never been more…” he paused, “more terrified, furious, unnerved – how DARE you pull off something like this without warning me, you meddling old bastard?
Dumbledore’s benign smile was truly scary.
“I’m sorry, Professor Snape,” Malfoy said hesitatingly.
“For?”
“Blowing your cover like that, but I had to do something to impress him enough that he’d let me get near the both of you and Nagini.”
“You got the snake too? Well done!” Dumbledore exclaimed.
“Dozens of Death Eaters got away,” Snape snapped.
“No, sir,” Potter said almost apologetically, “When Draco Portkeyed here, I was waiting for him. That gave Professor Dumbledore a couple of minutes to make a copy of Voldemort’s Portkey. The Ministry is using the copy now to send in groups of hit-squad Aurors.”
“And you were using the Room of Requirement – “
“To practise our animagus transformations, sir,” Malfoy told him. “With help from Professor McGonagall.”
Who, of course, would have Flooed there from her office… Snape realised that Potter was grinning at him.
“Hermione said that you asked her about it, sir.”
“I was concerned about what you were getting up to, Potter. You have always had the ability to get yourself into trouble without even trying.”
“Boys,” Dumbledore said, glancing at the fireplace, “I suspect that the Minister will be on his way. I suggest that you make yourselves scarce for a while, before you have to face the massed ranks of the press and the Ministry. Off you pop. I’ll speak to you all later.”
On the way down the moving staircase, Malfoy remarked “I am straight, you know.”
Snape spluttered.
“I had realised that, Malfoy,” Potter said equably.
“I’m not sure if Professor Snape had. I’ll be seeing you!”
Which left Snape alone with his nemesis. Potter thrust his hands into his pockets.
“I’m not.” He cocked a black eyebrow. “Straight, that is. In case you needed to know.”
“Why should I, Potter?”
“Because of what Hermione said.”
“And what did the know-it-all have to say?”
“That she thought you might be insanely jealous, sir.” Snape gaped. Potter shrugged. “Maybe I was just hoping that you were.” He grinned, bright green eyes sparkling.
“Why?” Both Snape’s sarcasm and his mouth seemed to have dried up completely.
“Because that would mean that you wanted me, sir. And Voldemort can’t use that as a weapon against either of us any more, can he?”
“You assume too much, Potter.”
“Gryffie optimism, sir.”
“It is not possible.”
“Excuse me for contradicting, sir, but I am seventeen and Professor Dumbledore assures me that as long as both parties fully consent, and are discreet, there is nothing against such a relationship in the school rules. Besides, what else have you got to do with your spare time, now that Voldie is toast?” Potter leaned closer. “Haven’t you ever wanted a dragon of your own, Professor Snape?”
“Potter…” Snape could smell him again, that faint aroma of young healthy male, with just a hint of smoke and fire.
“Because I want my own Slytherin.”
The wretched, impossible, unruly, gorgeous brat seized Snape by the back of the neck and pulled his head down, pressing their mouths together. Snape had never experienced anything as hot as their first kiss. It lit a fire inside him, and he hoped that it would never go out again. Oddly enough, it never did.