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Chapter One

“Checkmate,” Draco Malfoy says, lazily. “Again. Potter, are you even trying?”

Harry favours him with a grimace and works hard at not knocking all the chess pieces over in petulance. The truth is, he is trying; trying his bloody hardest in fact. It turns out that Malfoy is irritatingly proficient at the game of chess and, despite his best efforts and countless games, Harry has only been victorious once. And that time Malfoy had been completely preoccupied with smarming up to Snape, so it didn’t really count.

“I’m a Slytherin,” he’d said, smugly, after the tenth game Harry had lost. “We’re all about strategy, Potter.”

At least now even Malfoy has gotten so bored of his gloating that he no longer puts any enthusiasm into it.

“Another game?” Malfoy asks him, stretching as he does so, gracefully, like a cat.

Harry wants to say no, wants to tell Malfoy to get lost, but a glance around the bare room reminds him of his distinct lack of other options. He’s been here, here in this godforsaken hut, cut off from all normal semblances of humanity, and restricted to his sick bed due to a nasty curse courtesy of Lord Voldemort. He is currently under strict instructions from Snape (which are the strictest known to man) to not use any form of magic lest it kills him, or signals an army of Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself to descend upon them. It’s all part of some scheme, The Dumbledore Stratagem, which means Harry had to get himself cursed so that they could reverse the spell – cursing Voldemort instead – and then defeat him whilst he is unwittingly weakened. That’s the plan anyway, but nobody knows if it’s going to work and there’s a great possibility that Harry will die in the process. He’s gotten used to that prospect, at the moment death does not seem such a bad alternative to his current living situation. Had he known that part of the stratagem meant being stuck in a small hut with Snape and Malfoy, he never would have agreed. It feels like he has been here for at least a hundred years.

In reality it’s only been eight and a half days. And, for two of those Harry had been unconscious. As it was, the hut offered him one of five options: staring at the walls, bickering with Malfoy, bickering with Snape, bickering with Snape and Malfoy or playing chess. Snape had started angrily whittling the pieces for a chess set after only two hours of Harry regaining consciousness, two hours that had admittedly not seen Harry at his most rational. Shocked and appalled to find himself with such company, and for an indefinite amount of time, he’d made his feelings very clear, bellowing about traitors and demanding his wand, demanding he be taken back, that someone else – anyone else! – be switched for Snape. Malfoy had joined in, gleefully sniping at Harry and trying to complain loudly over him, about how he felt, about what he wanted, about unfair it was for him, until Snape had yelled “Enough!” and stormed out into the woods. He must have worked through the night, for he burst in the following morning and flung the chess board and pieces at them.

“Now!” he’d roared. “The next one of you obnoxious little cretins that dares get on my last nerve will be banished from the house and left to their fate in the Frozen Forest! Do you understand?”

They’d nodded silently as Snape glowered at them before turning on his heel and marching back outside. Malfoy had given Harry a condescending smile that suggested that none of Snape’s vitriol had been aimed at him, and then they’d started playing chess. The pieces were quite clumsy, the board made out of a slice of tree trunk with squares roughly carved into it, but it had its own charm. Harry probably would have treasured it if had come from a different maker.

Now, he looks at the grey light from the window and sighs. It’s only late afternoon; too early for bickering, something that they tended to save until the evening when everyone was a bit tired and narky and Snape was there to get annoyed and shouty at them. Most nights culminated in everyone stomping off to bed and slamming their doors. Well, everyone except Harry whose bed had been made up in the living room so he could have the fire. He looks at the pile of dull ash in the fireplace and thinks about the hours he has to get through before the fire will be lit and it will be almost bedtime.

“Yeah,” he finally says to Malfoy with weary resignation. “But I’m going for a piss first.” He lifts the chessboard off his lap and slithers out from the warmth of his pile of blankets.

When he comes back in Malfoy is standing staring out of the one grubby window, a fixed gaze on his face. Like he’s eyeing his prey, Harry thinks as he slips back into his bed carefully so as not to spill the chess set.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, after Malfoy makes no move to resume his seat.

“Oh, you know. Just admiring the view,” he says with a sigh.

Harry gives him a quizzical look. “But it’s just… trees. The same bare trees that have always been out there.”

“Oh, I’m not looking at the trees.”

Harry sighs impatiently. “Then what are you looking at?”

Malfoy drags his eyes from the window and eyes Harry smugly, pausing as if for dramatic effect.

“...Severus.” He says, eventually, breathlessly, and smirks with an air of satisfaction as Harry’s face creases with confusion.

“Snape? Admiring the view of Snape? Are you feeling ok, Malfoy? ”

“Oh, I’m very ok? The man’s divine.”

Harry splutters. Lost for words, he pulls a face of pure revulsion to convey his disgust. Malfoy sighs, and shakes his head with mock sadness, like he is an old sage aware of things beyond Harry’s comprehension, and turns back to his view.

“But - he’s grotesque!”

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy says in an irritatingly sympathetic tone. “I don’t expect you to understand, not when your tastes are so… so …insular.”

“Insular?”

“Mmm. Not all of us can find satisfaction in rutting with one of the Weasley herd. Not when there’s so much better breeding about.”

Harry is too disgusted to respond to the insult. Nor does he point out that Snape’s ‘breeding’ is hardly anything other than pretty regular. He instead gapes at Malfoy and shakes his head.

“You’ve lost it, Malfoy. You’ve been cooped up for too long and you’ve gone mad! It’s Snape. Snape.”

“Oh, Potter. You really are short-sighted, aren’t you? Frankly, I don’t know how you can’t see it.”

“See what exactly? That he’s an ugly, greasy, bad tempered, old, old,” he says again for emphasis, “git.”

Malfoy sighs sympathetically, again, and Harry has to stop him self from lobbing the chessboard at his head.

“He’s sexy. All dark and brooding and with just the right amount of… meanness.”

Harry suddenly feels unwell. “I might be sick,” he says.

“Come and look if you don’t believe me.” Malfoy challenges, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall to offer Harry his view.

With a huff, Harry gets back out of bed and comes to peer out the window. Outside Snape is chopping wood.

Harry scoffs. “Yeah, very impressive. Excuse me whilst I swoon.”

“Sexy.” Malfoy reasserts.

“Old.”

“Strong. Look at his arms.” Harry looks. And then looks again. Snape has got his sleeves rolled up snugly around his surprisingly muscular upper arms.

“Pft. A bit of arm muscle is not enough to distract from the rest of it. No way.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Graceful,” he murmurs as Snape swings the axe with an elegance that should not be possible with the task at hand. The block of wood breaks perfectly in two and Snape’s robes swish around him as he bends to reach for another.

“Handsome,” Malfoy continues quietly. They watch as Snape pauses for breath, bringing his arm up and wiping the sweat for from his face with his forearm. He is panting from the excursion, his face flushed, not its usual sallowness, and distinctly lacking its customary scowl. As they watch his black hair is swept back dramatically by the wind.

“God,” Malfoy sighs. “Look at him.” And for a moment Harry finds he has lost the power to disagree: in this very particular context Snape does (although it pains Harry to admit it, even if only to himself) actually look quite… nice? At that instant Snape’s eyes fall on the window and both Harry and Malfoy scarper back to their usual places, the bed and the armchair respectively.

They continue arguing about it later, during yet another game of chess that yet again Harry is losing.

“But he’s so powerful,” Malfoy says wistfully.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Slytherins and power, how original.”

“And commanding…”

Harry thinks about changing the subject, sick to the stomach as he is of both hearing about Snape’s finer attributes and the dreamy expression Malfoy adopts for listing them. He doesn’t though, not wanting to forfeit the slim chance of winning that Malfoy’s preoccupation may afford him.

He slips his bishop into play without as much as a glance at the board from Malfoy.

“And his voice…”

“Oh, whatever,” Harry mutters.

“Come on Potter, straight and noble as you are, even you cannot be immune from that voice?”

Harry shrugs and shakes his head, genuinely baffled.

“Really?” Malfoy asks, like Harry’s the weirdo. “Imagine him saying, Potter, down on your knees. Now, boy.”

Harry shrugs again, now hoping for a change in subject, chess game be damned.

Malfoy makes an exasperated noise and clears his throat. “Potter,” he says, his voice low and silky, his face edging slowly towards Harry’s. “Potter. Get. Down. On. Your. Knees. You will be punished, Potter.”

Alarmingly, Harry feels a frisson of sexuality strike him right in the groin, made all the more hideous by the fact that he’s not sure if it’s Snape or Malfoy or, even worse, some sort of ghastly Snape and Malfoy hybrid that has caused it.

“Potter,” Malfoy continues, with menace. “Potter, you’ve been a naughty boy. Potter I’m taking you to my office right now… Potter, take off your clothes. And then he’d sweep you up in arms and carry you and throw you over the desk like you didn’t weigh a thing and—”

The door opens with a bang and Snape comes in, bared arms full of chopped logs, the muscles straining under the weight. His hair is still swept back and the exposed skin of his throat and neck glisten with sweat. With seeming effortlessness, he lobs the wood into a pile against the fireplace and stands up dusting his hands.

Malfoy gasps and for some unknown reason Harry goes bright red.

Seconds tick by as the two of them continue to stare at Snape until he narrows his eyes with suspicion.

“What?” He demands, drawing his shoulders up to full height so he can loom at them from the doorway. Which only makes things worse, Harry thinks.

The both start blathering loudly – Harry thanking him for collecting the wood, Draco defensively declaring they are not up to anything other than chess – while Snape scowls at them in turn, a look Harry is very much familiar with as meaning Don’t think I don’t know that you’re up to something, and then he sweeps gracefully to the ground to start stacking the fire.

Malfoy grins devilishly at him and then puts a hand to his forehead, falling against the back of his chair in a mock swoon. Harry elbows him in the ribs and giggles silently behind his hand.

*

They spend the evening as they always do; Snape guarded as ever, sits poised and upright in the armchair in the corner, reading and making the occasional note, a shield of sheer indifference keeping him separate from Harry and Malfoy, who play chess on the other side of the room.

“What’s that you’re reading, Severus?” Malfoy asks his voice full of false interest as he tries to garner Snape’s attention.

“A thesis on magical repairment,” Snape answers flatly, not looking up from his book.

“Oh, that sounds interesting,” Malfoy says with an enthusiastic grin that gets ignored. He turns back to his game with Harry, slightly disgruntled until his eyes light up; he moves his knight and swipes Harry’s last bishop off the board.

“Tut tut, Potter. That was pretty careless,” he says, smugly. “I’m beating him again, Severus.”

Moments later Malfoy announces checkmate and after his customary, “I won again, Severus,” he lies back in his chair and stretches his legs toward the fire.

“Umm, it’s so warm and toasty in here. Thank you for getting the firewood, Severus. I would have helped of course, but my wrist is still really quite sore…”

Harry scoffs and Malfoy turns to glare at him. Malfoy’s poorly wrist – hurt somehow on the journey to the hut – is one of those come-and-go injuries that always seem to get worse when there’s work to be done.

“Well, I don’t see you jumping from your sickbed to help out either, Potter,” he snarls.

Harry pulls a face but stays quiet. He feels more aware of Snape than usual, and as such is less inclined to fall into their usual childish bickering. This is new; annoying Snape by bickering with Malfoy has previously been part of the fun. Malfoy, however, has no such qualms.

“All you do is lie about all day losing chess games. I’m surprised really, surprised that the world is relying on someone who is so obviously as stupid as you.”

Harry gives Malfoy a bored sort of look, and rolls his eyes.

“People must not be aware of quite how imbecilic you are. They can’t be. Lording it about like a hero with your tragic gang of supporters. Not to mention Guinea-pig Weasley. Are you missing your rodent-faced girlfriend?” Draco asks, looking pleased with himself.

With unusual stoicism, Harry doesn’t even blanch. He yawns heavily instead. For a moment he thinks he feels the weight of Snape’s cool gaze on him, but when he looks up Snape’s eyes are fixed on the book in front of him.

Malfoy tries out a few other insults, this time focusing on Harry’s bespectacled looks and his lack of intelligence, before realising that Harry is not going to play along and then, huffing noisily, folds his arms and slouches in his chair to show his displeasure. Both Snape and Harry ignore him until a little while later he asks Harry politely for another game of chess, as if nothing’s happened. To keep the peace Harry wearily agrees.

When bed time comes Snape pauses before he leaves the room and looks at Harry with narrowed eyes.

“You’re… not feeling any worse?” he says awkwardly, like it pains him to ask.

“Er… no. Not really.”

Snape clicks his tongue with impatience and strides towards him.

“It’s a simple question, Potter. If you are feeling unwell, I must know. Now is not the time for heroics.” He peers at Harry’s face closely, like he is inspecting it for mistruths.

“No, I’m fine. Honest. I’ll tell you if I’m not.”

“No increased dizziness, nausea, headaches?” Snape asks, brushing his hand roughly against Harry’s forehead.

“No, I’m fine. Really.” Harry asserts, squirming his head out from under Snape’s hand. “And why anyway? You never normally interrogate me about my health before bedtime.”

Still frowning, Snape gives him a contemplative look.

“There was a distinct lack of bleating from your corner this evening. You’ve barely said two words, not even when provoked by insults to your girlfriend. Tell me why? What is different tonight?”

Harry flinches. Not only was it unsettling to know that Snape seemed to note bloody everything – even when he appeared resolutely disinterested – but he was also, Harry remembers, a revered Legilimens. Harry suddenly fears the man looking into his mind only to find images of himself striding about carrying heavy things and sweeping his hair back evocatively.

“I’m allowed to be quiet aren’t I?” he asks loudly. “Thought you for one would appreciate it… And she’s not my girlfriend. Were just friends, not you know…” Harry closes his mouth, and tries not go red, unsure what compulsed him to say the last bit.

Snape continues to gaze at him with narrowed eyes before speaking again.

“Uninteresting as I find most of what you say, Potter, especially that to do with your love life, or lack of it, verbal restraint of any form is so rare in you I thought it could only be related to your health. My mistake.” And with that, Snape stalks from the room, the door thudding shut behind him leaving Harry alone and perplexed in the firelight.

It takes him ages to fall asleep that night. A thought is niggling away at him, one that makes him feel very confused and uneasy and that has something to do with Snape, although he can’t quite figure out what. He thinks it might be to do with wanting to Snape to like him, a thought so new and unfamiliar to him that it shocks any drowsiness straight out of his mind. He fleetingly thinks of his dad and godfather and feels a lurch of guilt. But then he thinks of Snape’s bravery and how he’s been worn weary with his efforts for the good cause, and any loyalty to James and Sirius feels misplaced and immature.

At length he decides that he will try and build a bridge with Snape. Whatever else, it would at least make his present days more enjoyable. Maybe all Snape needs to change his ways is the chance to be nice. Tomorrow, Harry would make it clear that he is feeling more forgiving toward him, and is willing to put some of Snape’s unpleasantness aside in order for them to get along. The satisfaction of a plan makes him feel content and he squirms down into his blankets. In the darkness he smiles at himself and shakes his head: all it had taken to question years of hatred was the startling realisation that Snape was perhaps just a little, a teeny-tiny bit, sexy.

*

A roar fills his ears and the ground slams against him like someone has picked it up and thrown it at him hard. A mad cackle of laughter pierces through the darkness and just as he thinks he’s drowning in it, it goes silent and arms are dragging him away, dragging him to safety. Now he’s being plucked from his nest of twigs and trees, whilst an argument is shouted above his closed eyes, someone clasping him to their chest and running and running, on and on, tirelessly for what seems like days.

“The port-key! Draco, come on!” Harry feels safe in his new nest of arms and scratchy black wool. Close to his ear he can feel a heart beat, hammering a soothing rhythm. Life. They’re alive. Snape sits by his bed, tired eyes full of concern and relief. Harry stays quiet and Snape stays with him, a warm grip on his arm and nonsensical words of comfort murmuring from his lips.

Harry wakes and stretches. Somewhere in the hut someone is running water. Morning light is coming through the window, cold and crisp, and he snuggles down into the warmth of his blankets.

A while later Snape knocks at the door, pausing briefly, before entering with a tray of breakfast things.

“Morning,” Harry says brightly, smiling warmly up at him. Snape looks taken aback, and places the tray somewhat clumsily on Harry’s lap. He pauses to frown at him before leaving but Harry shrugs unperturbed: he is anything if not determined.

Malfoy slinks in with a blanket artfully wrapped around his bare torso as if to reveal as much flesh as possible. He slides into the chair at Harry’s bedside and reaches a hand to snatch the piece of toast Harry has just buttered, taking a big bite.

“Cheers, Potter,” he says in a way that normally would have made Harry want to clock him with the teapot.

“Welcome,” he says cheerfully instead, buttering another piece of toast.

Malfoy shrugs and starts admiring his reflection in the back of a spoon.

“Malfoy, that is Potter’s breakfast,” Snape says from the hallway where he is donning his cloak. “He needs to eat it all to regain his strength.”

Malfoy splutters embarrassedly, “But sir, my wrist.”

“Is perfectly well enough for you to make your own toast. Don’t argue. And put some clothes on! I will not play nursemaid to you if your stupidity means you catch a chill! I’m going to fetch some water, I want you dressed and fed when I return.”

Malfoy gives Harry a sour look as he slouches out of the room, like it’s his fault he’s been told off, and Harry grins to himself behind his teacup.

Later, when Harry is returning from a chilly trip to the outhouse, he comes back to find Snape and Malfoy in his room, both so quietly absorbed in thought that they do not take any notice of him. Snape is leaning one elbow against the mantle piece of the bare brick fireplace, his long fingers idly rubbing at his chin and throat as he frowns. Malfoy is draped in his usual chair, legs stretched out, one arm dangling over the side, the other behind his head. Watching them unobserved from the doorway, Harry feels a twinge of jealousy. Snape looks like a panther, sleek and poised, Malfoy like his cub, and Harry feels suddenly aware of his messy unwashed hair and the grubby pyjamas he’s been wearing for over a week. They’re baddies, he tells himself consolingly as he climbs back under his blankets. And all the grace in the world would not make me want to be a Slytherin baddy.

Snape’s glance falls on him absently for a moment and then flicks to his eyes.

“Draco, go and busy yourself elsewhere. It’s time for Potter’s check-up.”

The daily ‘check-up’ has been hands down the worst aspect of Harry’s current living arrangements. The fear of their magic being traced meant that in its place Snape has to resort to Muggle methods of assessment. Ergo, there was a lot of Harry’s naked body getting prodded and poked whilst he shivered and tried to not to appear totally mortified.

“What are you checking for anyway?” Harry had asked, slightly impatiently, the first time he’d had to get naked in front of Snape.

After a lengthy pause, in which Harry had debated repeating his question in an obnoxiously loud tone or jabbing his finger in Snape’s eye, close as it was, peering at his own fingers prodding along Harry’s collar bone, he’d finally answered.

“Your magic,” had been the clipped reply.

“What about it?” Harry had asked, panic springing in different directions with the sudden realisation that he had not used it, not even attempted so much as an ‘accio glasses’ since he’d come around. Snape had taken and hidden their wands before Harry had woken up and then lectured him at length about how any use of his magic could finish him off. Harry hadn’t really paid all that much attention, too dismayed at waking up to find himself trapped with Snape and Malfoy for what might possibly be his last days alive.

“The extent of the damage done to it,” Snape had said, quite simply, like it was merely a trifling matter.

“What do you mean ‘damage done to it’? You mean it might be broken? You mean it might not be how it was?”

Snape had ignored him and rummaged around in the large leather bag he had with him, eventually producing a small stoppered bottle.

“Drink this,” he’d said flatly.

“No! I won’t drink it! Not until you explain what’s happened to my magic and why it means you have to see me without my clothes on!”

Snape had breathed in heavily through his nose and clenched his jaw, fixing Harry with a look that could wilt flowers.

“If, when I had first explained this you had listened, rather than obstinately refusing to do anything other than throw puerile insults and accusations at me, you would know the answer to all these questions, Potter. As it is, I have told you once in detail and I am not here to pander to you and repeat myself incessantly.”

“Fuck you, Snape,” Harry had snarled. “And give me my fucking wand.” He’d got up off the bed, scrabbling for his pyjama trousers. It was only when he’d pulled them up that he noticed the room was spinning and there was the sound of wind whistling in his ears. He’d clutched at the bed, trying to anchor himself.

“Get back into bed, Potter.” Snape had said wearily. “You’re not well enough for histrionics.”

“Only if you explain!”

“Only if you get into bed!”

Harry had obeyed, unsure who was winning at that point.

“I will tell you this once, so please try and pay close attention.” Snape had spoken very slowly, deliberately condescending. “I need to check every magical point on your body everyday to see how and where your magic is affected. You will then have to drink an assortment of potions that will, hopefully, restore each specific area. All being well, the Dark Lord’s curse will remain ineffective.”

“And it will work? My magic will be fixed?”

Snape had clenched his jaw tightly. “The main aim is to work with the Dark Lord’s curse but yes, as a side effect, your magic will be restored.”

“But—doesn’t the Dumbledore Stratagem stop Voldemort’s curse?”

“This is the Dumbledore Stratagem,” Snape had hissed so venomously that spit sprayed onto Harry’s blank face.

“But—I thought that the Stratagem didn’t happen until I gave myself up to Voldemort and he tried to kill me?”

“That is because you are too arrogant to listen! This, what I am doing right now is what stops the curse!”

But Harry still hadn’t understood and Snape had stormed out the room and then come back and gnashed his teeth for a bit before eventually explaining.

“If the Dark Lord were to perform the Killing Curse on you now it would drain your magic to into him. But once your magic is restored this will not be possible, and instead, when he tries to kill you his magic will be drained away from him.”

“And he doesn’t know we can reverse his curse?”

“No, Potter. He doesn’t, and the only people on the planet who do know are in this very room.”

“But – why should I trust you? How do I know you’re not really weakening me, giving Voldemort a better chance of finishing me off? This Stratagem might kill me anyway mightn’t it? Dumbledore told me before he died. How do I know you’re not making sure that that happens?”

“For god’s sake think,” Snape had growled through gritted teeth. “Why would I have bothered bringing you here, why would I have bothered with all this,” he gestured wildly, “when I could have taken you directly to the Dark Lord himself?”

Admittedly, Harry hadn’t had an answer to that.

Now, the door clips shut behind Malfoy and Snape’s mouth lifts at the edges, his eyes remaining steely and cold.

“Undress,” he says and Harry is instantly reminded of Malfoy’s impression the previous day. He tries with all his might to not let his face colour-up.

Eyes not breaking contact with Snape’s, he pulls back the blankets and starts unbuttoning the neck of his shirt. As he pulls it over his head he mentally curses Malfoy. These examinations had never had even the slightest whiff of sexuality before, but now, as he shucks off his pyjama trousers, Harry feels a new nuance of tension ripple through the room.

Snape doesn’t seem to notice, his hands already working over Harry’s face, his fingers gently pausing on each point they locate. It feels… nice? Which it has never felt before.

Snape’s fingers trail down a line of his neck, his eyes fixed and intent on Harry’s skin, and Harry tries not to react to his touch.

“Nice weather today,” he exclaims, abruptly.

Snape’s head snaps up. He glances at the window and then looks back at Harry, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“It’s raining,” he says warily, like he’s not sure if he’s being led into a trap.

“Yes. Well.” Harry says with a shrug. “I quite like it. The rain I mean. Generally speaking,” Harry swallows. Snape’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure out a complex riddle.

“Potter, important as your opinions on the weather maybe, full focus is required of me to get this examination out of the way. Please be quiet.”

“Righty-oh.”

Snape goes back to his work, his fingers dancing softly down Harry’s ribcage, over his stomach, onto his thighs. Harry, cursing Malfoy yet again, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of anything but Snape’s fingers touching him between his slightly parted thighs.

“Dress.” And it’s over, and Harry finds, unusually, that he doesn’t want to be a million miles away from Snape immediately.

“Dizziness, nausea… bowel movements?”

“Um, nausea not so much, dizziness only when I stand of too long and, um, bowel movements fine.”

Snape nods and rummages in his bag.

“Drink these.” Snape hands him the potions, clips his leather bag shut and stands.

“Thank you,” Harry says, fighting a smile as Snape looks at him with suspicion, yet again. “For doing this. For everything I mean.”

Snape raises his eyebrows but doesn’t respond, just lifts his bag and goes to leave the room.

“Well done,” Harry blurts. “Is what I’m trying to say.”

Snape pauses halfway to the door, turns slowly to face Harry, his chin coming up so he can peer down his nose at the boy in his bed.

“For all of it: the hideout, the potions, the food. The stratagem, even if I don’t know what it means!” Harry does a strange bark of a laugh. “It’s amazing,” he says quietly and grins earnestly.

Snape’s face darkens and Harry’s smile falters.

“I mean it; I think it’s genius. Getting me and Malfoy here, to safety, making sure we don’t kill each other.” He laughs again but stops abruptly when he sees Snape’s lip curl into a threatening snarl.

Silence stretches out, and Harry squirms in his bed. A muscle is going in Snape’s jaw, and Harry watches is it as he waits.

“Complimentary as you may think your shock at my being able to manage to orchestrate simple plans is, Potter—”

“Oh no! I’m not shocked! I just wanted to say thank you. I’m not shocked about it. Not at all.”

Which is a lie. He is shocked, shocked by all of it: the thorough preparations, the potions, the charmed food supply, the secret location. Shocked that this plan was so well concealed from him, at how well Snape has played his role of double agent, at his incredible bravery: marching across battle lines, with the threat of death from both sides, to pick Harry off the ground and bring him to safety.

Harry hopes his face is managing to hide this shock however, and he tries another smile to smooth things over. Snape only looks angrier, if anything.

“I suppose you are expecting gratitude from me, are you? Gratitude that the Great Harry Potter has found it within himself to acknowledge me? What would you like me to do, a little jig to celebrate?”

“Oh, for fucks sake! I was just trying to be nice,” Harry huffs, folding his arms and looking at his feet instead of Snape’s sneering face.

“Nice? Why? If you think that I am working hard for any other reason than the hope that you will destroy the Dark Lord, and leave me free to live my life in solitary peace and quiet, then I am afraid you are sorely mistaken. It is not a desire to please that drives me, Potter.”

“I know!” Harry squawks. “God you’re such a…. I just thought that seeing as we are all here, for god knows how long, we might as well try and get along. My mistake.”

“Right… So because Harry Potter decides that he would like it better if there was a touch more civility in proceedings – civility that he has never previously bothered with I hasten to add – everyone else should do his bidding?”

Harry doesn’t answer and Snape leans in close, his sour breath hot and angry against Harry’s skin.

“I will not. Bend. To your whims. Do not forget that I despise you, Potter.” With that he sweeps from the room, leaving Harry a fuming bundle of rage beneath his blankets

When Malfoy slinks back in eating an apple, Harry’s still muttering to himself.

“What’ve you done now?” Malfoy smirks from the armchair. “Severus looked awfully agitated.”

“Oh piss off, Malfoy. Why I thought it was worth being nice to that absolute arsehole is beyond me.”

Harry sulks for the rest of evening, his mood made worse by Malfoy using the distance between Harry and Snape to his advantage, sitting at Snape’s feet asking him questions about his family, about his school days with Lucius, offering to fetch him a hot cocoa. It makes Harry want to vomit and he sits with his eyes closed, trying to ignore them both and failing miserably.

Thankfully they do not stay up too late, Snape walking briskly from the room without so much as a glance at Harry.

“Night, Potter,” Malfoy says, blowing him a kiss from the door way, and smirking as Harry flicks him two fingers.

Bloody smug gits, the pair of them, Harry thinks.

But he was no longer entirely comfortable with this summation. Malfoy, sure, but Snape… He sighs heavily and rolls onto his back.

Tonight he’d watched with bitterness as Snape and Malfoy had talked. Snape looking at ease for once, talking freely, his black eyes glittering in the firelight. He’d even smiled once or twice, at Malfoy, the bloody slimy, undeserving ferret. And he was funny, saying things to make Malfoy laugh, using odd turns of phrase like “her wit was more the dull end of a turnip than it was razor sharp.”

It was like he was being charming on purpose, just because Harry couldn’t join in. They had talked about Lucius and Narcissa at length, Snape telling carefully reassuring anecdotes about their strength and resilience, which Harry knew were to put Malfoy’s mind at ease about them being held captive. All this only made Harry feel worse. It meant Snape could be kind, of all things. He sighs again and thinks glumly about his earlier disastrous attempt to get along with Snape.

*

His check-up the next day is without a doubt tenser than the day before. Harry forces himself to say ‘Thank you” when he is wordlessly handed a collection of small glass vials, even though he’s feeling a bit sore where Snape has jabbed at him so hard.

Snape ignores him and doesn’t even ask him about his bowel movements before he stalks out the room.

Harry is just settling in to a game of chess with Malfoy when their peace is interrupted by a pigeon tapping on the window with its beak.

“Severus! Come quick!” Malfoy hollers, his voice full of rising panic, pointing fearfully at the window as Snape rushes into the room.

Nervously they watch as Snape opens the window, allowing the pigeon to hop on to his outstretched arm so he can detach the letter secured to its ankle.

“What is it? Is it the Dark Lord? Is he coming?” Malfoy bleats.

“Yes, because Voldemort always sends a harmless bird to give prior warning to an attack.” Harry drawls.

“Shut up, Potter.”

“Both of you shut up. I need to think.”

Snape paces the room, turmoil etched across his features as Harry, Malfoy and the pigeon – now perched on the window sill – watch on silently. Occasionally he looks to them as if to ask for their counsel, but turns back to his pacing before any words are spoken. Harry and Malfoy share a few sidelong glances, but neither of them plucks up the courage to ask what is going on.

At length, Snape picks up a quill and scribbles something on the page of a notebook, tearing it out and folding it neatly. He tucks it into the pouch cuffed to the pigeon’s ankle and mutters something. The bird takes immediate flight, and Snape watches it go before turning to them.

“Longbottom has been cursed,” he states. “He will be arriving in due course.”

“But—” Malfoy is silenced by a thunderous look, and then Snape marches out of the room.

“God, he could tell us what is going on. It’s our lives too, why should we be put in danger?” Malfoy whines as soon as Snape is out of earshot.

Harry ignores him, stealing out of bed he grabs the parchment left discarded on the table, holding it firmly as Malfoy cottons on and tries to snatch it. Together they read:

Severus,

Neville Longbottom has been cursed in what we believe to be similar, if not the same as the one that hit Harry. He-who-must-not-be-named is looking for him, we think he is feeding on whoever’s magic he can until he has Harry’s.

You are the only one who can save Longbottom. I know you said to only use the pigeons in an emergency, but, Severus, the boy is being hunted and we can not keep him safe for long.

I assure you we can get him to you safely, without you telling as your whereabouts and with no fear of him being intercepted on his journey. Please send word of your decision,

Minerva.

Malfoy instantly starts up moaning, but Harry doesn’t listen as he climbs back into bed, his mind full of questions that he fears will never be answered adequately. Worry for Neville eats into him, as does the realisation that he hadn’t been thinking about all the people not included in the safety of their hide-out. Guiltily, he wonders what they’re going through without him…

Still, he takes comfort that Neville will be under Snape’s expert care. What ever else, Snape did know a hell of a lot about this curse and if anyone could save him, Snape could.

Chapter Two

Snape’s hair hangs in greasy clumps, his skin looks pale yellow and see-through, emphasising the purple veined bags under his eyes. Neville arrived two days ago, transported in a magical vessel that could be deposited by five carrier pigeons. Since then, Snape has barely slept save for an hour or two in Malfoy’s bed or slumped in the armchair in Harry’s room. He looks truly awful. The time away from Voldemort’s clutches, time spent in the fresh air chopping firewood, bringing in water from the well, gathering herbs from the nearby woodlands, had seen him looking healthier than Harry had ever seen him before.

Now though, as Harry watches from the door to Snape’s room, the man looks hunted and hollow, eyes sunken as he slumps in a chair at the bedside. Neville is lying unconscious, Snape holding his wrist and squinting at a pocket watch. Harry wants to ask if he wants anything, a drink or some food, but it looks like Snape could be counting and Harry decides not to interrupt; a been-awake-for-three-days-and-barely-eaten Snape is too scary a prospect to risk antagonising.

Harry slinks silently back to his room, where he finds Malfoy looking moodily out of the window.

“Has Snape eaten anything today?” he asks, trying to keep his concern to a minimum.

“I don’t know, I’ve stopped asking him since he bit my head off yesterday for offering him a hot chocolate. God, it’s gotten so boring around here since Longbottom turned up.”

Harry nods absently. “He’s working really hard to save Neville, isn’t he?”

“Tell me about it. Sometimes I do wonder about his Slytherin credentials, you know? It’s all a bit… selfless.” Malfoy says with clear disgust. “And for people he despises. I mean it’s Potter and Longbottom. Who really cares? No offense,” he offers as an afterthought.

“He did this for me?” Harry asks, realising he had no idea of what went on whilst he was unconscious.

“God yes, only much, much worse. Didn’t even leave your side once. Of course, at first he had to keep up some sort of magical connection with you. It made him awfully sick and grumpy. I told him you weren’t worth dying for, but that only seemed to make him angrier. In the end I left him to it. I suppose he had more to lose if you died. I mean, he’d just killed Bellatrix to save you. And a few others that stood in his way. Talk about burning bridges, ha. The Dark Lord probably wants to kill him more than he does you these days.” Malfoy chuckles to himself, as if he isn’t talking about a power-crazed murdering overlord and the death of his aunt.

“I was this close to nicking my wand and getting the hell out of here. But then you woke up and he calmed down a bit. Thank god. Still heard him creeping about at night, getting up to check on you. Found him asleep in here in the mornings a few times, scrunched up in the chair. Probably scared you were going to croak it in the night and all his hard work would have been for nothing. What’s wrong with you? You look funny. Please don’t tell me your getting sick again, Potter, I really am at the end of my tether with all this ill health. I’m finding it quite wearing, to be frank.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Thank you for your concern though,” he adds sarcastically. “I think I just need to eat something.”

“Ergh. More bread and cheese I suppose. What I wouldn’t do for some meat. A venison steak or a game pie... The food here really is dreadful.”

Harry shakes his head and goes to get something to eat. He fixes Snape a tray, some bread, cheese and a bowl of heated-up soup. He adds a glass of water and a cup of coffee, and slips it by Snape’s feet. If Snape notices he doesn’t respond. In the hallway he’s met by Malfoy, donning his cloak and a fur hat.

“I’m going for a walk,” he whispers. “Doubt Severus will even notice, but if he does, tell him I’ve gone to gather kindling or something.”

“But—Snape said not to go into the Frozen Forest.”

“Alright, Potter, what are you, my mum? And when did you start taking Snape’s orders as gospel? About the same time you started looking at him all gooey eyed I suspect. Don’t think I haven’t noticed! And take it from me, you haven’t got a Kneazle in hell’s chance of that happening.”

Harry shrugs, and tries not to blush. Malfoy only smirks and pushes past him. Harry bites back on a caution to be careful.

He must have slept, for when he wakes it’s getting dark outside. Malfoy still isn’t back, Harry notes, as he heads for the kitchen. He pokes his head around the door to Snape’s room. Snape’s still sitting in the same position but most of the bread and cheese have been eaten, as has half of the bowl of soup. Harry grins to himself, relieved, and heads to the kitchen to make dinner.

Some time later he’s made a warming vegetable stew, and is just ladling some in to two bowls when Snape comes in, bleary eyed.

“How is he?”

For a moment Snape looks at Harry with confusion, as if he can’t quite place who he is. When he answers his throat is reedy.

“Over the worst, I believe.”

“Good.” Harry feels exquisite relief swell in his heart. “You should get some rest, there’s some stew here for you.”

Snape nods and takes the bowl and spoon from Harry. He goes back into the room with Neville and closes the door, and Harry finds himself feeling disappointed.

After his stew, he busies himself with housework, washing and drying the dishes, sweeping the floors and the hearth, going out into the cold to fetch wood. The fire hasn’t been lit today, Snape being too busy and Malfoy, seeing his attempts to be helpful going un-praised the day before, had sulkily said that he wasn’t going to bother today.

Harry does it himself, climbing in to bed afterwards to watch the flames with pride. It’s only early, but his exertions have left him very tired. He snuggles down to watch his handiwork burn away. Malfoy still isn’t back, and Harry thinks about telling Snape. He’s too tired to be clear whether it would be seen as tattle-telling or if it is something that Snape would want to hear about… Finally he decides he will tell him, in just a moment, but he is so comfortable and weary, that he doesn’t put up a fight went sleep slackens his body, and instead lets himself drift away.

“Potter, wake up!”

Harry opens his eyes. The room is dark, and someone is looming over him. Harry scrabbles for his glasses and squints up at Snape.

“How long has he been gone?”

Shit, Harry thinks, his sleepy mind hurtling to wakeup properly.

“Um… a while. Since lunch, he went for a walk. He’s not back then?”

Snape doesn’t seem to want to dignify this with a response, for he instead stomps out into the hallway and starts putting his cloak on.

“If anything has happened to him, Potter…” The door slams behind him, leaving Harry feeling stricken.

He taps his fingers on the arm of his chair fretfully, fears about Malfoy, about Snape, flutter in and out of his over-active mind. What if he can’t find him? What if he finds him and he’s dead? What if Snape never comes back and he has to live here with an unconscious Neville forever?

Finally, the main door bangs open with a thud and a rush of cold air, and Snape’s standing in the doorway, Malfoy in his arms. Malfoy’s eyes are closed and there’s a blue twinge to his lips. Snape deposits him on Harry’s bed, laying him carefully and tucking blankets over him.

“Is he…? What happened?”

“Blankets from Draco’s room, fetch them. Now!” Snape barks as Harry opens his mouth to ask another question.

Snape piles the blankets on him, and then goes to retrieve his bag. Harry watches, unsure what to do with himself now that his bed is being used. Snape clinks through the glass vials, before finally pulling one out and unstopping the cork. He gently tilts Malfoy’s head back, opening his mouth by the chin, and tips in a few drops.

Moments pass and nothing seems to be happening. Harry fidgets uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking between Malfoy’s prone form and Snape hunched over him.

“Is he going to… be ok?” He finally asks, when he can no longer bear the tension.

Snape jumps, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. He glares at Harry with renewed interest.

“He’ll live. What’s it to you?”

He’s exhausted, Harry tells himself, determined not to retort.

“I care,” he says calmly. “What happened to him? Is he hurt?”

“Hypothermia. I found him just in time.”

Harry smiles with relief, forgetting that any joy from him had a way of pissing Snape off.

Predictably, Snape’s face darkens.

“I don’t know what you’re grinning about, Potter. If I hadn’t thought to check on the pair of you, I wouldn’t have known he was gone and he’d have been out there until morning. Your stupid reckless behaviour never ceases to amaze me—”

“My reckless behaviour? It wasn’t me that went sulking in the woods!”

“No, but it was you who didn’t think Draco missing for over eight hours was a call for concern. It was your indifference to anyone but yourself that meant he could have been out there all night. Your arrogance and disregard supersedes even that of your father—”

Snape doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Harry is suddenly lunging at him, hands scrabbling to get on a purchase on anything that will hurt, hair, skin, nose. He doesn’t get very far, Snape’s reflexes meaning that he agilely dodges Harry’s attack, grabbing hold of both his arms and marching him out of the room.

He flings Harry into the kitchen, breath shooting noisily from his flared nostrils.

“Draco needs rest. Get a grip on yourself, Potter! For God’s sake.”

Harry stands looking up at him, fuming.

“You started it! It’s not my fault Malfoy is an idiot, you can’t blame me! I know I should have told you, but you were so busy with Neville... I was going to go out and look for him after I lit the fire, but… I must have fallen asleep. I’m sorry…” Harry suddenly feels exhausted. He’s shivering in his thin pyjamas and his head starts to swim. Embarrassingly, he feels like he could cry.

Snape’s looking scornfully down at him, like he’s pathetic, and it’s too much. The room lurches and Harry grabs at the kitchen table.

“I think I need to sit down…”

Snape looks far from kindly, but he takes Harry by the arm and guides him onto a bench nonetheless.

“I haven’t given you any potions today,” Snape says with a wince of realisation. He rubs at his tired eyes, all the anger suddenly gone out of him.

“Oh God, please don’t make me have a check-up now. I’d rather brave another tirade of insults than have to take all my clothes off…”

Snape doesn’t exactly smile, but his frown eases slightly and he sighs. “Enjoyable as it is to tell you what a monumental idiot you are, Potter, I simply don’t have the energy. I promise to let you keep your trousers on if you promise to shut up and do as I say.”

Harry briefly thinks Snape could have phrased it to sound like a better deal, but is in no mood to start an argument on politeness.

“Fine,” he says wearily. “Malfoy’s room?”

Harry’s got his top off and is lying trying not to shiver on Malfoy’s bare mattress when Snape comes in, carrying his bag.

“How’s Malfoy?” Harry asks as Snape perches on the side of the bed.

“Asleep. He’ll be fine by the morning. Dramatics notwithstanding,” Snape adds in an undertone.

For a moment they share a look and Harry feels a leap of something in his heart. He manages not to spoil it with a grin.

“What happened to him? How did he get hypothermia?”

“Stayed still too long, I suspect. It doesn’t take much in these temperatures.”

“And Neville?” Harry asks.

“Longbottom woke up earlier. I gave him a strong sleeping draft to let him rest. He should be up and about in a day or two.”

Harry’s annoyance that Snape didn’t think to tell him that Neville had woken up is diminished by a bloom of joy that his friend is okay. Happily, he lays back and awaits Snape’s fingers.

The exhaustion in Snape’s eyes is soon replaced with intense concentration, working quickly and quietly, until it is soon over.

“Um, where are we going to sleep?” Harry asks as he watches Snape rummage through the bag.

“You are going to sleep in here and I shall sleep on the armchair in the living room.” He says handing Harry a collection of vials.

“No way.” Harry says firmly. “You’re exhausted; you need a decent night’s sleep. You can have this bed, I’ll sleep in the chair.”

Snape makes a throaty noise of annoyance and shakes his head impatiently.

“Potter, save the martyrdom for a more responsive cause. You are still not in full health and—”

“I’m fine! I’ve done loads of stuff today, I cooked and got the firewood and—”

“Which explains why some of your magical points are so low in energy! You need proper sleep and I will not—”

“You need proper sleep too you’ve been up for days! And I’m not being a martyr, what happens to us if you keel over from exhaustion?”

Snape smirks. “Ever selfish, Potter.”

“Yes, because you’d let me be anything else?” Harry says sharply, surprising himself. Snape raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

“Look,” Harry’s voice clatters loudly into the silence. “I’m not going to sleep if you’re not. We can argue about this until morning, or you can sleep here. Or we can both sleep here. It’s big enough.” He shuffles over to the other side of the bed and gestures at the available space.

Pleasingly he sees Snape eye the mattress longingly, and Harry knows that he’s won.

“Fine, Potter, but don’t think that just because I’m choosing to share a bed with you it means that I—”

“I know, I know, you still despise me, I’m the most irritating little gnat you’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing, it’s not friendliness, it’s necessity etcetera etcetera.”

“And don’t forget it”, Snape says through a stifled yawn. He stands up and cricks his neck. “I suggest you put some more clothes on, all the bed ware is currently being used elsewhere.”

Harry is limited to the pair of pyjamas that Snape had provided him with and the holey t-shirt he was wearing the night of the battle. His jeans were so filthy, covered in mud and blood that Snape had chucked them out as soon as Harry had slid out of them.

“Stop that incessant wriggling.” Snape orders, a little later, his voice heavy with sleep, as they lie in the dark.

“I can’t help it,” Harry says through chattering teeth. He scowls at the wall of black wool in front of him that is Snape’s back. “It’s fucking freezing!”

Snape grumbles something incoherent and Harry tries, without success, to stop shivering. He rubs his bare feet together and then tries to hook them up inside his pyjama trousers.

Snape makes an exasperated noise and rolls over. His black eyes look slightly menacing, so close, and for a moment Harry’s heart beat quickens. But then Snape surprises him by lifting his arm up and stretching out his cloak.

“I will only offer this once, Potter.”

Hurriedly, Harry shuffles over, his back against Snape, pushing himself in to the warm enclosure and curling his legs up.

“Ahhhh,” he sighs with relief as Snape’s arm comes down over him.

“It doesn’t mean—”

“I know what it doesn’t mean, Snape. It doesn’t mean that you like me, I get it. How about from now on, I will accept everything you do, that isn’t horrible, as definitely meaning that you still hate me.”

“Hmm….” Snape hums. “I fear that would take the fun out everything, Potter.”
“How?”

“Well, what will we talk about if not how much I despise you?”

Harry pauses to think about this. “…maybe it will solve the problem of having to talk to each other at all.”

“…in that case I heartily agree.”

Harry chuckles despite himself. “Night night,” he says.

“Mmm.” Is all he gets in response, and when Snape yawns and his breath tickles the back of Harry’s neck, he tries not to shiver.

*

When Harry opens his eyes he finds himself rather close to a large nostril. He realises he’s lying half sprawled over Snape’s chest, but doesn’t move: he’s warm and surprisingly comfortable. He pulls his head back though, to get a better look at Snape whilst he has the opportunity to study him unobserved. Already he can tell that sleep has done him some good. His skin looks less papery and yellow, the bags have faded. His face looks softer in sleep, the harsh lines of his frown, although still present, lack their usual strength. He still looks alert somehow, his jaw not slack, but tight. He looks half-poised, like he could leap out of bed and start fighting or running as if never having been asleep.

“I know that you’re looking at me. Stop it.” The scowl lines deepen slightly.

“How did you know?” Harry asks taken aback. “Spy skills?”

Snape’s lip twitches and he squints his eyes open. For a moment he just looks at Harry, eyes trailing over his face, so full of a lack of scorn or suspicion that Harry’s breath hitches.

“Spy skills?” Snape repeats. “How old are you, Potter? And get off me.”

With some reluctance Harry rolls away. He stretches noisily.

“Can I go and see Neville today?”

“May I.”

“May I, then?”

“I don’t know why you’re asking, you’ll do what you want regardless, and besides, which I don’t remember saying that you couldn’t go in and see him.”

“You might not have said so in as many words, but persistently shutting the door in our faces, and biting our heads off if we dared to disturb you, meant that we got the message anyway.”

“Do not cheek me,” Snape says absently, sitting up as he does so. His hair is sticking up at the back and his clothes look rumpled. He looks so very human and not Snape-like that Harry has to leave the room to hide his smile.

Neville’s face has lost some of its roundness, but he looks peaceful. Harry reaches a hand to brush his hair back, and Neville opens his eyes.

“Harry,” he croaks.

“Hello, mate,” Harry says. “How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” Neville says with a small smile. “And a bit peckish.”

Harry chuckles. “I’ll go and ask what our master will permit you for breakfast.”

Harry spends most of the morning in the armchair at Neville’s bed, being filled in on everything that has happened since the battle. It is with such sweet relief to hear that everyone is alive and well and carrying on the good fight without him.

He’s in such a good mood that he doesn’t even feel the discomfort of undressing in front of Snape for his daily check-up, humming happily to himself as Snape pokes him in the tummy.

“Potter, stop being so cheerful. It’s distracting.”

“Sorry,” Harry says happily. “Just pleased to have Neville back with us.”

“Hmph. If I’d had the foresight to realise that allowing him to come here would mean I had two idiotic Gryffindor dunderheads to cohabit with, I never would have agreed.”

“At least you have Malfoy,” Harry says, grinning slyly when Snape gives him a look. “How is he today?”

“Fine. Although he insisted on a full breakfast when he heard that Longbottom was eating. No doubt he’ll feel unwell later, but he would insist.”

Harry laughs, which is apparently the wrong thing to do because Snape jabs him hard in the neck.

“I do wish my patients had the decency to be more obedient when they regained consciousness.” He says, giving Harry a meaningful look.

“Just think, not long until you’ll have one less patient. I’m feeling so much better at least.”

“Hmm. Pleased as I am at your lessoning need for my medical assistance, do not assert yourself too much, Potter. I will not have anything to do with you if your pig-headedness induces a relapse.”

“I can do some things though, right? I can’t bear another day of doing nothing. I’ll tend to Neville… And do some cooking… And the fire.”

“You may see to Neville.”

“And the fire, and that’s it, I promise! And I swear I’ll be frighteningly obedient.”

Snape squints at him whilst he considers. “Fine, but no wood chopping.”

Harry huffs, “Trust you to hog the best jobs.”

“It’s the perk of being in charge.” Snape says smugly. “When you start organising your own hide-outs, you can chop the wood. Drink this.”

“I think this is progress,” Harry says after he drinks the potion. “We’ve been talking for several minutes and you haven’t once told me you hate me. See, maybe we can be friends?”

It’s meant to be a joke but Snape’s face clouds over and he leaves the room briskly without a word. Harry flops back onto the bed, glumly, and kicks himself for being so careless with his words. Befriending Snape was like trying to earn the trust of an easily startled horse: one wrong move and he’d bolt.

Harry’s still moping about, trying to come up with coercive yet non-threatening tactics when “Potter!” is barked from the hallway. Harry, hopelessly eager, bounds out of the room. He finds Snape with his arms folded wearing a sickly smile.

“Draco’s been sick. Be a dear and clear it up.” He says ‘dear’ with an edge of threat.

“But... I thought I was restricted to Neville duties and making the fire?”

“Yes, but you also agreed to being ‘frighteningly obedient,’ remember?”

Harry pauses, sensing that this is test of some sort. “Fine,” he says with resignation, dragging his heels as he makes his way into the kitchen to get a cleaning rag, surprised to find that he would readily clean up Malfoy’s vomit to prove his word.

Malfoy’s lying on his back, one arm over his eyes in a classical pose of damsel-in-distress. Harry envisages the scene from last night – Snape storming in from the cold night, windswept and heroic, Malfoy cradled in his arms – and feels a stab of jealousy.

“Severus, is that you. Take my hand, Severus. I feel so weak.” Malfoy says in a pained whisper, stretching his hand out towards Harry.

“It’s me, you melodramatic nitwit.” Harry bats the hand away and Malfoy peeps at him from under his arm.

“Oh, Potter. It’s you.”

Harry grimaces and sets to work on his knees, wiping the gruesome chunks of bread and egg and bile into a pile and scooping them into the rag.

“You missed a bit.” Malfoy says with a smirk, before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Vomit all cleaned up, Harry makes his way into Neville’s room, passing Snape, who’s just leaving and who doesn’t even favour Harry with a glance.

“Budge up,” he says to Neville grumpily. And then, “How you feeling?” when he remembers himself.

“Alright. Snape’s just given me some potions.”

“Did he make you take your clothes off?”

Neville nods with a wince.

“Awkward isn’t it?”

“I should say so. Still, not the worst thing to suffer considering it’s saving my life.”

Harry nods absently. “How is he with you? He’s not too horrible is he?”

“No, although he’s not exactly nice either. He just sort of barks orders at me and I do them. At least he’s not being absolutely terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Harry says solemnly. “I just wish he didn’t hate us. Well me, anyway.” He starts sulkily kicking the end of the bedpost with his socked foot.

“I thought you hated him?”

“I did… I do… it’s just that I also don’t? I don’t know, he’s so confusing!” Neville’s looking at him a little blankly, but he nods encouragement.

“It’s just, he’s done so much, he means so much. To me anyway. Even when I thought he was completely evil he was still mine. Mine to hate wholeheartedly. And now, I dunno… I just want us to get along, I want to be friends. I don’t know why he’s got to be so difficult about it, all I’m doing is trying to say thank you.”

Neville purses his lips thoughtfully.

“Maybe, and don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe forcing your friendship on Snape is not the nicest way to show gratitude?”

Harry scowls and kicks the end of the bedpost a bit harder. He’s sure Neville’s got it wrong, but he can’t quite think of why.

In the afternoon Harry busies himself with fetching water from the well, tipping it into a huge vat in the kitchen and putting it on to boil. It takes ages, but once he’s done, the tin bath in the bathroom is full of steaming water. Pleased, Harry goes to find Snape and bumps into him coming out of Malfoy’s room.

“I’ve run you a bath. No arguments just get in it.”

“What? Potter, do you know what obedience means? I specifically told you to not do anything other than the fire and—”

“I promise to go and have a nap, if you promise to get in the bath.”

“You will go and have a nap, and I… I shall do as I please without your instruction. I do not—”

“Bend to my whims. I know.” Harry says rolling his eyes and heading towards Malfoy’s old room. In bed a few moments later he hears a splashing sound and, with a grin, he slips off to sleep.

*

“Neville’s asleep,” Harry says with a whisper as he comes into the hallway.

Snape’s coming out the front room. “So’s Draco.”

Harry nods, and then doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s far too early for bed and there’s nowhere for them to sit comfortably and ignore each other.

“I was going to have a cocoa. Would you like one?” He eventually asks and watches as Snape’s eyes dart about the hallway as if looking for any other option. Eventually, defeated, they find Harry’s and, with a reluctant nod, Snape follows him to the kitchen.

Cocoa made, Harry sits down next to Snape and tries not to feel too nervous, cradling his hands around the comforting warmth of his mug. He manages not to blather mindlessly or tell Snape how nice he looks since he’s had a bath and quietly watches instead as Snape reaches into an inner robe pocket and takes out a silver hipflask. Snape pours a generous amount of liquor into his cup and Harry wordlessly slides his own mug towards him.

Snape clicks his tongue. “You don’t even know what it is, Potter.”

“Well—what is it?”

“Brandy.”

“Can I have some?”

“May I.”

“May I please have some of your brandy please, Sir?”

“No.”

“But—why not?”

“Because you underage.”

“I am not! I’m nineteen!” Harry splutters. “Twenty this year in fact. Oh go on, a drop of brandy will make me ever so sleepy and docile and you have got to share a bed with me, remember.”

Snape rolls his eyes and pours a smidgen into Harry’s cup. Harry grins and picks it up, raising it slightly towards Snape before he has a sup.

Snape’s looking at him curiously. “And do you know how old I am, Potter?” he asks.

Harry frowns to think about it and then nods. “Forty? Or forty-one. Same age as my parents.”

“Exactly.” Snape gives him a pointed look. “Old enough to be your father.” Harry’s cheeks feel hot and his insides squirm. He starts talking quickly, about how much better Neville is doing, and tries to ignore the hard look Snape’s giving him.

The brandy must have made Snape docile and sleepy too because they manage not to argue for the remainder of the evening, and climb into the bed later almost amiably. Snape doesn’t wait for Harry to start shivering before he lifts his arm up and let’s him scoot underneath his cloak and Harry even feels at home enough to strike up conversation.

“Snape? Professor, I mean? Neville won’t have to have Volde—sorry,” he apologises as Snape tenses, “he won’t have to have the Dark Lord try and kill him to get his magic back will he?”

Snape rolls on to his back to answer. “No. It will be restored when the Dark Lord’s power is seized.”

“What would have happened to him if he hadn’t have come here? Would he have died?”

“Yes.”

“And his magic would have drained to You-know-who?”

“Yes”

“But won’t You-know-who know that the curse has been stopped?” Harry turns around to look at Snape. In the darkness he can make out a silhouette of nose, two glittering specks of eyes looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“He knows it’s possible and likely that you could be kept alive; he does not know that it is possible to counteract the curse.”

“And you don’t think he suspects?”

“No, he believes that he has managed to keep the method of the spell a complete secret.”

“But you know?”

“Yes.”

“How?” There’s a pause. “Are these questions annoying you?”

“I expected them to be asked. I thought they would perhaps come sooner but then I wasn’t accounting for the sharp old Potter mind.”

Harry gently nudges him with his foot. “Oi, I’ve been busy being cursed, I haven’t had much time for thinking. Don’t laugh.” He nudges him again as Snape smirks at him. “…How come he doesn’t know that you know about the spell?”

He sees Snape swallow. “He became less careful with his thoughts; I saw what he was planning, how it would work.”

“You went inside his head without him knowing?”

“Yes.”

Harry lets out a long whistle of breath, and tries not to think about what would have happened if Snape had got caught sneaking inside Voldemort’s mind. He lifts his head up to better look at Snape.

“But—if he knows that I can be kept alive, why does he think I’ll go to him at all? Won’t he think it odd if I just turn up and offer myself up for him to kill?”

Snape pauses and lets out a sigh of breath. “He’ll make you come to him.”

“How?”

“Make you an offer – threaten to keep cursing and killing until you give yourself up. He knows you well enough to know what you will choose to do.”

Harry feels stricken, his stomach twists uncomfortably. Part of him would very much like to stay in this hut forever, pretending that the rest of the world didn’t exist, pretending that Voldemort didn’t exist, and part of him wished that he was already better and on his way to stop it all.

He lies his head back down, closing his eyes. They’ve been quiet and still for a moment when another thought strikes him.

“Why isn’t it called the Dumbledore and Snape Stratagem? Or just the Snape Stratagem?”

Snape sighs near his ear. “Connotations.”

“Huh?”

“What does the name Severus Snape bring to mind? And how does that compare to what the name Albus Dumbledore brings to mind?”

Harry thinks of shadows and darkness, a sneaking lone figure creeping through it, Snape’s face changing, from snarling, to blank, to not quite smiling. And then he thinks of kind, old, wise, blue eyes, and a wrinkled, beaming, open face and Dumbledore winking at him knowingly. “Oh,” he says.

“Exactly,” Snape says through a yawn. “And without the trust of the Order, the Stratagem wouldn’t work. They’d never have let me take you and bring you here.”

Harry nods in the darkness, feeling glad to have been brought here. Snape’s body feels so warm and solid beside him that he lets out a slow breath of contentment and wriggles further under their shared cloak.

Just before he falls asleep he imagines the look on Malfoy’s face if he could see him now, and grins to himself. Then has to stop himself from scoffing; a few days ago he could never have imagined that snuggling up in bed with Severus Snape would be something to boast about.

*

Chapter Three

When Harry wakes up, he can’t move. Something is pinning him hard to the bed. His eyes pop open and he looks down to find the thin arm and shoulder of Snape lying partway across his chest. Snape’s face is buried against his shoulder mostly covered by his long black hair. Harry decides not to wriggle free; he’s comfortable enough to not run the risk of disturbing Snape’s sleep. He manages to ease an arm out and scratches an itch on his nose. Snape doesn’t stir and Harry takes some of his fine hair between his fingers. It’s clean and silky and before he knows what he’s doing he’s bringing it up to his nose.

“Potter, are you sniffing me?”

Harry jumps and drops the hair with a splutter. A beady black is peering out at him from around his shoulder.

“You’ll be tasting me next.” Snape drawls.

Harry tries to think of something suggestive and flirty to say back but doesn’t get very far before a cold voice speaks from the door way.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this cosy.” Malfoy’s arms are folded, his eyes steely.

Snape’s sleep scrunched face jolts up to squint at him, his arm quickly moving from where it was lying over Harry’s chest.

“Draco—”

But Malfoy turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, leaving Harry and Snape looking awkwardly at each other. From next door comes a series of bangs and the sound of splintering wood and Snape hurries out the room without so much as a glance at Harry.

After a muffled row, in which Harry hears Malfoy squawk his name incredulously several times, Snape spends the best part of the day in Malfoy’s room. He even calls Harry in and asks dismissively for him to bring them a pot of tea. Harry nearly tells them both to fuck off, but something in Snape’s eyes calms him, and he nods instead, even managing not to kick Malfoy when he smugly tells him to “fetch us the biscuits, Potter.”

Harry sits in with Neville but is distracted by every noise that comes from the front room and keeps going into the hallway and looking at the shut door.

He’s just washing up the lunch things when Snape comes into the kitchen rubbing at his face tiredly. Harry glowers at him from the sink and bangs down a saucepan loudly.

“Oh don’t start, Potter,” Snape says sitting heavily at one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “I was beginning to think you were less of a child than Draco.”

Even though Harry thinks this is probably only a ploy to get him to stop stropping, he is placated by the rare compliment. He shrugs a bit then offers Snape a coffee and sits next to him.

“I don’t see why you have to appease him all the time.” He says trying to keep the sulk out of his voice.

Snape sighs. “Anything for an easy life.”

“But—you never worry about upsetting me.”

Snape’s eyes glint at him. “Yes, Potter, but the most you’ll do is slam a few pans around and mutter something rude under your breath. Draco would likely slip something in my tea, and I don’t have the energy for the paranoia.”

Harry guesses this is a fair point really. He sighs. “Better get on with the washing up.”

“Harry the housewife,” Snape smirks.

*

Malfoy swipes his knight off the board.

“Well done, Draco,” Harry says with the sickliest false smile he can muster.

“Why thank you, Harry.” Malfoy’s smile matches his own and there’s a new glint in his eyes.

Aware that the stakes have been raised, Harry keeps up tactical encouragement as Malfoy knocks his pieces off one-by-one, a dull thwack each time.

Harry smiles sweetly, but is stopped from yet another supportive “Well done,” by the tap-tap of a pigeon’s beak on the window.

They shout for Snape at the same time, and then both try to be the one to tell him about the bird at the window. Snape raises his eyebrows at them and then opens the latch, detaching the note from the pigeon’s leg and sitting in the armchair to read it. After a brief silent argument that consists of furious head nods to try to get the other to ask what the note says, Harry and Malfoy resume their game in competitive quietness as Snape sits pensively in the corner. Every time Harry looks up though, Snape is scrutinising him. A couple of times he even opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again and looks away.

The pigeon starts making impatient cooing noises and Harry watches Snape absently feed it some biscuit crumbs off a plate. Eventually he folds up the note, puts it in his pocket and mutters something to the bird, who flutters into a nearby tree, before leaving the room briskly.

“What was that about?” Harry wonders aloud. “I hope no-one else’s been cursed.”

“God, I hope not. We’ll never get out of here if we keep getting sent idiots who can’t manage to keep themselves out of trouble… Although I don’t suppose they’d send anyone else here… I expect they all want to know when you’ll be back to sort things out. I doubt your side is doing too well, what with you and Snape out of the game.”

Harry is nearly to the door when he turns and narrows his eyes. “Don’t you mean our side, Malfoy?”

Malfoy shrugs. “No, I’m not having a side anymore. Think I’ll let you lot fight it out and then try and get on with whoever’s still standing at the end.”

For a moment Harry gapes at him before he manages to push away his disgust and goes to the kitchen to find Snape writing at the table.

“What did that letter say?” He asks casually.

A drawn out silence follows in which Snape finishes the letter he is writing and folds it up neatly. He looks at Harry contemplatively, as if choosing his words carefully.

“The Order wanting to know when we will be back to the fray,” he finally answers.

“And what did you say?”

“Not yet. You’re not ready.” Snape’s not meeting his eyes which Harry takes as a bad sign.

He swallows thickly. “He’s cursed other people hasn’t he? He’s trying to get me to go to him isn’t he?”

Still Snape doesn’t look at him. “You’re not ready, Potter,” he finally says.

“I’m ready enough if people are dying, Snape! Yesterday you only had to give me one vial of potions, and I haven’t had anything today and I feel fine. We should go and—”

“You will be ready when I say you’re ready! Do not argue with me, Potter, I am in charge here, not you!” Snape roars.

Harry glowers defiantly and watches as Snape calms down, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“The Stratagem will not work if you are not completely healed. If we go now it will all be for nothing.”

“Ok.” Harry says with a shrug. “That was all you needed to say… Soon though, right?”

Snape doesn’t answer, just picks up the letter from the table and walks out of the room.

.

In the evening, Neville feels well enough to get out of bed and he joins Harry and Malfoy in the front room for a chess tournament, watching them with confusion as they snipe pleasantries at each other. Snape sits reading in the corner, ignoring them all.

When Neville toddles off to bed Harry stretches and yawns. “Think I’ll hit the hay too.”

Malfoy’s face darkens. “I don’t think we need keep the same sleeping arrangements. I’m feeling much better, Potter, so you may have your own bed back.”

“Oh that’s ok, Draco. You look perfectly comfortable where you are, I wouldn’t want to move you.”

“But I insist.”

“No, I insist.”

They glare at each other and then turn to look at Snape who doesn’t look up from his book.

“Look,” Malfoy hisses, “I’m not letting you two sleep in there together again. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Yes,” says Harry, dodging as Malfoy tries to grab him and pull him into the bed.

In the end Harry suggests that they let Snape sleep on his own and they share the bed in the living room. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than letting ferret face sleep alone with Snape.

Snape looks pretty indifferent when Malfoy tells him with a simper that they think he should have his own bed for the night.

“Goodnight, Severus,” Malfoy gushes as Snape makes to leave the room.

“Night, Professor,” Harry says with a diffident smile, and Snape pauses by the door to give them both an odd look before closing it, leaving Malfoy and Harry alone to squabble about the blankets.

*

Harry is suddenly startled awake; something cold and very wet has just dripped on his face. He opens his eyes and sits up gasping as there is a flash of light outside followed by and an almighty boom of thunder.

“It’s only a storm, Potter,” Malfoy drawls next to him. “No need to wet the bed.”

Harry tries to get back to sleep but every gust of wind shakes the walls, whistling loudly down the chimney and splattering noisy rain against the window. And there must be a hole in the roof, because there are a steady stream of large rain drops falling on his face and chest, making the blanket he’s trying to hide under sopping wet. Miraculously, Malfoy goes back to sleep and even makes the occasional contented snore. After half an hour, Harry creeps out and peeps his head into Snape’s room. He dithers in the doorway, eyeing up the expanse of dry bed next to the sleeping man before finally approaching. He’s just touched a knee down when Snape’s eyes snap open.

“What is it, Potter?” He barks.

“Sorry to disturb you… There’s a storm and the roof leaks right over the bed in there and it was dripping on my head and I couldn’t sleep and I was just wondering if I could sleep in here and—”

“Alright, Potter, I don’t need chapter and verse,” Snape says, sighing and rolling over. Harry tucks himself under the cloak around the bend of Snape’s back and is just drifting into sleep when someone whispers right in his ear:

“I don’t think so, Potter.”

He opens his eyes to find Malfoy’s disgruntled face looming over him.

He groans sleepily. “Go back to bed, Malfoy.”

“No, why should you two be all cosy when I—”

“What is it now?” Snape asks rolling over to glare at them.

“I’m not sleeping in there on my own.” Malfoy bleats. “It’s frightening and the bed’s all wet and there’s a weird noise—”

Snape looks at the pair of them and clenches his jaw. “Fine,” he says standing up and scrabbling out of bed. He gestures to the bit of bed he’s vacated and stalks past Malfoy out the door.

Malfoy climbs in and accidently elbows Harry hard in the ribs. Harry accidently kicks Malfoy in the shin and is contemplating accidently pinching him when Snape comes back in.

“Bed’s wet. Shove up.”

There then follows an argument about who gets to sleep in the middle. Snape hisses threats about making them sleep out in the rain or on the stone floor and then climbs in between them to shut them up.

They’ve been settled and still for a while when the door creaks open again.

“Ummm,” says Neville from the doorway and Snape goes spare.

Harry ends up with his back pushed against the wall, Snape next to him, his deeply cross face very close to his own, and Malfoy and Neville somehow fitting on the rest of the bed. Once he’s sure everyone is asleep Harry opens his eyes. Snape’s maintained a rather angry look in sleep, his eyebrows down, his lips pursed and Harry finds himself smiling fondly at him. It’s an odd mixture, Snape’s face: big features, the beaky nose, the severe eyebrows, the keen eyes. It was more interesting than ugly, although Harry suspects that he knows it too well to judge it objectively. One thing he did know was that he found it pleasing to look at; it was so singular, so Snape: cross and harsh and funny and clever. Before he realises what he’s doing, Harry’s leaning forward and placing a small kiss on the end of Snape’s nose. When he pulls back the black eyes are staring at him from underneath the frowning eyebrows and Harry thinks he might vomit up his heart.

He doesn’t though, slowly reaching a brave and trembling hand to Snape’s cheek instead. When Snape doesn’t move to stop him, Harry gently strokes his fingers down, tracing cheekbone then jawbone, then softly across Snape’s lips and back across his cheek into his hair. Still Snape doesn’t move and, almost because he’s at a loss at what else to do, Harry kisses him. For a moment Harry thinks it might all go horribly awkwardly wrong, but then Snape kisses him back, hard and eager, and Harry’s heart rate quadruples. He gasps as a hand snakes up his bare back, under his pyjamas and he grips Snape’s neck to pull him closer.

It’s fierce, Snape’s kissing; he’s nipping at his lips and tongue and pushing a leg between Harry’s thighs, pulling away to suck on his neck and groping at his arse firmly.

Harry’s just sliding a hand up Snape’s thigh when someone makes a noise behind them and they freeze. Harry waits for whoever it was to settle and then tries to kiss Snape again, but he pulls away, shaking his head.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers.

Harry rolls his eyes and pouts a bit, but then buries his head into the crook of Snape’s neck and falls asleep smiling.

*

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Harry grins sleepily and opens his eyes. And then jerks away when he is confronted with a sneering face and Malfoy shoving him roughly away with a snarl. Snape’s nowhere to be seen and the sound of rain is still loudly pattering against the hut’s roof. Harry shoves Malfoy back and gets up, languidly stretching his arms.

He finds Snape in the kitchen, finishing a cup of coffee by the sink.

“Morning.” Harry says brightly. Snape doesn’t even look at him, just shoves roughly past him and slams the living room door. Harry feels his good mood slink away.

Later, he’s back in bed eating toast with Neville when Malfoy hurries in and shuts the door firmly.

“Severus has gone mad,” he says with wide eyes, climbing under the blankets next to Neville. “He just threw a hammer at me!”

“Why?”

“Lord knows. I was just saying it might be nice if we could go home soon.”

From next door they hear the banging of a hammer into wood.

“What’s he doing in there?” Harry asks, making to get up.

“Fixing the leaks in the roof. If you’re going out there, Potter, get me something to eat.”

“Get it yourself, Malfoy.”

“I’m not going back out there. He threw a hammer at me! I’m staying as far away from him as possible.” Malfoy crosses his arms and raises his pointed chin.

Harry looks at the door, nervously, but at that moment a loud burst of shouted swear words comes from the living room. Harry slips back under the blankets and hopes that Snape’s temper is not solely down to their brief bout of snogging last night.

“Oh,” says Neville looking pale. “But I need a wee.”

They decide that it’s probably safer for Neville to wee out the window and so he does. They hideout in the dry bedroom and, bonded by a collective fear of Snape’s bad mood, they forget to keep up any animosity and instead build a den out of blankets and play twenty questions and dare each other to get things from the other rooms (which is thrilling enough for Harry to forget to be miserable, as he darts back in with the chess set tucked under his arm, receiving a hushed cheer from the other two).

By late afternoon the sound of hammering and bellowed swearing has ceased and Neville is dared to go and get them some food from the kitchen. He comes back proudly baring an armful of cheese and bread and fruit which he deposits on the bed.

“Snape?” Harry asks.

“He’s at the kitchen table reading a letter and drinking brandy straight out the bottle. Don’t think he even noticed me.”

Harry forgets his hunger and makes his way to the kitchen. Rain is still pouring in through the ceiling of the living room, he notices as he passes.

In the kitchen Snape is sitting slumped in his chair, the letter laid out in front of him and a pigeon eyeing him curiously from across the table. When he sees Harry, he turns the letter over, so that it is just a blank piece of paper with a few blots of seeped through ink across it.

“He’s cursed more people hasn’t he?” Harry asks from the doorway.

Snape eyes him coolly but doesn’t answer, and Harry sticks his chin up.

“I’m going back.” He says, folding his arms.

“Not. Yet.” Snape’s knuckles are clenched to white, one hand gripping a bottle of brandy, the other a fist on the table.

“I’m ready and you know it. And besides it’s my life and it’s nothing to do with you what—”

“I’ve been working for nineteen years to keep you alive, don’t you dare tell me that it’s nothing to do with me!”

Snape looks so ferocious that Harry almost wants to go back to his blanket den. He doesn’t though, bravely sitting next to Snape instead.

“We can’t just stay here whilst he picks off innocent people,” he says. “I’ve got to go now, I have to end this …on my own if I have to.”

Snape actually snarls, a distracting bit of spittle dangling from his lip. “You’re not going anywhere without me!”

“Fine,” Harry says showing Snape the palms of his hand in a gesture of peace. “But I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

Snape’s face looks disturbingly hateful, but he grabs a pen and scribbles quickly on to the blank side of the letter – Tomorrow morning, the meeting place. S – and hastily folds it up. The pigeon makes some disgruntled noises as Snape roughly ties the letter to its ankle and shoves it into Harry’s hands.

At the window Harry watches until the bird has flown out of sight, feeling the first churn of dread in his stomach. Back in the kitchen he makes to reach for the brandy bottle, but Snape pulls it out of reach and leans over to the sink for some glasses. He pours a generous amount in each, slides Harry’s along the table, and raises his glass.

“To tomorrow.” He says darkly, not quite looking at Harry.

“Tomorrow.” Harry repeats taking a small sip.

They drink in silence until their glasses are empty, then Snape pours them another round without a word.

After the second glass, Harry starts feeling a bit better. He smiles groggily at Snape who doesn’t smile back but neither does he glare or growl, Harry notes happily.

He raises his glass, “To not glaring,” he says cheerfully. Snape raises his eyebrows at him, but still doesn’t glare.

After the third glass they get into the swing of toasting things.

“To the oven,” Harry says with a hiccup and a snuff of laughter.

“To this teaspoon,” Snape counters.

Harry even feels relaxed enough to bring up Snape’s DIY attempts.

“Shut up.” Snape says prodding Harry hard in the arm with a long thin finger. “Or I’ll make you sleep in the wet bed. With Draco,” he adds.

Harry prods him back. “I bagsy the dry bed for you and me. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow, killing the Dark Lord and all.”

Snape gestures with his glass and sloshes some brandy down himself. “Yes but we won’t get any sleep if Draco hasn’t got a comfortable bed.”

“Well—can’t we just spell ‘em dry? We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Snape shakes his head. “They’ll find us like that,” he snaps his fingers loudly.

Harry nods and thinks how much better Snape looks drunk, cheeks slightly pinked, frown lifted and even the hint of genuine merriment around his eyes and mouth.

“Stop gawping, Potter.” Snape says and doesn’t move away when Harry takes his hand.

Neville and Malfoy come in at some point, Neville looking timid and Malfoy looking down his thin nose at them.

“You’re drunk!” he says accusingly. Harry watches his eyes fall on Snape’s arm along the back of Harry’s chair and Harry’s hand on Snape’s thigh.

“Oh have a drink, Draco,” Snape says surprising them all and pitching the brandy towards him. “And you, Longbottom.”

“Yeah,” slurs Harry, beaming as he notes that Snape doesn’t move his arm. “Don’t you know it’s the end of the world?”

Snape starts singing a funny old sounding song and Harry starts improvising percussion on his leg and Malfoy and Neville look at each other and shrug and pour themselves large brandies.

As Last Suppers go Harry finds that his is rather enjoyable, which is surprising considering the attendees. They finish the brandy, singing themselves hoarse in the process. Neville, who turns out to be a beautiful soprano, does a heart-breaking rendition of a ballad about a lonely orphaned wizard which even brings a tear to Snape’s eye. Then they cheer themselves up with a stirring Wizarding song about winning wars, which Harry doesn’t know so he adds lalala and yeah yeah yeah as he sees fit.

It’s getting dark before they realise that they’re all ravenous, and start scrambling around the kitchen tipsily.

“Tonight’s menu will be vegetable bourguignon, accompanied by crusty bread,” Snape tells them.

Harry translates this to mean vegetable stew and stale rolls, but he doesn’t say it as Snape brandishes a knife about barking instructions.

“You,” he says to Harry, waving the knife at his chest. “Get some water from the well. Longbottom! Peel me a dozen carrots. Draco, scrub these potatoes.”

Chaos blooms in the small kitchen as Malfoy and Neville jostle for the basin to peel carrots and wash potatoes, and wind and rain whooshes in as Harry comes in and out of the kitchen door. When Harry goes to give the stew a stir Snape elbows him out the way, stating “I’m head chef,” in a bossy voice, hitting him with such force that he knocks over a stack of clean crockery. No one can be bothered to it clean up, so they step awkwardly around it instead. Things take a turn for the worse when Malfoy knocks a jar of cooking oil into the mix of broken porcelain, and they spend the next half hour skidding about, gripping each other’s arms roughly to stay upright.

Whilst the stew cooks Snape sets them to helping him shift the bed out of Neville’s leaking room and into the dry bedroom. They knock one leg off as they get it out the doorway. They knock another two off in the hallway before getting the bed jammed, the head of it in the bedroom, the foot of it in the kitchen, and Neville stuck behind it. He remains there for twenty minutes or so, chirping encouragement as they push and grind the bed along the walls and door frames.

Finally, they get it into the room where Snape gets spectacularly tangled up in the sheets they’d hung for their den’s walls, and falls, grabbing Harry as he does so, who grabs Malfoy, who grabs Neville. Snape bellows ineffectively (and quite happily, Harry notes), at them whilst they giggle and struggle and get even more tangled up. When they surface, they shove the bed against the wall and Snape merrily whacks the last leg off to even it out.

Later, when they are dozily full of bourguignon, they huddle chairs around the fire, ignoring the rest of the leaking front room behind them. Harry makes everyone a cocoa and no one says anything when he sits on a folded blanket leaning against Snape’s legs. They don’t even bat an eye lid when Snape absently starts fiddling with his hair or when Harry curls an arm around his leg and rests his cheek on Snape’s fire-warmed knee.

Before bed Snape soberly tells them the plan for the next morning. They are all to apparate at daybreak, Malfoy is to take Neville, so he does not have to use any magic, and Snape will take Harry, and they will meet outside Grimauld Place. When he gets to the bit about going to Voldemort, Neville goes pale.

“And it will work?” He asks. “The Dumbledore Stratagem? He’ll die and Harry will live?”

Snape and Harry give each other a look.

“Yes,” they both say firmly.

In bed Harry is sure he’ll never get to sleep. He can tell by Snape’s breathing that he’s not asleep either, and he sneaks a hand under Snape’s cloak to find his hand and grip it tightly. Snape squeezes back. When there are gentle snores and heavy breathing from the other two, Harry brushes Snape’s hair away from his face and leans into kiss him. Snape’s hands readily slide all over Harry, up his back, down his pyjama bottoms, and he feels the press of erection against his leg as he’s pulled in closer. Before things get too out of hand Harry sits up and takes Snape’s hand. He slides out of bed and tugs him into the other room.

Snape wastes no time in peeling Harry out of his pyjamas, running hurried kisses along Harry’s bare torso as Harry struggles to unbutton his robes. They make the most of it: Harry bent over the wet bed gripping the sodden mattress tightly as Snape slams into him, Snape sat in the armchair, Harry on his lap grinding down on him, Harry on his back on the floor, his legs around Snape’s shoulders. They fuck until their knees are raw and they have barely a pant left of breath between them, finally piling blankets and cushions onto the hearth rug and collapsing onto it. Harry is so exhausted, his sweat slicked skin sticking to Snape’s as they lie in a tangle, that he doesn’t even notice the cold draft or the hard floor under his back.

.

He wakes with blankets piled on top of him and Snape sitting wrapped in a cloak in an armchair watching him. They nod grimly at each other, both looking ashen faced. Neither of them speaks as they dress and start tidying up some of the mess of the previous evening.

He’s sat at the kitchen table a cold cup of tea clutched in his hand when Neville comes and sits beside him.

“In case you didn’t know, or there isn’t a chance to tell you later… Thank you.”

“For what?”

Neville shrugs. “For being Harry Potter I guess.” And he reaches to squeeze Harry’s hand.

“Ready?” asks Snape from the doorway.

No, Harry thinks but he nods his head anyway.

In the hallway Snape wraps Harry in his thick black cloak and leads him outside to the edge of the woods to apparate. Malfoy and Neville leave with a crack and Snape takes his hand, holding it tightly. They look at each other, grimly, hopefully, and then disappear.

*

In the end, the Dumbledore Stratagem works almost exactly as Snape and Dumbledore planned it to. As instructed by the Dark Lord, they find him at the Riddle House, sat on a make shift throne, cronies crowded around him, leering and jeering as Harry stands shivering in his pyjamas before them. Behind him he can feel Snape, unseen under his invisibility cloak, a reassuring hand pressing into his back.

“Any last words?” Voldemort asks with a grin, and slashes his wand before Harry has a chance to answer.

Harry feels an intense heat wash over him and when he opens his eyes he’s on the floor, Voldemort looming over him muttering incantations. Harry’s wand starts vibrating violently, and he has to use all his might to hold on to it. Above him, Voldemort still looks strong as ever, and Harry is almost ready to accept that it hasn’t worked when he feels it: a heat going into his wand, a surge of energy. Above him, Voldemort’s face falls.

Harry watches him weaken and drop to the floor, Death Eaters crowd around him, trying to break the connection between them, trying to wrench his hands away from his wand. Some of them come towards Harry but all he thinks is ‘no’ firmly and they are kept back, a force field of energy protecting him. His hands are sweaty and he is losing his grip.

“I can’t hold it,” he yells, but Snape is already with him, pulling Harry onto his lap, arms coming around him to cover his on the wand. Together they hold it until they feel the energy weaken and the warmth rushing away.

“Now!” Snape roars.

“Dispersiam,” they bellow together. There is a blinding light and the wand shakes violently in their hands and everything goes dark.

When Harry opens his eyes he is looking up at cloudy sky. There is a gentle breeze blowing the hair back from his face and his glasses are on slightly squiffy. He sits up and straightens them and looks around. Where the Riddle House stood is rubble and stone and patches of earth, flung far and wide. If he squints he can make out what looks like bits of bone and gristle mixed in with the stone and dust. He stops squinting.

He finds Snape lying on his back not too far away, looking up at the sky thoughtfully. There’s a small cut on his forehead, and he’s covered in soot and muck, but other than that he seems unharmed. Harry offers him a hand up.

“I think I might stay down here for a bit,” Snape says.

Harry shrugs and kicks a few rocks out the way and lies down next to him. Snape retrieves his silver hip flask from an inside pocket, having a long sip before passing it to Harry. Harry drinks, passing it back and taking Snape’s grubby hand he laces their fingers together. They lie there until the brandy is gone and the grey clouds are starting to darken.

“What now?” Harry asks, turning to look at Snape.

Snape looks back at him. “I was thinking about a long holiday. Somewhere quiet and pretty,” he says.

Harry nods. “If I promise to be frighteningly obedient for the rest of my life, can I—may I come with you?”

Snape narrows his eyes. “I thought it might just be a last night on Earth sort of thing.”

“So did I,” Harry says honestly. “It’s not though is it?” Without waiting for an answer, he stands and pulls Snape up beside him and with an arm around his waist, he leads him towards the not quite sunset.

The End