Challenge: 1000wds. Scenario 58 - Harry finds out that Severus Snape is
gay. It gives him ideas (Kira). Plus an oblique reference to Scenario 165.
Notes: This is part of Dusk-till-Dawn the Harry Potter/ Severus Snape Fuh-Q-
Beta: Tabitha (many thanks).
* * *
"Well I believe it. Doesn't surprise me at all," Ron said, instructing his
bishop to take Hermione's queen. She made a disgruntled noise and frowned
her cute Hermione frown, which Ron was too interested in to elaborate.
Neville said, "I thought gay men were meant to be, you know, gentler."
"Some of them," Dean said sagely, folding his Quidditch Monthly. "Others
get off on being cruel, and other gay blokes get off on being pushed around
"How would you know?" Seamus said with a laugh.
"My cousin Eustace is gay. Alhough, he's all home furnishings and walking
the dogs. Really dull."
"It's about your father," Lavender added. "When men have terrible
relationships with their fathers they sometimes can't, well, love a woman."
"Nah, that's not it," Ron said, moving his knight into place. "Checkmate.
Mum thought the twins might be, so she got all these pamphlets."
"Fred and George?"
"Oh, they're not. They're just more interested in being utter twits and
making buckets of money than in girls is all. But we all had to read the
stuff so we could understand after she made them come out. Anyway, it's not
about your father."
"Well that's what I read," Lavender replied haughtily. "Maybe sometimes it
is. I bet Snape's father hated him."
"Can I just get back to why anyone thinks Snape is gay?" Harry asked.
"I said before," Seamus said with faux patience, "Oliver Wood saw him in a
gay bar in London."
"Doesn't prove anything," Ron said, as Hermione settled between his legs
with her new Charms textbook. "I could go to a gay bar." She gave him a wry
smile. "Well, I could."
"He was with a bloke, Oliver said." Everyone just looked at him. "With a
bloke - you know."
* * *
Harry watched Snape every day, noting his walk, what he ate, how he moved
his hands when teaching, the buttons on his robe, the boots he wore (that
required some calculated pencil-dropping, which didn't work, and bribing of
house-elves, which did). When he washed his hair, what soap he used. . .
"What do you want, Mr Potter?"
"Can you tell me what went wrong with this potion?" Harry thrust his
notebook towards Snape, where he'd sketched a cursory but probably accurate
set of instructions for bone-knit. Snape took it from him with a glare.
Harry watched his long fingers curl around the edge of the book and between
the leaves. He leant forward a little more, trying to catch a scent of
"Go back to your seat Potter. If I can decipher this chicken-scratch I'll
answer your question, pretending the effort will make any difference."
There was some desultory snickering from the Slytherins, but in 6th year
they cared less about house rivalries than personal ones. Draco gave him a
vicious sneer as he passed. Oh no, Potter had been within touching distance
of the only person Malfoy respected since his father died - Severus Snape.
Harry would feel sorry for him, except that he couldn't. Having dead
parents never gained him any sympathy from Malfoy.
He began chopping whatever Hermione handed him with the whispered
instruction to "dice". At least it was odourless. He'd no idea what Snape
washed with, but if he had to chop something foul he mightn't be able to
tell. No matter how close he got.
At that thought the knife slipped roughly into his index finger. He gave a
small hiss and muttered the integro charm. Hermione rolled her eyes, but
Snape hadn't noticed, he was still carefully. . . flipping back through
Snape looked up at that moment and gave Harry a very dark look.
* * *
Harry concentrated on breathing all the way to the front of the room,
focusing on the notebook laying on Snape's desk. His lists of everything
Snape. His assessment of how gay all those things were, based on clearly
ill-informed bathroom gossip and his own desperate fantasies (for one
sickening moment he recalled a stain on one of those pages he would never
explain). His fantasies about Snape. Open on the table in front of him.
. . . he might put his hand on the back of my chair, and whisper something
in my ear like 'I want you naked in my room tonight'. . .
Juvenile and ludicrous. As if Snape would say something like that, or even
be interested in a student. For the first time, though, he admitted that
was what he wanted. Wanting that was the reason he knew how often Snape
washed his shirts and which dessert he liked.
Snape gestured to the notebook with evident distaste. "Explain yourself."
"I was curious," Harry whispered, sliding down onto the stool near the
Snape was close enough that Harry could feel the heat of another body. "My
private life is, by definition, none of your concern."
"People were talking, and I. . ."
"Wanted to contribute?"
Harry shook his head, running a hand through his hair, nudging his glasses
slightly out of place and, to his own surprise, blinking back tears, "I
thought. . . that. . . if I knew if you were, I might know if I was."
Snape moved back around the desk. "I suppose I'm meant to be touched by
your predicament; invent some kind of fellow feeling; but I'm not and I
won't." He put his hand on the back of Harry's stool and leant towards him,
whispering harshly, "Keep your adolescent trauma to yourself."
* * *
Behind the closed curtains of his bed, red stained gold by the dawn, Harry
felt Snape's breath on his skin and his voice in his ear. The whispering
hummed to the rhythm of his blood as he erratically thrust himself into his
own hand, slippery with want. Behind Harry's eyes, a dark gaze lanced and
sparked, and he came to the bright mental image of Snape's soft vicious
A rush of panic and shame smashed him back down, and Harry rolled into a
sticky quivering ball, closing his eyes against the first signs of life