Breaking the Rules

Summary: Harry has a problem. To resolve it, he seeks assistance from another. Things get complicated when that assistance ends up being contingent upon his own aptitude for rule-following. After all, everyone knows that some rules should never be broken while others... beg to be. HPSS

Appreciation: A big thank you to YenGirl for taking time to beta this story. Your thoroughness and literary creativity is always so appreciated, Yen! :)

Rating: Rated M for heavy slash. Mature readers only, please.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling, except for Julien Bellamy, aka 'The French Menace.' He's all mine!

A/N: This story will be posted in four separate chapters. It assumes cannon (mostly), but disregards the epilogue. My beta, Yen, describes this fic as a 'whole load of sensual fun.' I do hope you agree!


Chapter One

Harry spent most of his nineteen years relying on no one but himself when faced with a problem.

This independent way of thinking had served him quite well during his early childhood, though in truth, life with the Dursleys, lonely as it was, offered very few alternatives.

In later years, after befriending Ron and Hermione, he learned that there were people out there worthy of his trust, people he could lean on for support when things were at their darkest. This was an invaluable lesson to learn, considering an evil, megalomaniac had been out for his blood throughout most of his adolescence. Harry knew he never would have made it through all six of his Hogwarts years, or that horrible year on the run that followed them, if he hadn't taken that lesson to heart.

Life or death situations aside however, Harry found that most problems could be resolved in true Gryffindor style – confronting them head-on and nipping them in the bud, so to speak. Not that he wasn't grateful for the abiding support of his friends, but some situations were best dealt with solo.

One of them was figuring out what to do next after the previously mentioned megalomaniac, whose divined destruction had been Harry's sole purpose for living, perished by way of his own killing curse.

Another was how best to tell your current girlfriend that you're gay.

In hindsight, Harry knew he hadn't dealt with either situation very well. He had done his best with the first one amid the whirlwind of confusion and disbelief following Voldemort's demise. He had done far worse with the second one however and even now, wasn't quite sure why he had chosen to break the news of his sexual preference to Ginny at the Hogs Head! Perhaps he had hoped that the crowded pub would curtail the eruption of that famous Weasley temper and delay the inevitable storm of emotion from surfacing.

Holy Merlin, had he been wrong!

He was pretty certain Ginny's exclamation of 'You're gay?!', screamed at an ear-piercing volume and repeated over and over again was heard not only by all the patrons of the Hogs Head – sitting frozen in shock and staring at the pair of them with jaw-dropping, awe-struck fascination – but by the entirety of Hogsmeade village as well. And following the tradition of every juicy tidbit involving everyone's favorite Wizarding hero – this particular tidbit juicier than most as it presented itself hot on the heels of his triumphant victory over Voldemort – by the next morning, every Wizarding newspaper, magazine and radio network was trumpeting his preference.

The Boy Who Lived: Gay!

Despite that mortifying setback, Harry stayed the course, doing what he had to in order to get his life together while trying to be true to his heart. He was relieved to find he had retained the support of his best friends and was still welcomed at the Burrow albeit under a rather strained atmosphere. Over the next few weeks, he was even prepared to ignore the influx of mail that flooded his mailbox, composed of both positive and negative reactions to his accidental coming out. What he wasn't wholly prepared for however, was the sheer stress of trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

The realization that he had had enough of chasing Dark wizards meant that a career as an Auror was out, a worrying prospect seeing as that was the only Wizarding profession he had ever considered during school.

Faced with a future without a long-term plan was more than a little unnerving but in true Gryffindor fashion, Harry disregarded his trepidation and attacked the problem head on. In the months that followed, he read every Wizarding career pamphlet and job brochure he could get his hands on, researching each career's job functions and responsibilities, as well as their hiring requisites. When he realized that most careers worth a damn required NEWTs he had not taken, he was still not fazed, going directly to the newly appointed Headmistress McGonagall to ask for her permission to take the NEWTs with the current seventh years, regardless of not having attended his final year of schooling.

He should have realized she would deny his request – the upcoming NEWTs were only a few months away at the time – but at least she agreed to let him take next year's NEWTs, insisting that even if he wasn't going to attend classes, he would need time to prepare for the tests.

Of course her generous offer came with a condition... that he agree to take on a teaching position that had been vacant since the Final Battle.

At first, Harry's face had split in two, his grin huge as his mind latched onto what he considered to be the only possible position she could be referring to.

Harry Potter – Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor!

Yes, this was something he could do! And not just until such time as McGonagall permitted him to sit for his NEWTs, but for good – as a career! He had truly enjoyed teaching the DA back in fifth year. This would no doubt be much more challenging than their secret defense association and a hell of a lot more work, but he knew he had found the answer to his problem!

It was his calling.

It was his destiny.

And his complete and utter chagrin when the she spoke her next words.

"Yes. I have had quite a difficult time trying to fill the Muggle Studies post. But since you were raised as a Muggle, Harry, I'm certain you will do an exemplary job indeed."

"But... but what about the Defense job?" Harry protested, trying hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "I mean, that Death Eater bloke Carrow taught it last year. Who's teaching it now?"

"The same person who taught it during your last year here, Harry – Severus Snape."

That little bomb nearly leveled Harry to the ground. He'd heard of people fainting when they were given shocking news and had even seen it happen on Muggle TV or in the cinema, but before that moment, he'd honestly thought himself immune to that type of histrionic display.

He wasn't.

When he next opened his eyes, he found himself in the familiar surroundings of the Hospital Wing, sprawled out on a bed with a throbbing pain at the back of his skull and the amused faces of both Headmistress McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey peering down on him.

Once he had gathered himself enough to sit up, his color and strength slowly returning to him, Pomfrey handed him a Headache Reliever while McGonagall proceeded to explain to him how the impossible was indeed possible – namely, how the hell Snape had survived being attacked by Nagini.

As it turned out, the old bat of the dungeons had been well aware that Voldemort would eventually tire of his favorite spy and had planned for it in true Slytherin fashion. When he wasn't trying to protect the students from the Carrows or pretending to do the Dark Lord's bidding, Snape had spent his time experimenting with an altered form of the Draught of Living Death.

Harry wasn't certain he followed all the details explained to him by the Headmistress, but he understood enough of them to get the gist: the man had faked his death. On the night of the Final Battle, he pre-dosed himself with a combination of blood replenishers, antidotes to Nagini's venom, wound healing elixirs laced with phoenix tears and his own time-lapsed, self-triggered Draught of Living Death so that when the time came that he was mortally injured, he could slip into a fabricated quietus that would fool the masses – Death Eaters, Voldemort and Harry alike – while his body healed itself. The bastard then took off in order to avoid any type of publicity, favorable or otherwise, only to return to Hogwarts a month later, as good as new and requesting his old job back.

By then of course, Harry had already done his best to clear Snape's name and reinstate him as war hero instead of villain, so McGonagall was only too happy to welcome her former colleague back with open arms. What a piece of work this guy was!

It was inevitable that Harry took the Muggle Studies teaching job, even though its curriculum was not his first choice. At least he was teaching, something he enjoyed and was pretty good at. And at least he was back at Hogwarts, the place he had always considered home.

In truth, being offered the Muggle Studies post was a far cry better than being offered the other position that had been vacant since the war. Not that Professor McGonagall would have ever wanted Harry to teach History of Magic. His OWL score in the subject – D for dreadful – nearly guaranteed that, not to mention his propensity for falling asleep in almost every single lesson.

Like Muggle Studies and Defense Against the Dark Arts, the History of Magic job was without a professor following the Final Battle. No one knew what happened to Professor Binns. He disappeared just days after the attack on Hogwarts. Nearly Headless Nick mentioned to Harry his theory on the ghost teacher's abrupt absence. He thought perhaps Binns had witnessed so much death during the battle, that he finally realized the truth of his own demise and opted to move on. Whether Nick was correct or not, the reality was that Hogwarts had found herself without a History of Magic professor for the first time in nearly two centuries.

That is, until Headmistress McGonagall hired Julien Bellamy to fill the position just two days prior to the start of the current winter term. She had employed a few interim professors before that, but none of them were qualified enough to teach the subject full-time. In that regard, Bellamy was a perfect find as he was widely referred to as the Wizarding World's most acclaimed and foremost French Magical Historian – or as Harry had taken to referring to him – the French Menace.

This unpleasant thought yanked Harry's mind away from his drift down memory lane and snapped it right back to the problem at hand – the first problem he'd faced since trying to locate all Voldemort's horcruxes that had him thoroughly stumped and feeling way over his head. And Merlin, how he hated having to ask for help, but there was nothing else for it. This was not one of those problems to be dealt with alone, and after nearly a month of trying, no one knew that better than him.

Bracing himself for the inevitable mockery he would no doubt receive, Harry lifted his chin in determination, took a deep, steadying breath and then raised his fist to the heavy oak door he'd been staring out for the last ten minutes, knocking three times.

"Enter," came a deep monotone voice from within.

The moment Harry pushed open the door and entered the defense office, a pair of dark, cavernous eyes snapped up, pinning him with a cold, piercing look.

"Potter," Snape intoned, one corner of his mouth edging upward in his typical sneer, "to what do I owe this honor?"

Harry swallowed hard past the lump in his throat while doing his best to counter the sardonic glare leveled at him. He had largely avoided his former Potions professor since returning to Hogwarts for this very reason, having no desire to endure anymore harsh rebukes and scathing criticism while struggling to find his way in a new career. Their interactions so far had consisted of silent sneers on Snape's part and distant nods on his whenever their paths crossed in the staff room, the Great Hall or the corridors.

Now that his needs dictated a change in that tactical approach, Harry found himself feeling more than a little anxious, his famed Gryffindor courage beginning to erode. Nevertheless, he took a few more steps into the room, nearing the forbidding man who sat motionless behind his desk, quill in hand and eyes narrowed. The tentative threads of Harry's steadfast resolve were unraveling rapidly now, but he held fast, determined to get through this. He had exhausted all efforts, after all; this truly was his last resort.

"I came to ask for your help, Snape," he announced and then swallowed thickly again, throat burning from the small action. Why the bloody hell was his throat so damned tight?

The man's penetrative eyes widened in apparent surprise before narrowing to mere slits a second later, that crooked sneer widening to an all-out smirk that seemed to radiate pure mirth. He leaned back in his chair after placing his quill down on his desk, long arms folding across his chest and head cocking to one side. It was clear he found the idea of Harry needing his help positively delightful.

"And what, pray tell, can I help you with... Professor Potter?"

And there was the mockery he'd been expecting.

"Listen, Snape, I wouldn't have come to you unless I was really in a bind, OK? So spare me the derision for once. Would you?"

"Fine. Ask your favor and then be gone. I have grading to do and unlike your essays, mine actually require a modicum of intelligent analysis to accurately assess. So get on with it."

Yes. More mockery. Great!

Taking a deep breath to temper his rising irritation with the man in front of him, Harry blurted out his request, Gryffindor courage now hanging by a frayed thread.

"I need you to help me get Bellamy off my back."

The black eyes widened again and then Snape laughed – a full, gut-busting, doubled over, tears in the eyes kind of laugh.

The sight and sound of it had Harry seeing red, fury pulsing through his veins, but he kept his mouth shut and his temper in check. Lashing out wouldn't get the man to comply, after all. He stood there in a stony silence and waited it out, the realization that he was one of very few who had witnessed Snape being this amused doing little to cool his pique.

At length, Snape stopped laughing and cleared his throat, blinking a few times and placing a fist to his still grinning lips in an obvious attempt to quell his amusement. Then he looked up at Harry, his eyes narrowing again as if trying to puzzle out some great mystery.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm serious!" Harry blurted out, his frustration finally finding release. "I can't take it anymore, Snape! The guy's relentless! I can't go anywhere outside my own quarters without him hounding me. He won't leave me alone and he won't take no for an answer!"

"File a complaint with Minerva, then. If the halfwit's behavior is truly unwanted as you say it is–"

"Of course it's unwanted! You saw him last Sunday at our staff meeting. Hell, you sat right next to us; you had to have seen him! Do you honestly think I like him grabbing my knee under the table like that?! And Christ – the looks he gives me!" Harry was now pacing in front of Snape's desk, his intense irritation at the man three feet from him all but forgotten in favor of venting his annoyance about Bellamy. "And I did file a complaint with McGonagall. She spoke with him Monday evening and told him to stop harassing me."

"I take it he didn't stop."

"No. And now he's sending me letters. Very... um... provocative letters."

Harry spun around in time to catch an elegant eyebrow rise and a spark of interest blaze in those black eyes.

"Really?" Snape purred, the corners of his thin lips inching upward again.

For a moment, their eyes locked and Harry felt an unexpected frisson of heat race up his spine, his neck and cheeks warming uncomfortably. He swallowed again. Damn, his throat was tight!

"Look, will you help get the French Menace off my back or not?"

Snape leaned back in his chair again, elbows resting on the armrests with long fingers steepled. The amused smirk was back.

"The 'French Menace', hmm? Well, what did you have in mind?"

Harry let out a fettered breath, his tension lessening a touch. At least the man was going to hear him out. First obstacle managed, then. Of course, getting Snape to agree to this next part might prove to be a bit more challenging.

"Well, I was hoping you and I could... um... stage a... a scenario of sorts," he explained, mentally berating himself for his uncharacteristic bout of nervous stammering, while trying hard to ignore the disbelieving look Snape was giving him. He took a steadying breath to calm his nerves and then continued, determined to get this all out on the table before the irascible man blew a fuse.

"Look, no one would even find out about this except Bellamy if we do it right, Snape. Just go with me to this Saturday's Valentine's staff party. We'll tell everyone we're both going stag – you know none of the other staff members who see us together would infer anything to the contrary – and then we wait for an opportune time to approach Bellamy. When it's just the three of us, we sort of give him the impression that you and I are an item. And I was thinking you could also... I don't know... threaten him a bit, too. Just to cement the deal. He seems to be intimidated by you. Strange, I know."

Harry had been staring at a nondescript spot on Snape's desk through most of his monotone speech, not quite able to meet the man's unnerving gaze as he explained his rather daring plan. Now that he was finished though, he had little choice but to look up into those fathomless pools of black, feeling very much like he was in one of his past Potions classes and about to be handed a detention for speaking out of line.

"Let me see if I have this straight, Potter," Snape drawled, his sharp features looking strangely impassive all of a sudden. That brief expression of surprise adorning his face just a minute ago had vanished. "You want me to accompany you to the Valentine's party, where we are to explain away our appearance together as a mere happenstance to any who should inquire – except Bellamy whom we are to hoodwink into believing that we are a... couple. Is that correct?"

"Yeah. That about sums it up, I guess," Harry confirmed. "So, will you do it?"

Snape snorted and looked down at his own lap, dark strands of greasy hair falling on either side of his face as he shook his head from side to side. Try as he might, Harry could not see his expression, his features now hidden from view, but he was fairly certain that same damned smirk of warped amusement was in place.

"Look," he blurted out, his anger escalating again, "if I thought there was someone else on staff here who would be willing to do this and had the ability to make it appear believable, I wouldn't bother asking you. But the fact is that there is no one else! Snape – you were a spy, for Merlin's sake! Deception is in your blood! I mean, if you can fool the Dark Lord, you can fool Bellamy!"

Dark eyes peered up through a break in the veil of greasy black, staring unflinchingly into Harry's emerald orbs as if looking for something past them, as if penetrating his very soul.

Harry waited for the man to speak, his anxiety now suspended in something that felt worryingly like excitement as the silence dragged on and on, but had to be nothing more than suspense. He swallowed again, the muscles in his neck now tight enough to spasm.

"If it helps..." he muttered at last, his voice fainter than he would have wished, "I have no ulterior motives in asking you this favor. I mean..."

His throat tightened further, causing his voice to crack. He swallowed again, suddenly aware of the thin sheen of sweat dampening his forehead despite the cool air of the room. Lifting a hand, he swept his palm across it, running his fingers through his fringe afterwards in an attempt to cover up the nervous gesture.

"What I mean is... well, you know my preferences – hell, the whole Wizarding World knows my preferences. So I guess I just want to assure you that I have no intentions of... of..."

"Of doing this to get into my pants?" Snape purred, his crooked smirk suddenly taking on a more depraved appearance as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk, one long finger caressing the plume of his discarded quill.

Left with nothing but his tattered pride, Harry soldiered on.

"Well, I wasn't going to put it exactly in those terms, but yeah," he replied, "I figured you might be more willing to do this for me if you knew that I harbor no... um... attraction for you. No offense, of course. But I don't really think you're my type."

And it was true. Snape was definitely not his type. Not that the man didn't possess a certain unconventional appeal. Few gay wizards could deny the allure of a tall, dark and poised man who exuded confidence and power with every movement, whose magical prowess was rivaled only by his sharp intellect, whose eyes were so enigmatically dark they seemed to defy the laws governing light and depth perception. Merlin, and his mouth! With that wicked sneer of his and those delicate-looking lips and and that bone-melting deep voice and...

But... no.

No, Snape was not his type. Harry wasn't certain exactly what his type was, but he was fairly confident surly ex-professors who had loathed him for years and loathed him still were not among the possible candidates.

"No offense taken, Potter," Snape replied, smirk still in place. "And just for the record, you're not my type either."

Harry chuckled at that, forgetting himself in the sheer enormity of the understatement. "Well, yeah, obviously! Not unless I spell my hair red and take Polyjuice or something to alter my private parts!"

No sooner had his lame attempt at humor escape his mouth did Harry regret it with every fiber of his being. Snape's amusement, so blatant just seconds ago, was now draining away faster than a just released Snitch, his smirk transforming into a hard line of pursed lips, dark eyes narrowed in a death glare of immense proportions.

Not for the first time, Harry cursed his own stupidity, as well as his lack of foresight. How could he be so daft as to bring Snape's type into the conversation, when as far as Harry knew, the only soul who ever qualified as such was his own mother? Mentioning her now, even as an indirect reference, was not only tactless, it was downright rude. It also reduced his rather minimal chances of procuring the man's assistance to nothing. Less than nothing, probably.

Silence lay heavy and oppressive between them, the very air thick with an almost tangible tension. Harry spent the long, strained moments of stifling quiet staring down at his own shoes, front teeth worrying his lower lip while his fingers fiddled with the frayed edge of his jumper.

Of all the ridiculous, rash, idiotic ideas I've ever dreamed up, this one tops them all! Honestly, what the hell was I thinking?! There's no way on earth he'll agree to–

"I'll do it," Snape said, his words punctuating the silence as if it were a deafening roar.

Harry's head jerked back up, green eyes wide with surprise and disbelief.

Rising from his chair, Snape took a moment to smooth out his teaching robes and then walked around his desk, approaching Harry who was still rooted to the spot in shock. He halted his progression when they were just two feet from each other, piercing Harry with a menacing glare before speaking once more.

"I do have one condition, however."

Harry blinked and swallowed, trying to shake off his mental stupor as he stammered his response. "Um... OK. Yeah, sure. What's your condition?"

"That I be allowed to set the rules governing this torrid little sham of yours."

"It's hardly a torrid – wait, rules?" Harry questioned, forehead furrowed in confusion. "You mean 'rules' like how we're going to trick Bellamy... like details regarding our strategy or...?"

"No, Potter. I hardly think a complex strategy is necessary in this case; a few choice words along with a bit of shameless flirting in front of the pest should suffice," Snape explained, smirk in place again as if had never left.

"No. When I mentioned 'rules,' I was referring to a list of restrictions that will enable us to regulate our interactions with one another. You see, Potter, despite your adamance regarding your lack of attraction for me and your rather emphatic... certainty... that said lack of attraction is mutual, I believe it would be prudent to safeguard our interests with a set of definitive limitations."

"Um. Right. OK – but what kind of limitations are we talking about here? I mean, Snape, if we're going to fool Bellamy, we're going to have to at least appear to be infatuated with each other. If one of your rules is no touching or something, I don't see how we can pull this off."

"No, you dunderhead!" Snape spat, showing a sudden crack in his iron clad composure. "Of course I realize that touching will be essential! My rules are not prohibitive of the end goal, I assure you."

"Fine!" Harry retorted, his voice betraying a new irritation that was churning inside him. "Then just – just tell me what these bloody rules are, would you?"

He wasn't certain why the prospect of Snape having control over limiting their interactions was grating on him, but it was. A lot. Taking a deep breath, he looked away from Snape and back down at his shoes, running a hand through his unruly mop of hair once before lifting his gaze to those cavernous ebony eyes again.

"Sorry," he muttered sheepishly. "Didn't mean to snap at you like that. The truth is, I really do need your help, so unless one of your rules mandates that I cheer for Slytherin during the next Quidditch match or something, I'm game."

"As tempting as that prospect is, no. Nothing in my rules dictates a change in house allegiance. They're quite straightforward, actually."

Snape took a step back and leaned on the edge of his desk, crossing lean arms over his chest and long legs at the ankles, his face a picture of relaxed contentment. It was obvious the man was in his element giving out orders. Clearing his throat, he fixed his dark, fervent gaze on Harry and then began his itemized directive in a deep, resonating drawl.

"Number one – no holding hands. Number two –"

"Wait... wait... what? No holding hands? Really?" Harry asked, eyes wide with disbelief as he struggled to stifle a laugh. "Of all the things to forbid, you pick something as innocent and wholesome as holding hands?! Are you serious?"

Not that he had ever wanted to touch those long, potion stained fingers...

"Potter, there are only three rules on the list! Please do me the courtesy of keeping your run-at-the-mouth tendencies in check at least until I finish with the third!"

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, face heating with embarrassment and feeling all of fifteen years old, "go ahead."

Snape cleared his throat again and continued.

"Number one – no holding hands. Number two – no tongue. And number three – no mind play."

Harry was pretty sure his bemusement was written all over his face. He understood rule number two completely; in fact, out of the three, it was the only one that made any sort of sense to him. If he had been permitted ahead of time to hazard a guess as to what Snape's rules would be, he would have assumed that all three of them would have been along the same lines of that one: no tongue, no kissing, no groping, no tight embraces with bodies pressed together – that kind of thing.

Not that he had ever wanted to press his body to that long black one...

Where was he? Oh yes, rule number two was no surprise at all. And as odd and out of place as rule number one still seemed to him, it was the man's final rule that utterly stumped him.

Mind play?! What in the name of all four founders is mind play?

Snape snorted in obvious amusement, his lips quirking as if desperate to maintain its habitual scowl. They lost the battle after a moment, turning upward in a mirthful grin, a raucous laugh escaping them.

"Well, I suppose there's no chance of you breaking my third rule, is there, Potter? Seeing as you've no idea what it is," he commented amid hearty chortles, his pale cheeks flushed with color that didn't seem to be wholly mirth. "It's hardly surprising however. You never did put much of that Gryffindor determination into learning mind magic."

Harry just cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed in equal parts annoyance and continued confusion.

Snape straightened up from where he was leaning back on the desk and then licked his lips, prompting green eyes to fixate on that impish grin which now looked more like a seductive leer. Taking a step toward Harry, whose heartbeat had inexplicably sped up, he leaned closer to whisper in Harry's ear, his warm breath brushing against his sensitive skin as the man spoke in a low, sultry tone.

"Your ignorance in this matter is unfortunate, Potter. Mind play can be quite... stimulating... especially while in the throes of full-on, penetrative sex, when your lover is deep inside your mind... and even deeper inside your arse."

At Snape's shocking words, an eruption of sensation raced up and down Harry's spine so fast he felt instantly lightheaded and disoriented. Fingers fisting in the hem of his jumper again, he swallowed thickly and breathed out a shaky breath, his face burning hot and damp with sweat again. He closed his eyes, riding out the shivers wracking his body while trying to slow his suddenly racing heart.

When at last he found the courage to re-open his eyes a full half minute later, Snape was once again sitting behind his desk, quill in hand and eyes glued to a stack of essays on his desk, looking as unmoved as he was when Harry had first entered.

"Um... OK. I-I guess I'll just go then," Harry said, voice weak and shaky. He swallowed once more, desperate to lubricate his dry, tight throat and quell his anxious stammering. He spluttered out a nervous cough and then continued. "I'll just... um... meet you at the north end of the Charms corridor this Saturday. Bellamy will need to pass by there on his way to the party. Seven o'clock OK?"

Snape still did not look up from his marking, his only response an almost imperceptible nod of his head and a gruff grunt in affirmation.

"Right," Harry muttered, turning around and heading for the door. His mind felt as though it had jammed and his body still trembled with inexplicable weakness, jolts of tingly sensations dancing on his skin and cavorting in the pit of his stomach.

And as he turned the knob and walked out into the dim corridor, closing the heavy oak door behind him, he couldn't help but wonder if this hadn't been a terrible idea.

After all, he never was very good at following rules.

Chapter End - TBC

A/N: Chapter two of Breaking the Rules should be posted sometime within the next two weeks. I hope you're all enjoying it so far. Stick around. Snarry goodness coming up!

Please review.