TITLE: She's a…Lady?
RATING: R, maybe. Probably more PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, etc.
BETA: The Daring Detefabula
NOTES: A silly gender-bender
SUMMARY: A humourous tale about Harry getting all dressed up with somewhere to go—to save Severus…and maybe try to seduce him, as well. (No actual het was produced in the writing of this story.)
DEDICATED: To Stellahobbit, of course. Because she's brilliant and wonderful and hopefully saved my…career? Eh, whatever you want to call it.

She's a…Lady?

Harry sashayed down the alley—or attempted to sashay down the alley—feeling rather stupid. He knew he looked an absolute fool trying to walk in three-inch heels. He should have practised more. Hermione had asked if he was comfortable, and he swore that he was ready, but it was becoming plainer by the minute that he'd been lying.

Swallowing hard, he nervously wiped his hands on his skirt before knocking on the door before him. This would work. This had to work. Snape's life depended on it. And, subsequently, perhaps Harry's virginity—or loss thereof—as well.

A scowling, pock-faced man swung the door open, his wand at the ready. "Who're you?"

"I'm—I'm," Harry licked dry lips. "I'm—the entertainment," he breathed. He'd practiced a lot on the voice. It was still deep, so he'd tried to make it sensual; more of a whiskey-tenor than a man in drag. He paired it with a warm smile—also practised, and something he was much more confident of. He had good lips no matter what the rest of his body looked like, and he hoped to Heaven they'd help sell the rest of the package now.

The grizzled wizard blinked slowly before nodding. "Oh. Right. Downstairs."

Harry gave another bright grin. "Okay. Great," he said, trying to saunter as sinuously as possible down the dark stairs. Between the dim light and the heels, it wasn't an easy sell, but by the man's approving grunt, Harry discerned that he was doing all right.

"What's your name, love?" the older man said as they reached the bottom of the flight. Harry turned to find him leering at him, eyes full of lascivious speculation, the black and red tattoo on his neck expanding and contracting as he breathed heavily. One large paw reached out to fondle Harry's brand new breast.

"Name?" he squeaked, trying to assure himself that this was exactly how things were supposed to be going. "Right. Name. Er. Lola. Name's Lola," he announced. "And. Um. They're waiting for me. Big celebration or something." He tried to breathe slowly; deep, even breaths. He didn't look the same. No one could possibly recognize him. The scar was gone, his eyes were no longer nearsighted, and—thanks to Hermione's bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion—his hair was shiny and straight, as well as long. And, of course, there was the body.

"You'd better believe it," the man replied, lip pulling back to reveal mossy teeth. "The Dark Lord caught himself a spy. The man actually thought he could get away with betraying our Master. He was wrong. Tonight, we're gonna show him how wrong he was. Remind everyone how great our Lord really is." He was laughing a little, but not as though he found it funny. It seemed more like a cough; something being expelled from deep in his chest.

Harry was disgusted. "Right. Sieg heil the Dark Lord and all that jazz," he said with a weak smile. "Right. Right. So, where's the party? Just in here? I'd better just…"

"Yeah. In there," the man nodded to a door on their left, and Harry tottered towards it. Damn, the more nervous he got, the harder it was to navigate. The couple of swigs of Firewhiskey he'd had before the whole ordeal probably hadn't helped, either, but they were the only thing keeping him from blind panic after his transformation.

A muscled arm reached around and shoved the door open, and Harry was nearly knocked over by the powerful reek of sweat and halitosis. "Allow me, Lola," the doorman purred in his ear. "After all, you're a lady."

Harry swallowed again and nodded. In the back of his head, alarm bells were going off. His brain shrieked He knows! He knows! They all know! It's a trap! at him, but he ignored it. If anyone was good at turning off their common sense, it was Harry Potter. "Right. I'm a lady. That's me. Uh-huh."

He flicked a glance to his left, where the man stared at him rather suspiciously. "And you're not a Mudblood?" he challenged. "The agency said they didn't have any, but if you are, and the Dark Lord finds out…" He left the threat—anything from torture and death to undergoing a seven hour hair styling by one of the Malfoys or to listening to Bellatrix's screechy rendition of 'Moon River'—unspoken.

"What do you think; we're some kind of second-rate cathouse? I'll have you know that Pureblood Party Planners is the name in stylish, tasteful, and erotic event-planning and escort arrangements. All girls are thoroughly checked—background, beliefs, interests. No one who is less than 100 blue-blooded, first-class and inbred could ever hope to pass."

"Hmph. Well, you do get Muggle-lovers occasionally, even in the oldest wizarding families," the man pointed out.

"Which is why I noted that we do background checks, as well," Harry told him coldly. "No one with Muggle sympathies is employed on our staff."

"All right," the man said grudgingly, showing Harry into the room. "My job to check, you know."

Harry gave him a prepared sneer. "Of course," he replied, still sounding insulted. He wandered into the room, which was dark but for a number of candles in sconces around the perimeter, and a large fire pit at one end. "Voldemort and his melodramatic Temple of Doom stage set," he muttered under his breath. In the centre of the room a small cage hung from the ceiling, swinging slightly on its chain. Harry's eyes widened, and he forced himself to look away. "So…who's the human piñata?" he asked his host, pointing a chin at the metal enclosure without actually looking at it.

The man chuckled as evilly as he could. "That's the fellow we're going to make an example of," he told Harry. "So…Lola. You have anything you need help setting up? The party's gonna start in just a short bit, so you'd better hurry."

"Oh. Ah, right." Harry was sweating a little, sure that ladies didn't do that, and praying to God that whatever Antiperspirant Potion Hermione'd given him would work. "Um. I have a trunk of things I left outside the front door. With. Um. Party favours and toys. If you could get those, we'll get started."

"Sure thing, gorgeous." He gave Harry a smug wink before leaving, and Harry couldn't decide whether to be insulted or just violently ill.

As soon as the man was out of sight, Harry hurried over to Snape, his abundant chest jiggling perkily all the way. "I don't suppose you would consider restraining those weapons until they're actually needed," the man inquired in a bored voice. "You're liable to put someone's eye out. And really, most blue-blooded women have heard of a Support Spell."

"Oh, shut up. I haven't had them for five minutes and I'm already sick of hearing about them," Harry snapped. "And you could try to be a bit more polite. I'm here to rescue you, after all."

Snape gave him a look of scorn. "Using what, exactly? Your MegaBreasts of Doom™? Your secret knowledge of Martial Bump and Grind? Merlin knows there isn't likely to be anything useful in that delightfully airy head of yours."

Harry bristled. "It's me, you greasy berk. Harry. And just because I have breasts doesn't automatically make me brainless."

Snape looked mildly surprise before his expression returned to mildly irritated once more. "No, with you the cleavage is not necessarily the source of your stupidity."

"Thanks," Harry glared at him, wondering why he wanted to fuck such a complete arsehole. "I don't have your wand or mine, but here's a portkey and all you have to do is hold on to it for another twenty minutes or so, by my count. I've got one, too, so it's all easy enough." He shoved a Knut through the bars and dropped it into the man's palm.

"Twenty minutes? Do you have any idea what could happen in twenty minutes?"

"Yeah," Harry responded, "But Hermione and I weren't sure how long it would take to talk my way in or to find you, so we needed a bit of extra time. Besides, all I have to do is keep everyone else distracted, and that shouldn't be hard. Even Voldemort will be drooling over these babies," he smiled crookedly, gesturing to his lofty bosom.

"No, he won't," Snape informed him, his voice annoyed. "The Dark Lord's gay as a daisy in May. In seventh year he was voted 'Most Likely to Become a Raging Old Queen Obsessed with the Secret of Everlasting Youth.' It's funny, but that's not even a category anymore."

"He's queer?" Harry replied, stricken. Oh, no! One more thing that got transferred when he tried to kill me as a baby! That explains everything!

"He may find your massive mammaries amusing, and even have a twinge of envy, but I'm afraid they're not going to turn him into the stuttering idiot most men will become."

"Oh." Harry sighed in disappointment. "Well, I guess that explains the male Barbie Doll that is Lucius Malfoy," he added.

"Indeed," Severus nodded gravely, though he must not have known what Harry was talking about, as Barbies were Muggle toys. "Shouldn't you be pretending not to know me? After all, if your boyfriend, the desirable doorman comes back, I'll only blow your cover, so to speak."

"First of all: don't be disgusting. And second of all: he isn't coming back. The trunk handle is a portkey that will deposit him just outside Azkaban, which will mean a long walk back even if he isn't arrested on sight."

"Hmm," the Potions Master/spy replied, which—in Snapese—meant; 'That was terribly clever and I am very impressed.' Or, Harry thought more likely, 'Well, I suppose you could have bungled that worse if you really tried.'

Harry grinned widely. "Yeah. Hermione's idea."

"Not the Headmaster's?" Snape asked, arching a brow.

Harry shuffled his feet awkwardly. "No, actually. Um. Totally Hermione's idea." His heel caught in a crack between the stones, and Harry nearly fell on his face. He tried to straighten his skirt, blushing as Snape rolled his eyes.

"Lovely." The man turned a penetrating gaze towards his student, causing Harry to cross his arms over his ponderous chest. "An idea is forming in my mind," he announced. "Miss Granger made the portkeys. It was Miss Granger's idea to activate one to go to Azkaban. You're the one who came—the only one, I might add—when the Order could have sent someone much more experienced."

"Er…yeah?" Harry said, biting his lip.

"So allow me to make a supposition here—and it may be merely a wild guess, since it ought to be completely improbable and entirely idiotic. Did you, by chance, formulate this whole half-baked plan on your own, with only the help of Miss Granger to save you from your staggering recklessness?" he demanded, dark eyes glittering angrily.

"Um. Sort of."

"I see. And did you inform absolutely anyone in the Order as to your monumental witlessness?"

"Ah…no, not really. They wouldn't have let us do it, you see."

"Really. What, do you suppose, may have been the reason behind that?"

"Because—because," Harry was becoming angry and frustrated. Didn't Snape understand? Harry had come to save him! "Because they didn't care about what happened to you, you ungrateful git! Not like I do! They were just going to sit back and talk about things until it was too late! Don't you get it? We had to do something. We had to!"

The spy had shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. "You stupid, stupid boy," he muttered.

"I'm NOT stupid, and right now I'm not even a boy, and if you don't shut the hell up right now I'm going to—I'm going to—I don't know what I'm going to do! Claw your eyes out or something!" He brandished his long, sparkle-enameled nails for effect, causing Snape to raise his eyebrows.

"Move, boy. We have company."

Harry turned—gracefully, he thought, despite the fact that the upper half of his body seemed to want to keep going—and looked around to see a number of Death Eaters filing in. Their masks were in place, but it wasn't difficult to tell them apart. As far as Harry could tell, they were rather excited. Like carrion-eaters with a newly-dead skunk, he supposed, his lip lifting in disgust.

"Well…we've gone and got ourselves a bit of fluff. And blimey, she's a looker, isn't she?" one of them said, coming over to Harry with just a bit of a swagger. "And what's your name, then, lass?"

Harry licked his lips, which caused a rather alarming light to spark in the man's eyes. Backing away until he was touching Snape's cage, Harry's eyes darted from one Death Eater to another as he announced cautiously, "Lola. But. Um. I seem to be missing my party favours. I sent the doorman out to get them a little while ago, and he hasn't come back."

"That's all right, duck. We'll keep you entertained until he gets back, how's that?" The man gave Harry a very wicked smile, and Harry managed a somewhat sour smile in return.

"Well, yes…but of course, I thought it was my job to entertain you. And I can't do that if I don't have party favours or a wand. I mean; I understand the need for tight security, but I'm afraid it's going to be a bit of a short show without any props."

The Death Eater gave a manly chortle and held his wand out for Harry to take. "Here, then. Can't get into too much trouble, can you? With all of us around? You just do your little show, darling. And step away from that nasty traitor, while you're at it. I know he doesn't look like much, but he's dangerous. Wouldn't want him hurting a pretty little thing like you."

It was almost too good to be true. Harry took the wand and attempted to give a sincerely grateful simper in return. Now he just had to kill time. He even had a weapon, if he needed it. For now, though, he would lay low and see if he could just make it out alive. Looking around the room, he saw numerous voracious eyes on him, and realized the Death Eaters had spread out to surround himself and Snape. He knew he was just being paranoid, thinking they were trying to capture him; they were just trying to get a better look. From the feel of hot stares prickling the skin on the back of his neck, Harry got the feeling that as long as he was fully clothed, it was not going to be considered an adequate view.

"What sort of routine do you do?" a bored drawl asked, and Harry spun to see Lucius Malfoy, his stance unimpressed. He shrugged and tossed his hair over his shoulder, a shimmering blond waterfall swinging back just like a living shampoo commercial.

"Me? What? Oh, I—I—" Harry stuttered. "I—sing. Yes. Songs I've written myself," he added. After all, he didn't know many Wizarding songs, and they weren't likely to recognize any Muggle ones.

"Well, then? What are you waiting for? Go on," Lucius instructed cattily.

After clearing his throat a few times, Harry used the wand to amplify his voice and create some distracting lights and colours, and belted out a few verses of 'Natural Woman.' When he'd finished, the portkeys still hadn't activated, and no one was looking terribly impressed. Malibu Lucius flipped his hair impatiently.

With Snape giving him cool looks, Harry tried to put a bit more into it as he crooned 'Memories,' waving his arms expansively. Malfoy was shaking his head disgustedly, and another Death Eater, possibly MacNair, leaned in to mutter something to the man. Harry couldn't read his lips behind the mask, but his mind insisted on supplying the words 'Come on, Barbie, let's go party!' as they made for the door. He wondered idly whether the Malibu Malfoy Mansion was done in pink accents and accessories, and whether the man, if he'd been born a Muggle, would have been more likely to enjoy the Barbie Ferrari or the Corvette. He'd bet on the Ferrari.

The door opened, silhouetting a slender shadow, and Harry began howling 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' with as much shimmying and enthusiasm as he could muster. He probably didn't look much like a Pureblood anything, but there were smiles and wolf-whistles among the men, so he assumed 'hooker' would be about the best label he could hope for. He pretended to be absorbed in his act as Voldemort glided in, watching him suspiciously.

As the last strains of the magical music faded away, Harry realized he wouldn't be able to sing anything more—he desperately needed a drink. He gestured daintily to his throat, and one of the men went to find him something. In the meantime, the Dark Lord began his speech.

"Tonight, I have a special treat in store for all of my loyal followers," he announced. "Not only have we captured the traitor in our midst, but I have a very unique and useful way of dealing with him."

The Death Eaters shuffled dutifully into a circle around the man, muttering and jostling excitedly. To Harry, the whole thing seemed like what would happen in the Muggle world if a corporation announced that they were going to publicly behead the guy in accounting that refuses to take his line off speaker-phone. There was an atmosphere of malicious mirth. As he was speaking, Malibu Lucius flounced off towards a side door, and Harry took his place in the circle, trying not to garner attention.

"After we've dealt with the turncoat, all of you may enjoy the entertainment." He turned red, laughter-filled eyes towards Harry, who gulped. That did not sound promising. In fact, that sounded downright bad.

Wracking his mind for anything useful, Harry gave the demi-man a brittle smile. "I promise, baby, I'll be as much entertainment as you can handle," he growled, sliding the wand surreptitiously up his sleeve.

"I doubt that," Voldemort replied, grimacing. "You really don't have anything that interests me. Some of us simply have greater goals than shagging whatever bimbo bounces our way."

"I am not a bimbo!" Harry snapped back, irritated. "Why is it that just because I have an admittedly nice set of tits everyone I meet thinks I'm some kind of slag? I'll have you know that I have a brain, and a personality, and feelings, and—"

"And you take money for the purpose of trading your body in the use of gentlemen's gratification," Voldemort supplied, now looking rather peevish at being upstaged by the entertainment.

Harry blinked, remembering his role. "Well. Yes. There is that, too."

Luckily, Death Eater Barbie chose that moment to saunter in, balancing a large silver tray topped with an ornate vase. MacNair joined the circle, standing beside Harry. Lucius stood next to his master and turned to face the room, giving them his best Vanna White smile. For the whitest possible sneer, use Crest! Harry thought. He noticed the MacNair, next to him, was only half paying attention to Voldemort, and edging towards Harry with a speculative look in his eyes.

"What my Lieutenant is holding," Voldemort said, pausing dramatically to give his followers an imposing glance, "Is none other than the Ming Vase of Immortality!"

MacNair leaned over a little, making a quiet kissing noise. "Immortality?" Harry yelped. "Really? Isn't that interesting? Um. Does it really work?" His neighbour hastily straightened up, pretending to appear interested in hearing the answer.

"When used correctly, it does," Voldemort announced. "And it is a very simple device. One merely needs to make a sacrifice—the lifeblood of another human. When sipped from the Vase, the drinker gains the life essence of the victim." He turned lascivious eyes to the Vase—or to Malfoy; it was difficult to tell at this stage. Malfoy showcased the item by waving an elegant hand at it, once again apparently channelling a gameshow girl.

"Ah…so it's sort of a vampire vase, huh?" Harry responded.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes as though searching to see if Harry was having a joke at his expense, and seemed to decide he wasn't. He sniffed. "Something like that. I wouldn't expect a chit of a girl like you to comprehend it any better, at any rate. Unfortunately, it only gives me the added lifetime of the one whose life I took, so it is an impermanent solution. Still, it is a work of beauty, is it not?" He reached out a skeletal finger to caress its smooth surface, and at the same moment, Harry felt a warm hand grab his backside.

"Er! Quite!" he exclaimed. He jerked away from his groper and teetered forward, pausing a moment to pat himself down and find his dignity. Then he pendulated his way over to the Vase. "Oh, it is pretty. Let me have a closer look!"

"Stupid girl! It's not some dainty decoration for you to coo over," Voldemort snarled.

"Sorry," Harry grumbled, raising his hands in a gesture of pacification. It helped keep the wand up his sleeve. "I just wanted a better view," he added. He turned as if to walk away, but he still had poor judgment of how far his body currently protruded, and one ponderous breast brushed against the invaluable treasure. It wobbled for a long moment, and Harry took a step back in horror. "Oops," he said, as it tilted forward, beginning its seemingly interminable descent to the floor.

Lucius slid the silver tray forward, but this merely gave the Vase momentum, as it shot outward and downward. "NOOOOOOO!" Voldemort screamed, and instead of reaching for his wand, lunged to catch it. Harry could have sworn everything was happening in slow motion.

The Vase shattered on the ground, its shards bursting in all directions, like a blue and white rose suddenly blossoming before their eyes. As Voldemort landed on his knees beside it, swearing furiously, Harry saw his chance. Whipping out the borrowed wand, he shouted "Avada Kedavra!"

As the green jet of light spewed forth, Harry felt the familiar sensation of being hooked behind his navel. He was pulled irresistibly forward, and the room vanished in a confusing swirl of sound and colour.

The portkeys had activated right on schedule.

Harry landed with a thump on the hearthrug, one ankle twisting painfully. "Ow! Dammit!" he yipped.

"What kind of language is that for a lady to use?" he heard Snape say dryly.

Harry ignored this. "I think I twisted my ankle," he told the man in lieu of a reply.

"Such is the nature of the weaker sex. And to think I was under the impression that you simply couldn't be any more delicate," the man groused, grabbing hold of whatever bits of Harry he could and hauling him to his feet. One hand ended being placed in a rather unfortunate spot, and Harry's hand shot out, connecting with the side of Snape's face with a loud thwack.

They both stared at each other for a long moment, stunned into silence. "Mister Potter!" Snape gasped, outraged.

"S—sorry!" Harry stammered. "I didn't—it just—I kind of! It sort of happened automatically, I swear! I didn't even think about it before it happened."

"Implausible as that seems, I suppose that, taking into account your natural bent towards impulsive idiocy, and your newly acquired inclination to be ruled by your emotions, perhaps this is the truth. Which isn't at all to say that you aren't going to pay dearly for it later."

"Right, sir," Harry said resignedly, and straightened his clothing.

"Well. How do we proceed?" the Potions Master asked. "Where is the exit? We must contact the Headmaster at once!"

"Can't," Harry said shortly. "Cripes, my ankle. Aw, I hate it when I'm all cliché." He allowed Severus to help him into a chair, as the man growled obscenities all the while. Harry had rarely heard Snape use such language, and felt an unfortunate heat rising up his chest. "I'm sorry," he said. "We had to make certain no one else was able to use the portkeys in our places. There is another portkey on the mantle—the framed picture of a sailboat."

"How long?" Severus demanded.

"Not for two hours," Harry admitted reluctantly.

"Damn and blast!" Snape roared, flinging the picture across the room.

"Don't do that, you idiot! You'll only bust it and then we'll have no way out! Is that what you want? For God's sake, you act like such a two-year old whenever you get angry. I've never seen any other man your age throw such ridiculous tantrums!"

"Shut up!" Snape rounded on him, eyes flashing. He held a finger up to Harry's nose. "I don't need any lectures from a stupid adolescent that leaps into whatever danger is offered at the least provocation! You could have been killed tonight!"

"Number one: don't you point that thing at me! Number two: I wasn't, so stuff it! And number three: don't forget that I rescued your sorry arse while I was doing it! It worked, didn't it?"

Snape's eyes suddenly became very cold. "How exactly like your father you are. And I suppose I owe you a life-debt? I suppose you think yourself such a valiant hero, risking your life for that of a hated enemy?"

Harry deflated. This wasn't how he'd wanted things to go. "No. You're not my enemy," he whispered. "I don't hate you. You're a powerful ally, and I didn't want to you to die."

Snape curled in on himself, shoulders hunched suspiciously, but he eyed Harry with somewhat less acrimony than a moment before. "They were already sending someone for me. Now Shacklebolt is going to have a fuck of a time getting out of there. It will be but minutes before everyone is unmasked and they see he is not Walden MacNair."

"Well, I'm sorry, but no one told me that!" Harry yelled. "No one ever tells me anything and I—wait a second, MacNair? Kingsley was playing MacNair? But…but he made a pass at me! Oh, ew!"

"Relax, Potter; he didn't recognise you."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know until I spotted him, and by then there was no time to speak privately. Besides, a lot of girls would give their right testicle for a man like Shacklebolt. So to speak."

"Well, he isn't my type," Harry groused. "He's like a dad to me, with all the extra training he's given me."

"I would have thought his unalterable maleness would have been your main objection," Snape countered, raising a brow slightly.

Harry slowly crossed his legs. Operation: Save Severus and Keep Him for Yourself, Phase Two is in motion, he thought. Carefully brushing a strand of hair away from his face, Harry gave his objective a tentative smile. "Actually, that was one of the nicer things about him," he said in a low, seductive voice.

Snape blinked once or twice, and gave him an annoyed glare. "Dear Merlin, the less I hear about your epidemic of sexual conquests, the better. Why two hours? Why, for pity's sake?"

Harry shrugged, letting his shirt slide off his shoulder. "To give the potion time to wear off," he said. "We thought it would cause a commotion if anyone else saw me like this. Although, now that I think about it, it's rather nice being a girl." Snape was staring at him as though he'd said he wanted to try buggering a Hungarian Horntail. "I mean; blokes open doors for you, and you don't have to do any heavy-lifting…plus, no one puts any pressure on you to do any kind of fighting. You don't have to save the world, you just have to look nice. And that I can do." He gave the man a bold wink.

Snape's lip curled up in revulsion. "Good grief; put you in a locked room for five minutes and your sex-crazed mind will even fixate on me. Do you still have that wand? I'll gladly conjure you a bucket of cold water," he offered.

Harry glanced at his hand, surprised. "No, I don't, actually. I think I lost it when we were transported here. And I'm not sex-crazed. Why on earth would you think that?"

Snape gave him a withering look. "Oh, forgive me for making assumptions. Could it possibly have anything to do with the widespread and epic tales of your myriad encounters with your own and the opposite sex? The oft-repeated anecdote concerning yourself, Cho Chang, Lavender Brown, and Filch's office, for starters? Or what about that regaling little masterpiece that has you and Mister Creevey in the lake together late last summer?"

Harry groaned and hid his face in his hands. "That thing with Cho and Lavender never happened," he insisted. "That was just something Malfoy made up to make Cho mad at me. And it worked, but that didn't really matter, because I didn't care anymore, and I—oh, forget it. It's not as if you'd ever believe me."

Snape huffed and sat in the only other available spot in the room—beside Harry on the couch—and scrutinized him. "So that was a vicious lie, was it?" he asked in a clearly sceptical voice. "And your romantic afternoon with Mister Creevey?"

"Well, that actually happened, but not the way you're thinking! I mean, we were just sort of messing about in the lake, and we ended up not wearing very much, and then there was a dare, and stuff just sort of…snowballed. But it wasn't like it was hot or heavy or anything! We were just playing around—sort of kissing and stuff."

"I see."

"Look," Harry said desperately, turning to gaze at the man with beseeching eyes. "I'm not some sort of super stud that struts around banging people left and right. I don't think I'm better than anyone else, and I resent it when you accuse me of it. I'm really an okay person underneath it all, and I really like you. It took me ages to set this up. Well—not this, exactly—not you getting kidnapped or the rest of it; just getting both of us to where I might have some sort of chance at this. I just—I want. It doesn't have to last forever. I'd like that, but I know things are dicey right now for both of us, and we're in constant danger—well, maybe not, since I may have inadvertently just offed Voldemort—but there's no guarantee we'll live to see tomorrow, and this potion wears off in less than an hour, and can't you just give an inch?" Harry pleaded, daring to reach out and tangle his hands in the Potions Master's robes.

"Let go of me, Potter," Snape grunted half-heartedly, trying to release the brat's fingers from the cloth.

"No. I won't. Not until you make an attempt to see things from my point of view. Not until you at least give me a chance." Harry dove forward, wrapping one arm around the man's neck, pressing their mouths together. He slid his tongue swiftly over the thin lips, which were still tightly closed.

Snape gave a mighty shove, knocking Harry to the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression an array of vexation, confusion, and shock. "Do not make me press molestation charges against you," he finally said in a shaky voice. "You've not been a woman for half an hour, and the hormones have already caused insanity."

"I'm not insane," Harry said in a dead voice. "Really, I'm not. Don't you—don't you like me at all? Even like this?" he gestured to his curvaceous body, the long, dark hair, the sparkling feminine glory.

Severus scowled. "Don't be absurd. Of course I'm not attracted to—to that."

Harry's eyes filled with unexpected tears at the cruel rejection. Oh, how humiliating, he thought in horror. I'm actually going to cry over this.

"Stop that!" Snape ordered, as if Harry could shut them off at command. "I—you—are you having a menstrual cycle? You needn't—fall to pieces! Just—calm down," he advised, pulling Harry back up onto the sofa.

Harry was sniffling horribly now, his face red and blotchy. His elegant plan of entrapping the gorgeous bastard was worthless. Of course Snape didn't like him. Snape could never like him. He told the man as much. "Not even when I'm someone else," he added despairingly.

"I never said that. It has nothing to do with—oh, for heaven's sake. Wipe your damn nose." He handed Harry a handkerchief. "You look a fright." Taking a deep breath, Snape looked everywhere but Harry's face as he tried to explain. "I—rather like you—when you're not being an intolerable cretin. And—I—confess—that I'm rather attracted to you, as well."

To Harry, Snape's eyes were locked on Harry's chest. Harry was feeling more than a little put-upon, and having someone outright reject him and then turn around and eye him like a piece of meat was a bit much. "Oh—you only like my breasts!" he shouted. "And my stupid hips! And I don't care what you think, you slimy prat, you can't just go jerking me about that way!"

Severus was taken aback by the fireworks. "What are you on about? One moment you're upset with me because I've indicated I don't fancy you, and then you're downright enraged when I assure you that I do! And I'm not impressed by your cleavage—that's exactly what I was trying to explain when I said—you—bloody hell, Potter! Why is it that you manage to make everything so complicated?"

Harry saw a bit of light at the end of the tunnel, and managed a small, crooked smile. "It's a knack," he told the man modestly.

"It's a raging disaster, just like the rest of you."

Harry's grin widened. "Ah, but from what you just said; you like me better that way! Better than you would a gorgeous, intelligent girl that swooped in and solved all our problems, at any rate."

Snape stared. "It's something of a pity, and much to be concerned about, but I do believe you're right," he announced after a moment's contemplation. "I honestly must admit that I'm more intrigued by obnoxious young men that cause trouble than voluptuous young women that dispel it. I'm doomed. This is the key to my entire dysfunctional existence. You, Malfoy, the Dark Lord; it's all beginning to make sense. I need help."

Harry laughed, crawling over to sprawl across the Potions Master's lap. "Admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery," he said earnestly. "And anyways what would you rather have; a dull, dreary life filled with tea and housecleaning, or sparkling bright adventure and a dashing lad intent on fulfilling your every fantasy?"

Snape's lip twitched. "All of them? Including the one where I get to bash Dumbledore repeatedly round the head with a sock filled with lemon drops? The one where I win the million-galleon lottery and retire? The one where I turn the entire Gryffindor House into randy armadillos and set them loose in a ten-pin bowling establishment?"

Harry shoved him playfully. "The ones in my power to fulfil, so long as they don't break any laws," he amended.

"Ah. You've ruined it for me." Snape let his head fall back against the sofa, shutting his eyes. "How long until the potion wears off?"

"Half an hour, give or take. I'll sure be glad when it does; my back is killing me. How do woman live with all that extra weight concentrated up front?"

"I told you that you should have used a Support Spell. Besides, weren't you just saying a moment ago that you enjoyed your femininity so much that you might just stay that way?"

"Lies," Harry replied airily. "Blatantly using my womanly wiles to try to seduce you."

"Mmmm. Cunning little bitch, aren't we? Speaking of which; did you actually intend to kill Voldemort? Because I'd hate to break out the champagne and party favours just yet, but that curse looked dead on to me."

Harry shook his head. "It was just one of those opportunities that comes knocking. Do you really think it worked?"

"I'm a cynical bastard, so I'm going with no at this point. But I'll concede that it was a good shot, if nothing else."

"Yeah. We work well together. You ought to get kidnapped more often."

"Shut up, you miserable clod."

Harry smiled, and they sat in silence for a short while, waiting for the potion to wear off. When the time finally came, Harry felt it everywhere; his head felt lighter as the follicles supported its shorter length, his muscles twisted and grew, his bosom receded and sank back into his lean chest as though it had never been.

When it was over, he stretched hugely, adjusted his clothes, and turned to Severus with a large smile. "So, now that it's over, and we still have time to kill, how about you tell me all about how you really prefer me this way. Bonus points for original poetry."

"The day I spout poetry at you shall be the day I am carted off to St. Mungo's, reciting 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol' and convinced that I am the Emperor of France. In other words, don't hold your breath. Is there no way we can even contact the Order? It's driving me mad to be absent from the goings-on."

"Are you sure it's just that? It could be from being cooped up with me," Harry suggested. "Anyhow, I think he's dead. He was too close to miss, and I could feel how powerful the spell was. It was like I wasn't even the one saying it. It was like he was saying it, and I was just the vessel. You know?"

Snape shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know, nor do I wish to learn more. In any case, I still feel it is far too early to start the celebrations. We must be on our guard and assume nothing has changed."

Harry shifted his position, tucking his knees underneath him. "But it might be fun to celebrate just a little," he hinted. "We don't have to throw a wild party or anything. Just a kiss, maybe, so as to commemorate the event?"

The Potions Master seemed to colour a bit, and he kept his face averted. "It would be premature."

"Ah. Well, then…how about for luck?"

Severus turned to look at him, a faint smile on his face. "I don't believe in luck. Let me revise that; I don't believe in luck for me."

Harry grinned even more broadly, if that was possible. "Well, then, I'll just have to share some of mine," he announced. "Everyone knows I've got plenty."

Snape stared at the youth's lips for a lingering time before turning his head. "A waste," he parried in a croaking voice.

Harry leaned over, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. "Not a waste," he protested. "Luck well spent. A good investment. A new perspective on a future I didn't even know I had," he added.

"Perhaps," Severus whispered, and closed the distance to capture Harry's lips with his own. "You don't have your glasses," he murmured, as they pulled away for breath.

"Too much of a risk to be caught with them," Harry replied, pulling Severus pack down into the kiss.

As warmth opened to warmth, lithe bodies sought contact and eager hands reached and tugged and stroked. Two shadows melded into one before the flickering fire, Harry grasping Snape's hair, Snape murmuring Harry's name in a low voice. After a few moments, Harry began to chuckle, and couldn't seem to stop.

Snape pulled away, irked. "What is the matter with you?" he growled.

"And now—now you are getting lucky!" Harry replied.

Snape merely rolled his eyes before stealing another kiss. "Do shut up, Potter."