Disclaimer: Anything recognizable from the Harry Potter universe does not belong to me, but to J.K Rowling and a bunch of really rich publishers and film production companies. I make no money from writing this or any other fanfic.

He was running out of scathing retorts. Sure, he probably could have re-used some of the gems from earlier in the evening; it's not like the man in front of him would know. Yet, as a matter of confidence in both his wit and intelligence, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, Severus chose to cock his eyebrow and fix said man with his trademark, withering stare. The twenty-something promptly stood up and left the table, presumably to cower in a corner until the bell went.

Severus checked his watch and smirked with satisfaction. Only ninety seconds, not bad.

He would never forgive Minerva for this evening. Instead of sitting at home, curled in front of the fire with a new copy of Potions Weekly, the anti-social professor was being subjected to the most inane event ever conceived: speed dating. The concept was apparently some kind of deranged Muggle idea that had seeped into the Wizarding world like a bad dream.

Sighing in resignation, Severus once again checked his antique pocket watch and discovered that there were precisely two minutes and fifty-nine seconds left before another desperate pouf was to appear at his table. Solitude was certainly preferable to the superficial babble and pathetic chat-up lines he was being forced to endure. He liked solitude, though apparently his peers were convinced it may be causing him to go a bit peculiar.

"Severus, I'm concerned about your psychological well-being," the Headmistress had informed him. "You haven't left the dungeons in months, your only interaction – if I can call it that – is with students, which more often than not results in them leaving your classroom in tears. I must insist you get out and meet some people or I shall have to suspend you from your teaching duties."

Severus' face still hurt from the glower he'd maintained throughout the entire conversation.

"I do not take well to threats, Minerva," he'd warned her.

"I do not take well to your increasingly bizarre behaviour. You haven't been friendly with anyone in so long, I'm not entirely sure you know how anymore. You're to go out and meet new people." She'd thrust the pamphlet into his pale hands.

So now he was here, sitting at table number 17 against his will, scowling in a desperate attempt to dissuade the next wizard from even approaching his table. That tactic had worked once or twice, but not nearly often enough. They just kept coming; young men decked out in their finest, sipping at their cocktails and asking him the same boring questions over and over again. By the twentieth 'date', Severus had given up entirely. With his elbows planted firmly on the table, he rested his face in his hands, as if the weight of the absurdity was preventing his neck from holding his head up on its own.


The obnoxious little bell that indicated it was time to rotate chimed, and Severus listened as men shuffled from one table down to the next. A scratching sound not unlike nails on a chalkboard indicated someone had seated themselves at his table and pulled the chair in.

"Severus, forty-six, teacher, French, cats, bottom." Without looking up, he resignedly recited the answers before the questions were even asked.

A familiar chuckle emanated from the other side of the small table. "Bottom? Strange, I always figured you for a top."

Peering between his fingers, Severus looked at the man in front of him in shock. He was of average height, with an athletic build that was showcased by his tight, aubergine jumper. The deep purple cashmere brought out the sparkling green in the man's eyes.

"Potter, what in the bloody hell are you doing here?" Severus asked incredulously.

An easy grin split the face of the now 25-year-old man in front of him. Casually, Harry ran his fingers through his already tousled hair. "Same as you, I figure," he replied with a shrug.

"I highly doubt that," Severus sneered, casting a glance at his watch. Forty-six seconds had already elapsed. It did not appear that he was going to break his record with this one. Damn.

Potter leaned across the small table, his eyes giving his former professor the once-over. "Celery green dress shirt, tailored. Fitted charcoal vest. Dark-wash denims. Why, Severus Snape, who is your stylist?" the boy teased with a quick grin.

Severus knew he should have worn his standard robes. Sighing, he grumbled a reply, "Granger. McGonagall."

"You should let them do it more often," Potter said approvingly. "They made you look rather dashing."

The older man rolled his eyes, though inwardly he had to admit the vest did make him look rather well-built, and the jeans were quite flattering on his arse. If only the entire ensemble had more buttons...

"Potter, why don't you just leave and save us both another" – Severus checked his watch – "three minutes and thirty-eight seconds of this banal commentary?"

Potter took a sip of his lager, his eyes flashing with mischief. "Well, now, all this talk of bottoming has piqued my interest. Frankly, I always pictured you bending someone over your desk and plowing them to within an inch of their life."

For some reason, Severus' denims suddenly seemed to be a size too small. Refusing to squirm under the scrutiny of the insolent child, he ignored the constricting material and arched an eyebrow. "Pervert," he murmured.

Harry laughed. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I simply expected the golden Gryffindor to be as pure as the driven snow," Severus replied coolly.

"Oh, I can be driven." Harry winked seductively. He glanced briefly at the table next to them and then looked back at Severus. "So, how much time do we have left?"

"Two minutes, fifty-seven seconds."

"Just enough time, then," Harry mused with a lopsided smile.

Severus attempted another sneer even as he heard himself ask, "Time enough for what?" Truth be told, his body was already taut with excitement even if his mind was rejecting the idea on principle. He took a long, slow sip of his wine in an attempt to cover his interest.

Harry leaned over the center of the table and slid his palm up the inside of Severus' thigh, causing Severus to splutter inelegantly into his drink. As Harry neared Severus' groin, Severus realized it wasn't just a palm; there was something thin and rigid that accompanied it: Harry's wand.

"Potter, release your hand at–"

"Relax, I'm not going to hex you. I prefer your bits remain intact." He continued grinning at Severus from across the table, his lips barely moving as he cast a non-verbal spell.

Within moments, Severus felt himself stretched and lubricated. His body responded by making his already-too-tight denims even tighter. But before Severus could prepare an appropriately scathing retort – damn them for deserting him again in a moment of need! – Harry squeezed his thigh, ghosting his fingers over the zip.

"I'm Harry, twenty-five, Auror, English, hippogriffs, top." Severus noted the last word was said with emphasis and he swallowed rather more obviously than he would have liked.

"Is this how you introduce yourself to all the men?" he asked, with as much disdain as he could muster.

Harry sat up and withdrew his hand, frowning slightly. "No, actually. I only ever wanted to use it on you."


A/N: Thank-you to lovetoseverus for a fabulous beta job and rewriting of what was, admittedly, a very lame ending. I could not have asked for more *hugs*