A/N: Thanks to Lori for the beta on this!

My entry for the Secret Snarry over at snape_potter on LJ.

Harry had gone back to the Shrieking Shack the moment he could get away. He couldn't just let Snape lie there, waiting to be found. Harry knew there was almost no hope that the man had survived, but he had to make sure.

When he got there, all he found, amidst the dust and cobwebs, was a cooling, coagulating pool of blood. His first thought was someone had moved the body, but then he realized no one else was even aware there was a body here.

The wards around Hogwarts had fallen hours ago, so Snape could have Apparated anywhere. If Snape were poisoned, wounded, and dying, where would he go? A thought - a sliver of hope - occurred to him, and, not trusting himself to Apparate, Harry ran.

He ran as fast as his worn out legs would carry him. He jumped over fallen rubble, and avoided the wounded, trusting that someone would be along to help them. Destruction lay around him, but it was nothing more than a blur, as he raced to reach his destination. Entering the main doors of the castle, he skidded around the corner, and took the steps two at a time.

His lungs were burning, his heart felt like it would burst, and his legs were starting to feel like jelly, but he was almost there. Reaching the door to the potions class, Harry didn't even knock. He slammed it open, and quickly scanned the room - empty. Not deterred, he bolted from that room, and headed to Snape's office.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it had been a while since either that classroom, or this office had been Snape's, but something was telling him he was in the right place. Looking down, Harry could see a dim glow from under the door.

Someone was in the room, and he had a feeling he knew who it was.

Rather than knock, this time, Harry opened the door slowly and carefully. There, in the middle of the room, stood Severus Snape. At first glance, he appeared no worse for the wear. Then, Harry looked closer and took in the pallor of his skin, the red smears on his face, the mangled mess that was his neck, and the way his body was trembling.

"Professor." It came out on a relieved sigh, but fear for the man's health was the only thing Harry was feeling.

"Potter. Help, please." Raspy and labored, the helplessness in the man's words crawled over Harry's spine, and set him in motion.

There were items laid out around a cauldron sitting in the corner, and Snape shakily pointed and directed, as Harry brewed.

Harry never considered that he might fail; he had the Half Blood Prince to help him.

Minutes, hours, days - he wasn't sure - later, Snape declared the potion finished, and Harry ladled it into a bowl. Snape's hands were shaking so badly, he almost spilled the concoction. Harry, fearing there might not be time to brew it again, and the first time had yielded such a small amount, steadied Snape's hands. Together, they tilted the bowl, and Snape drank.


"Harry! Oy, mate, are you coming to the pub tonight?"

Harry shook his head. It had been three months since Voldemort's death, but still, the only things people seemed to want to do were drink and shag. Harry was predicting a rise in wizard population very soon.

"No, Ron, I'm not. I have to get back to-"

"Bloody Snape. You can take a night off sometimes, Harry. I don't know why you moved the git in with you anyway."

Harry grabbed the last item he needed from the shelf, and started making his way toward the clerk. He'd been doing his weekly shopping, before Ron had yelled at him from across the shop.

"He needs someone to take care of him. He's still on a daily regimen of potions, and he isn't strong enough yet to brew them on his own."

Throwing his arm over Harry's shoulders, Ron walked beside him.

"He can buy them, Harry, you don't have to play healer for him."

Harry had a vision of himself dressed in a white robe, tending to a sick Snape. The image shifted, and his robe was less than acceptable for public viewing, and Snape was leering at him in a way that said he needed extra special attention.

Blushing, and pushing away his less than appropriate thoughts, Harry said, "He doesn't trust the mass produced potions. And, after everything he's told me about them, I'm not sure I do either."

Ron laughed, "But, he trusts you to brew them?"

"Yes, Ron, he does. Look, I have to go, I'll see you later, yeah?" As soon as the clerk handed him his change, Harry practically ran from the shop.


"Mister Potter, I was beginning to believe you would be gone for the remainder of the evening."

As always, Snape's velvet voice gave Harry chills. His dark, looming presence, as he leaned on the doorframe to the sitting room, stirred feelings in Harry that - until recently - had been lying almost dormant in his subconscious.

"No, I just ran into a friend."

"Hm. Well, you do realize that it's past time to begin brewing my next potion."

"Oh, shit," Harry glanced at the clock to see he was half an hour late, "I'm so sorry. Are you in much pain?"

Harry had discovered very quickly, that even a few minutes could mean excruciating pain for the older man.

"Nothing I cannot handle, but I would like to have it as soon as I can."

Harry nodded, and followed Snape down to the basement. He'd set up a laboratory for them the day he'd brought Snape to Grimmauld Place.

They began setting out the needed ingredients, Harry moving as quickly possible. This was his favorite part of the day.

He hadn't been lying to Ron; Snape was still too unsteady to brew on his own, but Harry wasn't put out by helping, not at all.

As he began to mince the first root, he felt Snape move in behind him. Warm hands started by lightly rubbing his shoulders, and moved gradually down Harry's arms, until Snape's chest was pressed against him, and the man's hands were resting on Harry's forearms. He was cocooned by Snape's body, trapped between the taller man and the table, as the increasing steam from the cauldron carried the scent of aloe vera directly into his lungs. The heat swirled around him, causing a bit of dizziness, and rather a lot of perspiration.

The sleeves of Harry's robes were pushed up, and Snape's nimble fingers slid around Harry's wrists, applying only gentle pressure. Snape's heart drummed a staccato rhythm against Harry's back, and Snape's long hair tickled Harry's chin, as the man leaned slightly over him.

Moist breath spilled over the skin of Harry's neck, as Snape began to speak, low and provocative in Harry's ear.

"Smaller, Mister Potter. That's it, let me guide you." Snape's fingers flexed, and he scooted even closer to Harry, slipping his hands down farther, to cover Harry's hands.

Lips brushed Harry's neck, as Snape began to place soft, tender kisses on the exposed skin. Their bodies swayed slowly with their cutting motions, and they were moving to a nonexistent melody.

This was why Harry had come to love brewing with Snape. Sometime in the last few months, it had turned into this slow seduction. The way Snape spoke to him - touched him - was a promise of things to come, of nights to come.

Harry cut, chopped, and minced, as Snape moved with him, massaging, caressing, and whispering into Harry's ear. For the first time in his life, Harry wasn't just okay with Potions, he was bloody brilliant. Under Snape's hands, under Snape's control, Harry brewed perfectly, and Snape praised him. With Snape's undivided attention, brewing was so much more than throwing stuff in a cauldron, it was sensual and arousing.

By the time the potion was ready to cool, they were both panting wildly, and Harry could feel an erection to match his own pressing into his back.

"Place the stirring rod on the table, Mister Potter." He spoke calmly, but just shimmering under the surface of his words, Harry could hear the desire.

Harry's hand shook, as he laid the rod down. Snape's demanding manner was something that thrilled Harry. He issued a command, and without even thinking, Harry followed his orders. He didn't have to think, when Snape was there to take care of him.

Moving Harry to the left, away from the still warm cauldron, Snape bent him over the table.

"Do not move."

This was how it had happened the first time, and every time after. Snape slowly cultivated, encouraged, and built their lust during the brewing process. Then, when the potion was finished, he rewarded Harry for his obedience and success.

Harry's robes were lifted, and cool air washed over his exposed arse. He never wore anything under his brewing robes now, pants only got in the way.

Snape nudged Harry's legs apart and moaned when Harry readily complied, splaying his legs as far as he could.

"That's it, Harry, open up for me." In these moments, Snape lapsed into using Harry's given name, and Harry loved it.

Snape leaned over Harry's body and placed a small pot in his hand.

"Prepare yourself for me."

Harry always had trouble breathing at this point. There was something so fucking exciting about stretching his own arse while Snape watched.

He coated his fingers liberally, and started to work the first one in. The slight burn made him hiss, but as he drove deeper into himself, the pain gave way to bliss. Angling his fingers just so, he rubbed lightly on the little nub that made his eyes roll back, and his legs try to buckle.

"Deeper, Harry."

"Faster, Harry."

"Harder, Harry."

Each command was a bit more breathless, a tad more desperate. Harry was leaking onto the wood in front of him, and fighting to stop himself from thrusting. Nothing turned him on quite like this. He was working three fingers in and out at a brutal pace, when Snape finally stopped him.

"Hold on to the table, Harry, tightly."

Snape entered him slowly, and a whimper escaped him when Snape's hips finally rested against Harry's arse, their sacs brushing gently.

Snape only allowed Harry a moment to adjust, then pulled out and slammed back in. Harry shouted, and tried to find purchase on the table, as Snape fucked him ruthlessly. In and out he moved, striking Harry's prostate every few thrusts, and sending jolts of pleasure throughout Harry's body.

"Yessss, so beautiful, so tight, so hot."

Harry was so close. The wood biting into his stomach with every stroke, Snape's bruising grip on his hips, the huge cock ramming into him, it was too much, it was so perfect.

"Are you going to come?" Snape's voice was low and rough, uneven because of his physical strain.

Not able to find words, Harry grunted, nodding frantically.

"Do not soil my table, Harry. Restrain yourself."

Harry whined, and tried to clamp down on the pleasure coursing through his body. It was like this every time. Snape fucked him hard and fast, and Harry fought to keep control.

Harry was almost in tears, when he felt Snape shudder. A few more jerky thrusts, then Snape stilled behind him, pulsing and spilling into Harry's clenching channel.

Harry relaxed; he was proud of himself for holding back. Then, he was being turned, bent backwards over the table, as his robes were yanked off.

Snape pressed his long, lithe body into Harry's side. He sucked and nipped at Harry's neck for a moment, then leaned over to pull a peaked nipple into his mouth. The quick flicks of Snape's tongue caused Harry to groan and thrust his hips up, seeking some kind of friction for his turgid organ.

He gasped when Snape's hand curled around his hard, aching shaft, and began to stroke. Snape set a punishing pace, and buried his face in Harry's neck.

Growling against Harry's skin, Snape started to talk.

"You are so sexy, Harry, leaning over that cauldron, crushing, mixing creating. The way you bite your lips when you're measuring, the way your hand never even twitches when you pour, the way the muscles in your arm bunch and flex when you stir… Merlin, the way you press back into me, so responsive, so needy. And all the pretty, little sounds that fall from your lips when I'm so deep inside of you."

Snape's thumb ran harshly over the tip of Harry's cock, and Harry groaned, arching into that hand, and begged for more.

"Are you going to come for me now, Harry? Come all over your belly, all over my hand?"

Harry wanted to, so badly, and Snape's attention was pushing him closer by the second. But, there was something he wanted, and he wasn't sure when he'd get it, if not in a moment like this.

They had never, during all their illicit trysts, actually kissed. Harry wasn't sure why they hadn't. But, he'd always allowed Snape to take and keep control, and Snape had never seemed interested in the act. Harry, on the other hand, craved Snape's mouth.

Quickly turning his head, and lifting his shoulder, Harry, for the first time, met Snape's lips with his own. Snape moaned against his mouth, in surprise or with relief - Harry didn't know. But, like with everything else, Snape didn't hold back.

Their tongues dueled urgently, as Snape tightened his grip, and moved his hand even faster. Then, with Snape's tongue almost down his throat, and Snape's chest heaving against his side, Harry came, hard.


Christmas at the Weasleys' was a loud and obnoxious event. There were practical jokes aplenty and laughter in abundance. It was a jovial atmosphere, and everyone seemed to enjoy it, even Professor Snape.

He was seated on the couch, right next to Harry, and smiled when anyone spoke to him. But, it was when no one else was watching that Hermione paid the most attention to them.

They were at ease with each other, almost anticipating each other's movements. They talked animatedly and touched often.

Snape had recently moved out of Grimmauld Place, but Hermione knew he visited Harry often. She was also aware of all the trips Harry made to Spinner's End. Maybe the most surprising though, was Harry's newfound love of potions. She had, many times, gone to visit Harry only to find him bent over a cauldron, brewing, and smiling softly. She hated to interrupt him during those times; he seemed so peaceful.

A hand landed softly on her shoulder, and Hermione looked up. Ron stood over her, focused on Harry and Professor Snape.

"I can't believe he's thrown us over for Snape."

"He hasn't thrown us over, Ron. I just had lunch with him yesterday, and he went out with you two nights ago."

Ron's eyes narrowed, as they remained fixed on the men laughing together across the room.

"I still don't like it. After everything that prat put him through, he wants to be friends with him. It doesn't make any sense."

Hermione giggled, and laid her hand over Ron's.

"Oh, honestly, Ronald. You don't actually think they're friends, do you?"