Too Wise To Woo Peaceably

By: JayKay

Rated: NC17

Category: AU, Humor, Romance

Summary: Hey, kids, let's put on a show! aka Hogwarts meets Shakespeare

Spoilers: I'm sort of assuming everyone's read all four books, so there may be spoiler-ish references here and there.

Feedback: Is always welcome

Author's Notes: This is extremely AU. It's set in Harry and Company's seventh year, and it assumes that Voldemort has been defeated entirely at this point. An "Oh, brilliant, it only took half a year to kill him for good, so we've got the rest of the year off from Battling Utter Evil" sort of thing. Sirius has been exonerated, and he's the DADA teacher for the year.

WHAT: AUDITIONS FOR THE HOGWARTS PRODUCTION OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE'S MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

(A Muggle play)

WHEN: 18-19 FEBRUARY, 6:00-9:00 PM

WHERE: THE LITTLE THEATRE

(second story, west wing, just past the Greek statues)

Auditions for this production are open to all students and faculty alike. Tech crew volunteers are also needed. The performance will be on April 23.

As soon as Hermione finished tacking the announcement on the Gryffindor message board, she was swamped by a hoard of curious students, all peering at the parchment and full of questions.

"What's this, then?" Ron asked, tapping the announcement, and she batted his hand away.

"Don't, Ron, I've only just finished writing them up, and the ink's still wet." Hermione held up a handful of fliers as evidence. "And it's a call sheet," she said. "We're putting on a show!"

"'We'? Who's 'we'?" Harry wanted to know, and a few heads in the crowd nodded agreement.

"It was actually Professor Dumbledore's idea," she explained. "He thought it would be a good idea to help lift everyone's spirits after... Well, you know."

A collective shiver ran through the crowd as memories of the awful events of the fall and early winter rose up in everyone's minds. But those dark times were behind them now -- for good this time, thanks to Harry, Dumbledore, and their compatriots.

"And he's just seen a Muggle film version of Hamlet, so he's rather keen on Shakespeare right now," Hermione continued.

"Oh, God, not that four hour monster, with the Victorian costuming," someone in the back groaned.

"Well, what about that awful Mel Gibson version, then?" Dean Thomas exclaimed. "The scenes were chopped up and all out of order, and Glenn Close just isn't old enough to be Mel's mother!"

"Yes, but Mel's so dreamy..." Mary-Sue Brown, a fourth year, sighed, making Dean and a few others pretend to gag.

"All right, all right!" Hermione raised both hands and gestured for quiet. "You can have your film criticism session later. Suffice to say, our Headmaster wants to celebrate April 23rd this year, and he wants us to put on a nice romantic comedy."

"What's so special about April 23rd?" Ron asked, earning a sniff from Hermione.

"Really. Some people have no sense of culture or history," she said, but she was smiling to show she was teasing, and he just rolled his eyes. It was, after all, an old routine between them at this point, and neither took it seriously anymore. "April 23rd is the day Shakespeare died. It also may be his birthday as well, as best as anyone can figure from what few records we have."

Harry stepped back, letting others get closer so they could read the announcement for themselves, and he pondered the idea. His first reaction had been to dismiss the idea of auditioning out of hand, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought he might give it a go after all. He'd never tried acting before, nor had he read any of Shakespeare's plays since they weren't required reading at Hogwarts. It would be a new experience, perhaps a bit of a lark, and it certainly would help him forget the events of the recent past.

Besides, he was winding up his last year at Hogwarts, a thought that made his heart constrict, and this sounded like it might be a good way to end the year on a happy, fun note.

"Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall are the consulting faculty," Hermione was saying, and Harry let his attention drift back to her, in case she was saying something important. "They've appointed me the director, and I've already done some research--"

An assortment of groans and laughter rose from the Gryffindors gathered around her, but she ignored all of it.

"--and I learned that in Shakespeare's day, women weren't allowed to perform on stage."

"What?" Parvati exclaimed, bracing her hands on her hips. "That's not fair!"

"I know," Hermione agreed darkly, and those who remembered her fervent S.P.E.W. campaign a few years prior took a cautious step back from her. "But they weren't. Young men performed all the female roles, and I've decided we're going to make this production as historically accurate as possible. That means the cast will be entirely male, but," she added, raising her voice above the protests of the girls in the room, "to make things fair, the entire tech crew will be female. We'll be running the show, ladies," she concluded with a fierce grin, and there were cheers from the girls in response.

"What do you think, Harry?" Ron sidled up close to his friend and whispered the question. "Are you going to audition?"

"I'm not sure... Maybe I'll have a look at the play first. It seems like it might be fun, though," Harry said.

"I don't know if I dare," Ron admitted. "With Hermione running the show, I'll probably get cast as a girl."

"You will?" Harry exclaimed, looking up at his friend, who had shot up in the last couple of years and now had several inches in height advantage over Harry, who hadn't grown nearly as much. He was still short and slight for his age, and at this point, he doubted he would ever be tall and broad, like Charlie was, and like Ron looked as if he would be one day. "What about me?"

"I think you could stand to get tarted up a bit," Ron replied, grinning wickedly at his friend, who punched his shoulder in response.

"But it's supposed to be a romantic comedy, What if I have to perform some sappy love scene with another guy?"

"Oh, as if you'd really mind!"

Harry stuck his tongue out at Ron, feeling a rush of heat in his face at the teasing, but he wasn't insulted. It had been two years since he'd come to terms with the fact that while he liked girls just fine, he liked boys even better. He had eventually confessed to both Hermione and Ron, who accepted his flexible preferences with the same ease as they'd accepted his notoriety when they first met. There had been only one moment of concern from Ron.

"Ehm... You're not going to hit on me now, are you? Because I like you and all, Harry, but not in that way," Ron had said, looking as if he felt awkward about even asking.

Harry had assured him that he wasn't interested in Ron in That Way either, and life had gone on as normal. Ron had even helped cover for him a number of times when he had a brief fling with Fred before the twins graduated and went on to open their joke shop in London.

Harry had also dated Cho Chang for a while, but not Ginny; something in his heart warned him that she would want more than he could give her. He chose partners who weren't any more interested in committing to him than he was in committing to them, thus avoiding romantic entanglements that might end badly for anyone involved. Which was ironic, because he wanted a steady relationship, had wanted it for quite some time now, but there was no one with whom he could picture himself in a long term relationship. Sometimes, he felt as if he was waiting for something... or someone... and he had only to be patient and wait for the answers to be revealed.

If that were the case, he thought crossly, he wished they would hurry along. He would be graduating soon, and his chances for meeting single witches or wizards would drop once he was out in the world, away from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, which had the largest concentration of magic-using folk around.

But no sooner had the impatient thought arisen when another followed on its heels, this time from the still, small voice that lived in the back of his head: patience, you'll find what you seek in due time.

Harry sighed, and glanced once more at Hermione's call sheet. Perhaps he would audition, even if he did get cast as a girl. At least it would give him something to do in the lack of a decent love life.

*~*~*

"You cast me opposite who?!"

"Now, Harry..."

"Don't you 'now, Harry' me, Hermione Granger! What the bloody hell were you thinking?" Harry pinwheeled his arms, his voice rising to a shout.

He could scarcely believe what he had just heard about the results of the play auditions. He had decided to try out, and he had showed up at the appointed time, to find out the auditions were being kept as private as possible, without any of the hopeful would-be thespians knowing who else was auditioning. Hermione and Professor McGonagall had conducted the auditions, and Harry had been a little surprised Professor Dumbledore hadn't participated in the selection process as well.

Afterward, Hermione had promised to let him know right away if he'd gotten a part, even before she posted the results in the common rooms of all the Houses, as she had the audition announcement. He wasn't quite surprised to learn he had indeed been cast in a female part; actually, he was pleased and flattered that he had been chosen for one of the female leads, Beatrice.

What had shocked him was learning who would be playing the part of Benedick, and thus would essentially be Harry's leading man.

Snape.

"I'm thinking of the play!" Hermione shot back. "Considering the dynamic between Benedick and Beatrice, you two will be perfect for the parts. Besides." She gave a dismissive sniff. "It's time you both learned to work together in peace as well as in war. You fought side by side to defeat You-Know-Who -- sorry, Voldemort -- so surely you can manage this."

"I can't believe he auditioned in the first place..." Harry raked his hands through his hair, rumpling it even more than it was naturally. "Did Dumbledore blackmail him into it or something?"

"Not as far as I know," she replied. "Far from it, as a matter of fact. From what I gather, he's rather fond of Shakespeare, and was quite keen on the idea of getting a part in the play."

"Oh, lovely." Harry grimaced. "So I'm to spend the next few weeks pretending to be all swoony and romantic over Snape."

"Have you even read the play yet?" She fixed him with a steely gaze that he couldn't quite meet.

"Ehm... Not as such, no..."

"If you had, then you'd know that having you and Professor Snape in the roles is practically type-casting, since Beatrice and Benedick spend most of the play squabbling."

"Really?" He perked up at that -- then the implications of her words sank in, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What do you mean 'most' of the play?"

"Oh, nothing," she replied breezily, waving one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Hero and Claudio are the two swoony, love-sick teens in this play. Benedick and Beatrice are older, and decidedly not swoony. I promise, you won't have any problems."

"All right, fine." He folded his arms and grumbled. "What about the rest of the cast, then?"

"As to that," Hermione said with a lofty smile, "you'll just have to wait and see. First read-through is Thursday night. See you there, sweet Beatrice!"

Harry's reply was neither polite nor appropriate to be heard by younger students, but Hermione only laughed as she strolled away.

*~*~*

Two masks adorned the double doors leading into the little theater on the second floor of the castle, one black and one white. Harry liked them both, and they seemed to like him as well. The comedy mask giggled at him as he pulled on the door handle, and the tragedy mask stopped sobbing long enough to mutter a despairing, "h'lo."

Stepping inside the theater itself, Harry had decided on his first visit, was like stepping into a 1930s cinema. The seats were all upholstered in crushed velvet the color of a rich red wine, and there was a balcony that Harry could imagine first years hanging over and spilling popcorn into the rows beneath. The proscenium stage was framed by a deep blood red curtain edged with gold tassels, and the floor of the stage itself was wood, and looked old and worn, as if many feet had tramped its boards.

When he walked in for the first read-through, he noticed the house lights were dimmed, but the stage was brightly lit, and a large table surrounded by plenty of chairs had been set up in the middle of it. There were also people whom he presumed to be his fellow cast members milling around, and to his relief, Sirius was among the group, as was Ron.

Hurrying up the narrow steps leading on-stage, Harry greeted them with a wide smile. "Good to see I won't be making a fool of myself alone," he teased.

"Yeah, well..." Ron ducked his head shyly. "It sounded like fun."

"So did you get cast as a girl?"

"No!" Ron's sigh of relief drew laughter from both Sirius and Harry. "I'm Claudio, whoever that is."

Harry smirked at him, remembering what Hermione had said. "He's the swoony teen lover of the play."

"No!" His friend looked aghast. "You're joking, right?" Ron's voice contained a hopeful note, but Harry shook his head solemnly.

"What about you?" Harry turned to Sirius. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"Don Pedro," the older man replied. "I'm the prince who tells everyone what to do," he added, smiling.

Harry nodded, glad they would be doing a read-through that night. With all his classwork and preparations for graduation, he hadn't had a chance to read the play yet, and the character names still meant little to him. He had the fleeting wish that Sirius had gotten cast as Benedick. It would have been a little odd, playing a romantic lead opposite the man he had come to think of as a surrogate father, but it would have been far more comfortable than playing opposite Snape.

Speaking of whom... Harry glanced around the stage, trying to appear casual as he checked to see if Snape had arrived yet, but the Potions Master was nowhere in sight. 'Probably handling last minute detentions,' he thought snidely.

Just then, Professor McGonagall bustled in, followed closely by Hermione; stopping on the edge of the stage near the orchestra pit, she scanned the crowd, then consulted her notes.

"I see we're missing a few of our cast," she said disapprovingly. "Leonato, Benedick and Don John haven't yet arrived." She tutted under her breath. "Well, they'll have to catch up." Clapping her hands briskly, she addressed everyone in a ringing voice. "Those of you who are serving on the technical crew, including props, wardrobe, make-up, lighting, and all the rest, come with me! We shall begin designing our sets and costumes, etcetera, tonight. I leave the cast of our troupe in Miss Granger's capable hands."

With that, she trooped off-stage again, all the females in the group following along behind, except Hermione, who stood near the wings, holding her clipboard and looking important.

"If everyone would be seated round the table?" She gestured to the round wood table in the middle of the stage, and the group, now consisting entirely of males except for Hermione, claimed chairs; there were exactly enough for everyone, Harry noted, since four were left over, and he assumed one of those was for Hermione.

Sure enough, she took one of the empty seats and ran her finger down the top scroll she had unfurled and pinned on her clipboard, then glanced around the table as if taking inventory. "Perhaps we could introduce ourselves in character, while we wait for the others. Colin, we'll start with you," she said, indicating the small, thin young man sitting on her right.

Harry watched him, regret welling up from his heart and surging into his throat; once he had found Colin Creevey to be little more than a nuisance, an enthusiastic, excitable boy who dogged his heels and seemed to have an exceptionally strong case of hero worship for Harry, which had always been embarrassing and annoying. Now, however, he'd relive every irritating moment just to see Colin behave like his old self, but after all Colin had witnessed, even though he had been kept from participating in the battles with Voldemort himself, his inner light had been dimmed by the pain of experience and loss.

Colin summoned up a smile that wasn't nearly as bright as those Harry remembered, but it was a valient effort, and he waved to everyone around the table.

"I'm Colin," he said, wiggling a little in his seat, as if he was nervous but excited. "I'm to play Hero."

"Ah, then you'll be working most with Ron," Hermione said, not quite smirking in Ron's direction. Indeed, her voice was remarkably cool and professional as she continued, "Ron is playing Claudio, you see, and Hero and Claudio are the young lovers."

Ron's face turned as red as his hair, but Colin appeared unabashed.

"We'll be brilliant, Ron!" he exclaimed, his smile widening.

Beside him, Harry elbowed Ron sharply.

"Ow! I mean... Yeah, Colin, I'm sure we'll do fine."

In the back of the auditorium, the double doors creaked open, and everyone at the table turned to look at the shadowy figures gliding up the center aisle. They were nearly to the stage before the light was bright enough to identify them as Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Draco Malfoy.

Harry regarded Malfoy dispassionately, surprised at his interest and obvious inclusion in the play as he was by Snape's. Still, he supposed it was Malfoy's way of showing that he was, indeed, on the team, and after all he'd been through, Harry wasn't inclined to harbor unkind thoughts. Malfoy had lost both his parents, and he had learned the bitter truth of what it meant to be a Dark Wizard. That he learned it at the hands of Voldemort himself made Harry even more charitable towards his old rival.

Malfoy was still arrogant and condescending, but he no longer blathered about his father, or the Dark Arts. The haunted look in his eyes, so old for such a young face, told more than any words could about the lessons he had learned in the hardest possible way.

"Oh, good, you're here." Hermione's smile was warm and welcoming to all three of the new arrivals; as fussy and judgmental as she could be at times, Harry thought, she had a forgiving heart, even for the boy who had tormented her, and the professor who had tried to quash her. "Everyone, I should like to introduce our Leonato, the governor of Messina, father to Hero, and uncle to Beatrice."

Professor Dumbledore, his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses, bowed low, then took one of the vacant seats.

"Our villain, Don John."

Draco stepped forward and, his lips twisting in a mocking smile, also bowed before taking a seat.

"Don John is the bastard brother of Don Pedro," she explained, indicating Sirius, who nodded. "And finally, Benedick, a lord of Padua, friend to both Claudio and Don Pedro--"

Snape and Sirius exchanged sneers, but there wasn't nearly as much venom in them as once there had been. Too much had happened for either of them to cling to old grudges, and while Harry knew Sirius would never consider Snape anything like a friend -- and he suspected it was entirely mutual -- they were at least able to remain in the same room for long periods of time without lunging for each other's throats, which was a vast improvement, to be sure.

"--and eventual suitor to Beatrice," she concluded, looking directly at Harry, who managed a weak smile as all heads, including Snape's, turned to him.

The look of stunned surprise in Snape's dark eyes gave Harry some small satisfaction; he had known about the casting, but Snape hadn't.

But Snape recovered his composure quickly, and his mouth curved in one of those nasty, patronizing smiles Harry knew all too well. "So Potter is to be Beatrice to my Benedick? Well, well, well. In that case, perhaps Taming of the Shrew would have been a more apt choice of play."

"Get stuffed, Snape," Sirius growled. "If you don't want to do it, you can leave now. We'll find someone else."

Snape arched one elegant eyebrow. "On the contrary, Black, I believe I shall find pretending to be enamoured of Potter in any way quite a challenge for my acting skills."

Harry watched from beneath his lashes as the Potions Master sank gracefully into the last remaining chair and folded his thin, pale hands in his lap, turning his entire attention on Hermione. He was wishing more and more that he'd read the play, so he could have known what he was getting into. Snape's words sounded ominous, and despite Hermione's assurances that the two characters bickered constantly, he had the uneasy feeling that bickering wasn't quite all they did.

And if that were the case, he really didn't know what he was going to do. The idea of being romantic, even if it was only acting, with Snape felt far beyond his abilities to pretend in a believable fashion. Perhaps he had best withdraw now, before it was too late...

But no. He had made a committment, and besides, Ron would kill him if he abandoned him now.

And so he was stuck.

Playing romantic leading lady to Snape.

Well, he had wanted something to liven things up. Now he just needed to make a mental note to be careful what he wished for in future, on the chance that he actually got it.

*~*~*

"Just what the bloody hell do you intend to do about this?" Harry demanded, brandishing his copy of the script under Hermione's nose.

The first read-through of the play had gone smoothly enough; it was a relatively short play, and although some of the students stumbled over the language in places, everyone had seemed to follow the action well enough to understand their parts. Harry had been surprised and impressed by the readings by the faculty members, including Snape, he admitted grudgingly. The Elizabethan English had come more easily to Dumbledore and Snape -- even Sirius had read a few lines with a bit of awkwardness -- and Snape especially seemed to do well with it.

The unusual words and sentence structure rolled off Snape's tongue like poetry, and, when he glanced around the table, Harry had noticed others in the cast seemed to be almost mesmerized by the pitch and cadence of Snape's mellifluous voice. Even Hermione had seemed enthralled during his delivery of one of Benedick's lengthier monologues.

Well, Harry had to admit, if there was anything one could call remotely nice about Snape, it was his voice, and the man did know how to use it effectively.

But that hadn't stopped Harry from interrupting the read-through when they reached the last scene, and he discovered his suspicions had indeed been correct. Harry had stood up so quickly, he almost knocked his chair over, and both Sirius and Ron had looked up at him in alarm.

Harry's hands had closed into fists, and he had felt his entire body going cold.

"Madam Director, I want a word."

"All right."

Hermione had responded with cool detachment, following him to one of the small dressing rooms backstage, where they could speak privately. He had whirled to face her, waving the script and demanding to know what she intended to do about it, as if she could somehow change what Shakespeare had written.

"What do I intend to do about what, exactly?" she asked, matching Harry scowl for scowl.

"This!"

He pushed the script under her nose, pointing at the unaccceptable line: "Benedick: 'Peace! I will stop your mouth. [He kisses her]'."

"Snape is going to kiss me!" Harry fumed. "You said there wasn't going to be anything like that!"

"I said you weren't going to have to be swoony," she pointed out. "I didn't say anything about being able to avoid romance entirely."

"It'll just have to be cut out, that's all," he replied curtly, but before Hermione could utter a single word of protest, a new voice entered the conversation.

"What's the matter, Potter? Afraid?"

Harry looked toward to door, where Snape loomed, bat-like, on the threshold. His tone dripped with contempt, and his expression was more derisive than usual, if that was possible.

"You faced down Voldemort, yet one little snog for the sake of art makes you turn tail and run in fear? So much for your overly-vaunted courage," he sneered.

"It's not fear," Harry shot back, anger welling within him. "It's disgust."

But instead of being insulted, Snape only grew impatient. "Oh, for God's sake, stop being so missish, Potter. Theater is all about illusion. We can practice making it appear to the audience that we kiss, when in truth, your lips will never even come close to being sullied by mine."

Harry set his jaw, silently damning the man for being so... so... so reasonable about it! Since when was Snape ever reasonable about anything?

"What about you, then?" he demanded. "Surely you're not going to stand there and tell me the idea of having to kiss me makes you any more happy than it does me. You hate me -- you've always hated me -- everyone knows it, so why are you pretending being cast together doesn't bother you?"

He expected a sarcastic response, something Snapishly scathing, but instead, Snape fixed him with a level look as he answered the question.

"I've done a great deal of acting in my life, Potter, both onstage and off, and I happen to enjoy it. I also take it quite seriously, even in an amateur production, such as this. If I find myself in a distasteful position, such as being saddled with an acting partner who is a teenage prima donna prone to snit fits, I'll make the best of it for the sake of the play." He paused, smirking. "As they say, the show must go on."

"Damn you."

Snape scoffed. "Voldemort himself didn't manage to damn me, and neither will your empty bluster. Make up your mind, Potter. Are you in or out?"

It was a challenge. Snape was goading him, deliberately questioning his courage, and if he backed out of the play now, doubtless the man would take great delight in spreading the news of his cowardice. He could almost hear the gleeful gloating, and he knew he would spend the rest of the year being constantly reminded by Snape and many of the Slytherins that he'd fled in terror of nothing more than one stage kiss.

It was just a kiss, and Snape said it wouldn't even have to be real. They would just make it look real, that's all. So what did he really have to be afraid of? Why did the thought of this stage romance bother him so much? It didn't make any sense, and he was disgusted with himself for over-reacting in a way that made him appear the fool in Snape's eyes and gave Snape more ammunition to use against him.

"In." The word was ground out through gritted teeth, and he glared balefully at Snape even as he spoke.

Snape gave a little nod of acknowledgment, and Harry felt his stomach lurch. He had the inexplicable feeling that an invisible gauntlet had just been thrown down, but he was at a loss to know which of them had tossed it, or why. He only knew, on an instinctive level, that the reasons ran much deeper than Harry merely wanting to save face in front of the school, no matter his dislike of the play's end.

"Fine," Snape replied shortly. "Then I suggest you gather what little composure you possess and return to the stage. You've held up the read-through long enough."

With that, he swept away, his black robes billowing behind him -- and considering what he'd just said, Harry wondered if he was aware of the effect that move had. Probably, Harry growled silently. He probably liked making intimidating dramatic exits, the arrogant bastard.

"Harry?" Hermione's soft question brought him out of his reverie, and he blinked at her.

"What?"

"Ready to go back?"

"No," he sighed. "But I don't have much of a choice at this point."

*~*~*

Two weeks later, when they had read through the play three times -- once to get a feel for it, once to discuss it practically line by line in terms of character interpretation and motivation, and once to apply those interpretations and motivations to the words -- and had blocked the first act, Harry was finally starting to relax and enjoy himself. Watching Ron stutter through declarations of love to Colin, who managed to blush every time, was worth the experience. Not to mention, he was quite fond of the first scene, since he got to insult Benedick mercilessly.

"I pray you," Harry smiled sweetly at Martin, a fourth year Ravenclaw who had been cast as the generic Messenger of the play, "how many hath Benedick killed in these wars? For I promised to eat all of his killing',"

Even as he spoke the lines, he thought once more that it had to be more than mere ironic chance that Dumbledore had suggested performing a play which began with its heros returning triumphantly from a war, and he wondered if the Headmaster intended it as some sort of morale-building celebration for all of the survivors at Hogwarts.

It was also ironic that he was speaking these words about Snape's character, when there was a time he would have said something similar about Snape himself. He had remained sceptical of Snape's loyalty for a long time, and it had taken hard, visual evidence to convince him that the former Death Eater really was on their side and didn't plan on defecting back to Voldemort. He shivered, remembering the moment when, with a desperate cry, Peter Pettigrew had launched himself at Harry; his wand had been taken away by the group of wizards -- Remus Lupin, Snape, Sirius and Harry -- who had captured him, but he had a dagger concealed in his robes, which he pulled out as he made his final attempt to murder his master's enemy.

A voice behind Harry had roared, "CRUCIO!" and Pettigrew had dropped, writhing and screaming in agony. Harry had whirled around, certain that either Remus or Sirius had saved him, but his words of thanks died on his lips when he saw Snape pointing his wand at Pettigrew, saw the grim intensity on Snape's face as he made Voldemort's servant suffer.

He could have been reported for that, and certainly, of all of them, Sirius had enough motivation to send him to Azkaban for using an Unforgivable Curse. But once Pettigrew was in custody and the incident was over, no mention of Snape's use of the Curse during the capture was ever made to anyone, not even each other. After that, Harry didn't like Snape any more than he had before, but he no longer doubted whose side the man was on.

Dumbledore laughed and pinched Harry's chin, his expression one of paternal indulgence. "'Faith, niece, you tax Benedick too much, but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not'." His eyes were twinkling with genuine mirth, and Harry could easily guess he was thinking of all the quarrels between Harry and Snape he had had to referee or break off over the years.

"'He hath done good service, lady, in these wars'," Martin replied, dividing a bewildered look between Harry and Dumbledore. "'And a good soldier, too, lady'."

"'Oh, a good soldier to a lady, but what is he to a lord'?" Harry asked teasingly, grinning at the confused messenger.

Martin made himself look even more bewildered. "'A lord to a lord','" he explained, as if to a small child. "'A man to a man, stuffed with all honorable virtues'."

Harry laughed outright. "'It is so indeed'!" he exclaimed with gleeful mischief in his voice. "'He is no less than a stuffed man'!"

Dumbledore shook his head and rested his hand on Martin's shoulder, giving the poor messenger a sympathetic look. "'You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Benedick and her. They never meet but there's a skirmish of wit between them'."

"Alas'!" Harry pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and struck a mock-dramatic pose. "'He gets nothing by that. In our last conflict, four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one'."

A smattering of laughter greeted this delivery, and Harry noticed a few students cutting surreptitious looks at Snape, who was sitting in the first row, appearing to be engrossed in studying the script and ignoring everyone else.

"'Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother'," Harry continued, and Martin grinned at him.

"'I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books'."

More laughter, louder this time, and Snape spared them all an irritated scowl before returning to his study of the script.

"'No'," Harry agreed firmly. "'If he were, I would burn my study. But I pray you, who is his companion'?"

"'He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio'," came the reply, and Harry darted over to Colin, flinging one arm around the boy's thin shoulders and giving him a look of exaggerated horror.

"'O Lord! He will hang upon him like a disease! God help the noble Claudio'!" he exclaimed, and Colin affected an air of bashful modesty at the mere mention of Claudio's name. "'If he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pounds ere he be cured'."

Martin laughed and held up his hands. "'I will hold friends with you, lady'."

Harry smiled and winked. "'Do, good friend'."

Tutting and shaking his head, Dumbledore began to steer Martin away. "'You will never run mad, niece'."

"'No, not til a hot January'."

Suddenly, Martin pointed off-stage, growing excited. "Don Pedro approaches!"

Sauntering from the wings, Sirius approached Dumbledore with his arms held open, and he was smiling broadly. "'Good Leonato, are you come to meet your trouble? The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it'."

As Dumbledore moved to embrace Sirius, Harry suppressed a smile at the thought of how many times Dumbledore himself had gone to meet trouble in the form of all the strays he collected: Hagrid, Remus, Snape, and now Sirius, and even Harry himself. The old wizard seemed to have a habit of taking in those who had nowhere else to go or to whom no one else would give a second chance.

He cupped Sirius' cheek in his palm, smiling fondly at the younger man. "'Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of Your Grace'," he replied, with the same benevolence with which he greeted all his wayward charges when they returned to his fold, as they usually did.

"You embrace your charge too willingly'," Sirius replied, but he leaned into Dumbledore's touch as he said it. "'I think this is your daughter'?" He stepped back from Dumbledore, and gestured to Colin, who ducked his head and clasped his hands behind his back, as if in maidenly modesty.

"'Her mother hath many times told me so'," Dumbledore said, beckoning for Colin to stand beside him.

"'Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her'?" Snape's question was an insinuating, snide drawl as he pushed himself out of his front row seat and strolled at his leisure onto the stage, and Dumbledore turned to him with a merry, teasing look.

"'No, Benedick, for then you were a child,'" he said, and there were a couple of quiet snorts from the on-lookers.

"'Be happy, lady," Sirius addressed Colin, who peeked up at him through his lashes. "'For you are like your honorable father'."

"If Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is'," Snape added, but Sirius had already linked Colin's arm through his and was, along with Dumbledore, heading to the side of the stage as if in private conversation.

That was Harry's cue, and he strolled forward, giving Snape a scornful look. "'I wonder that you will be talking, Benedick. Nobody marks you'."

Snape turned to him with a look of mock-surprise. "What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?"

Harry drew himself up and braced his hands on his hips as he squared off with Snape. "'Is it possible disdain should die while she had such meet food to feed it as Benedick'?" It wasn't at all difficult to inject a believable amount of scorn into his voice, considering he felt exactly that way about Snape himself. "'Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence'."

"'Then is courtesy a turncoat'." Snape shrugged and gave an elegant dismissive gesture. "'But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted'." He moved closer to Harry, and his mouth was smiling, but his eyes were narrowed as he ran one long finger down Harry's cheek, leaving it to rest on his chin. "'And I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none'." He pushed Harry's chin with his forefinger, knocking his face away.

"'A dear happiness to women'!" Harry shot back, his green eyes shooting sparks as they locked and held with Snape's own dark eyes. "'They would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me'."

Snape gave a mocking bow. "'God keep your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall escape a scratched face'."

"'Scratching could not make it worse, if 'twere such a face as yours'," he replied coldly.

As he drew back, Snape's mouth thinned into a dangerous line. "'Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher'."

"'A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours'."

"I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue'," Snape spat, then turned away, giving Harry his back. "'But keep your way. I have done'."

With that, he walked away to join Dumbledore and Sirius, leaving Harry to glare at his retreat.

"'You always end with a jade's trick'," he muttered. "'I know you of old'."

Suddenly, he broke character, incensed by the implications of the scene they had just played out. "Oh, now that's unfair!" he cried. "Trust Shakespeare to write it so a bloody stupid man gets the last word and just walks off. That's sexist, that's what!"

He glanced around to see if anyone else agreed with his critical commentary, only to find everyone staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. He stared back blankly.

"What?"

Hermione shook her head and called an end to rehearsal for the night.

*~*~*

Propping his feet on the seat in front him, Harry slouched comfortably in one of the plush seats in the middle of the fourth row. For once, he wasn't in the scene being rehearsed, and he was alone. Hermione was hovering onstage, since the scene involved both Snape and Sirius, which was a potentially explosive combination. Ron was also in the scene, which left Harry able to sit back and watch for a change, which he did, wishing he had a bag of popcorn.

"'Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the face of beauty'," Sirius was saying, referring to Benedick's refusal to admit that Hero was a lovely young girl and an excellent match for Claudio.

"'That a woman conceived me, I thank her,'" Snape drawled. "'That she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks. But that I will hang my... *bugle* in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me'."

Sirius gave a derisive snort. "'I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love'."

Snape's response was a scornful sneer. "'With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, but not with love'."

Harry could easily believe that of Snape himself, unlike Sirius, who had had a string of girlfriends prior to his imprisonment. Now that his name had been cleared and he no longer looked like an emaciated vagabond, Sirius drew admiring looks, not only from among the giggling female student populace, but whenever he walked the streets of Hogsmeade as well. Madam Rosmerta never failed to flirt with him, and she wasn't the only one, only the one most obvious about it.

But Harry had never heard so much as a stray rumor about Snape's personal life, and he assumed the Potions Master didn't have one. He certainly couldn't imagine anyone finding Snape attractive, much less flirting with him, and even if they did, he couldn't imagine Snape flirting back. He was too stuffy, too serious, too... Snapish for anything as mundane as that.

Idly, he wondered what Snape would be like if he ever were to fall in love. Somehow, he just couldn't see the man sending flowers or candy, or writing love poetry. Snape's idea of a romantic evening probably involved brewing potions together, and as for intimacy...

Harry shook his head, not wanting to pursue that line of thought any further; he was amazed at himself for coming so close to putting Snape and sex in the same thought.

Turning his attention back to the play, he watched as Sirius and Ron teamed up to pick on Snape, laughing at his assertions that he would never, ever fall in love. Benedick was, of course, dead wrong about that, as the end of the play attested, but Snape himself... Well, one had to possess emotions other than anger and contempt in order to fall in love, and Harry rather thought all those had been burnt out of Snape long ago.

Movement along the aisle caught his eye, and he glanced over to see Colin approaching. The younger boy paused on the end of the row and darted a hesitant, questioning look at Harry, who waved for him to have a seat.

"Hullo." Colin smiled as he settled in next to Harry. "Enjoying it?" he asked, gesturing toward the stage.

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "This is the closest I'll get to actually seeing it myself, so I thought I'd take the chance while I had it."

"Yeah..." Colin said, watching as Hermione gave Ron some instructions about his line delivery, then had them start the scene over. "They're good."

"I'm surprised," Harry admitted. "I didn't think they had it in them... especially Snape."

"I expect he's had a lot of practice."

Harry glanced at him, startled at the unexpected insight; he'd never thought about Colin as being observant or perceptive, only as an overly-enthusiastic hanger-on, but that casual remark showed he had been paying more attention than Harry had given him credit for.

"Yeah, all things considered, I guess he has," he agreed, albeit grudgingly.

"You're good, too, Harry." Colin turned to him. "But that doesn't really surprise me. I've always thought you could do anything."

"Colin..." He fought the urge to squirm, but he could do nothing to stop the heat from rising in his face.

"I know, I shouldn't embarrass you by saying things like that, but it's true. You seem to be enjoying yourself, and that's coming through."

"It's fun," he replied, grinning. "I didn't think it would be at first, especially after I found out about Snape's involvement. I've never done anything like this before, but it's fun pretending to be someone else and live their life for a while, especially when you know everything's going to work out all right in the end."

"Especially for us, eh?" Colin nudged him and winked, and Harry laughed.

"Yeah, we get our men."

"And maybe your life will imitate art, eh?"

"What?" He stared at Colin, unable to work out the meaning of that cryptic remark.

Colin stared back for a moment, then shook his head. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Look, Harry, it's no secret I've had you up on a pedastal for years, but the truth is... it was a little more than just hero worship, but I didn't think you were... Well, that way." His expression turned regretful. "And now when I see I could have had a chance after all, it's too late. You care for someone else."

"What?" Harry sat up straight. "Look, Colin, I'm not going to deny that I tend to swing both ways, but there's no one... I mean, if you think Ron and I are... Well, we're not!"

Colin tilted his head to one side, regarding him with a smile that managed to be both knowing and a little sad. "No, I didn't mean you and Ron."

"Then who...?"

He patted Harry's arm, then rose to his feet. "Nevermind. You'll figure it out. I hope you do, anyway. I like you, Harry. I've always liked and admired you, and I'd like very much to know you're happy."

His mind whirling in confusion, Harry was able to do nothing at first except watch Colin walk away, and then his brain switched back on, and he regained his voice.

"Colin!"

Colin turned and looked another question at him.

"I..." Harry faltered, not sure what he really wanted to say. In the end, he followed the same pattern he usually did, and spoke straight from his heart. "Thanks. I want the same thing for you, Colin. You deserve it."

The only answer he got was a huge, bright, beaming smile, but that was more than enough.

*~*~*

The next night, Harry found himself in the position of spectator again, and, after so many nights of intense practice since rehearsals had begun, he was grateful for the break. Still, he felt like he had a good, solid handle on his first big scene. Playing off of Snape in an antagonistic way was easy, and Hermione was turning out to be adept at directing her cast members, creating an easy flow to the blocking, and helping the less experienced actors understand their lines so they could deliver them more believably.

But Harry didn't have to be onstage again until they were finished with Act One, and now he lounged on a prop bench with Ron, watching Draco Malfoy chew the scenery in his first major scene.

"'I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace'," Draco snarled to Kurt, a Slytherin playing Malfoy's sidekick Conrade, referring to his character's brother, Don Pedro.

It was fitting, Harry thought, that Don John had two thugs following him around, much like Crabbe and Goyle had once followed Malfoy. But they were dead now. When they realized Malfoy had refuted Voldemort, they had turned on him, and he had killed them. It had been self-defense, and no one could question that, not even Harry.

He'd been there, after all.

Crabbe and Goyle had taken it upon themselves to try to kill Harry in order to prove their loyalty and worth to Voldemort, thinking that his dead body would be their ticket into the inner circle. They had assumed Malfoy would help them. They had learned differently.

Afterward, Malfoy had gazed down at the corpses of the only two people who could have been called his friends, his expression utterly blank, and then he had drawn himself up.

"I'll inform the Headmaster there's refuse to be cleaned up," he said, his voice like brittle ice.

Harry had tried to thank him, but Malfoy had cut him off.

"I didn't do this for you, Potter. I did it for myself."

And with that, he had swept away. Harry had been summoned to Dumbledore's office to confirm Malfoy's version of what had happened, of course, but Malfoy was already gone when he got there, and they had never spoken of it since.

Adam, the Hufflepuff who was playing Malfoy's other sidekick Borachio, entered from the wings and gleefully informed Malfoy that Claudio intended to marry Hero as soon as possible, and the group of conspirators began plotting to cause problems for the happy couple. All three of them seemed to be enjoying playing scheming villains, and Harry almost wished he'd been cast as one of them. It might have been fun to play against type, for once.

A bustle of movement from backstage got his attention, and he glanced over just in time to see Professor McGonagall beckoning to him. He nudged Ron and pointed to show where he was going, and Ron nodded and waved, probably not wanting to break Hermione's rule about not talking while others were acting again. Harry imagined having had little green tentacles sprout out of his face once had been quite enough.

Once he was backstage, Professor McGonagall led Harry aside, far enough away from the stage that they wouldn't interrupt.

"It's time to take your measurements for your costume," she told him. "Come along."

The costume department, which consisted of Parvati, a Hufflepuff girl named Anne, and a Ravenclaw named Patricia, had taken over the dressing rooms. As he walked by, Harry caught a glimpse of a dressmaker's dummy and bolts of fabric in one, but it was otherwise empty.

Anne stood outside the door of the next one, as if waiting. As he walked by, Harry spotted someone inside, pulling a white shirt over his head, and he caught a glimpse of a firm, flat stomach that sported an intriguing line of dark hair.

Harry froze in mid-step, a curl of desire forming low in his belly at the sight, and he felt his mouth go dry as images of himself tracing that teasing, tempting line filled his mind.

And then the shirt fell into place, not only hiding the delicious sight, but also revealing to whom it belonged.

Oh, God.

Oh, no.

Nonononononononono.

Harry turned away quickly, almost running to catch up with Professor McGonagall, his mind going fuzzy with static as he fought to process the shattering concept that he'd just had lustful thoughts about Snape.

Damn the man! Why couldn't he have been flabby and paunchy?

It's no big deal, Harry insisted to himself. He hadn't known it was Snape, after all. It could have been anyone. That it turned out to be Snape was unfortunate, but there was no way he could have known, so really, he didn't find Snape -- or his stomach -- attractive. It was a mistake, that's all, and now that he did know who it was, well, he would just forget about it.

Yes. That's what he would do. He would forget all about the hint of smooth, pale skin at Snape's waist that looked like it was just waiting to be marked with a possessive love bite. He'd forget about the way that thin line of hair seemed to lead into the waistband of his trousers. He'd forget about wanting to follow it down, and...

No!

He ground the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to force the images out of his mind. Drawing in several deep breaths, he steadied himself, then walked into the last dressing room in the row, where Parvati was waiting for him, Professor McGonagall having excused herself to meet with the lighting crew.

He stood obediently in the middle of the room while Parvati circled him, hhmming and tutting under her breath.

"These will have to go," she said at last, lightly tapping the side of his glasses. "They're anachronistic, and they'll reflect the spotlights something awful. Can you see without them?"

"Ehm... not very well," he replied.

"Have you thought about contacts?"

Harry turned to follow the sound of Hermione's voice and saw her standing in the doorway.

"We're on a break, so I came to watch," she said with a mischievous smile.

"You just wanted to see if I'll squirm over being put in a dress," he countered mildly.

"Will you?"

"Of course not. It's just a costume, and as long as I don't look like a hag, I'll be all right with it."

"I think you'll make a very pretty girl," Hermione said, and Parvati nodded, much to his discomfiture. "You've got the bone structure for it. But she's right, the glasses will have to go, at least for the performance."

"Uncle Vernon would never spare the money for contacts," he said, able to speak of his Muggle relatives without bitterness for once. He was, after all, within months of being free from them forever, and after all he'd been through, their petty attitudes and casual cruelties didn't seem quite so important, in the grand scheme of things.

"Well, you've got money, haven't you?"

"Wizard money, yes. It won't do me any good in the Muggle world."

"Let me handle that," Hermione replied with a decisive nod. "I'll get an appointment for you, shall I?"

"You don't have to--"

"I want to," she interrupted gently. "Please, Harry, let me do this for you. Just put yourself in my hands for a time, and I'll arrange everything, all right?"

They gazed at one another for a long moment, and at last, Harry nodded mutely. She was his true friend and steadfast companion, and they had relied on each other more times than he could count during the last seven years. There was no concept of debt between them, only caring, and in the end, he knew he had no qualms about letting her manage his life in this small way.

"Yeah, all right," he said aloud.

"Brilliant," was her quiet response, and Harry relaxed, feeling as if they were about to undertake one last adventure together... and this time, there wouldn't be Possible Agonizing and Nasty Death waiting for them at the end of it all.

Meanwhile, he would not think about Snape's stomach.

Not at all.

*~*~*

"'I, with your two helps, will so practice on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach'--"

Harry jerked his head up at hearing the word, a dull flush suffusing his cheeks as he quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his startled reaction. Nobody, it seemed, had. Ron was in the scene being rehearsed, and everyone else was either busy or not paying attention to him, for which he was grateful.

Sirius finished his lines, declaring with smug certainty that he, along with Leonato, Claudio, and Hero, would successfully make Benedick and Beatrice fall madly in love with each other. With that, they departed; Harry glanced backstage and saw Parvati whisk Sirius, Ron, Colin and Dumbldore to the dressing rooms that were serving duty as fitting rooms at present. Everyone was getting their measurements taken, but no one knew what the costumes would actually look like.

"We were going to make them historically accurate according to Elizabethan fashion," Parvati had said, giving Snape a censorious look. "But Professor Snape wouldn't have it, so we're moving the designs up a couple of hundred years or so."

"As strange as it feels to say it, I agree with Snape," Ron had leaned over to Harry and whispered. "I didn't want to wear those puffy trousers and tights either."

Other than that, the cast knew nothing of what to expect, either in design, color, or choice of fabric. Harry wasn't particularly concerned; if the new designs were meant to keep Snape from objecting, then chances are, they weren't going to compromise anyone's dignity. For once, he thought with a silent chuckle, Snape's over-blown sense of decorum and penchant for being uncompromisingly opinionated were coming in handy.

Onstage, Malfoy, Kurt and Adam took their places, preparing to plot even more mischief. This time, they were formulating a plan to set up Claudio, using Borachio's relationship with a servant to make it seem as if Borachio were actually involved with Hero. Not only would Claudio be wildly jealous, but he would likely call off the wedding as well, and Don John would have his revenge on the young man who had gained favor in Don Pedro's eyes, despite Don John's own schemes of usurpation had been what led to his fall from his brother's grace.

They ran through the brief scene two or three times, Hermione stopping them at intervals to change the blocking or make a suggestion for line delivery, but it wasn't long before things were settled to everyone's satisfaction, and they exited the stage.

There was a moment's break while Hermione consulted with some of the stagehands, and Harry took the opportunity to stand up, stretch a bit, and wander down to the seats, where he could get an unobstructed view. He couldn't remember what scene was next -- and his blood drained from the upper part of his body, treacherously pooling in the lower regions when Hermione beckoned to someone offstage, and Snape appeared in response to the summons.

Harry slid down in his seat as if to hide, fixing his gaze resolutely on Snape's face, forcing himself not to let it drift lower. He would not remember what he'd seen. He would not remember what he'd seen. He would not--

Snape took possession of center stage, striking a far more casual stance than his students ever saw him use, and when he spoke, his tone was conversational, tinged with a mixture of disdain and amazement.

"'I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by failing in love'." He paused and shook his head disapprovingly. "'And such a man is Claudio. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool'."

He began to pace back and forth, ticking off points on his long, thin fingers as he spoke, and Harry tried very hard not to stare at them. He'd never before noticed what attractive hands Snape had, elegant and graceful.

"'One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman'," he continued, hid tone growing more decisive. "'One woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her'."

Harry felt another blush creep into his cheeks. His Beatrice might well be a virtuous maid, but Harry certainly wasn't, and his thoughts were far from innocent at the moment, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the scene rather than his sudden, inexplicable desire to see what else Snape was hiding under those black robes.

"'Fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me'."

Harry chuckled. That supposedly left Beatrice out of the running, but poor Benedick was going to end up eating those words before it was all said and done.

"'Of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God'." Suddenly, snape glanced offstage. "'Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour'." With that, he hurried to take cover behind a chair that was currently serving as shrubbery until the set designers provided something a little more realistic.

Sirius walked onstage again, accompanied by Ron and Dumbledore, and all three of them had affected the air of conspirators.

"'Come hither, Leonato'," Sirius said, pitching his voice loudly so that even in his hiding place, Snape would be certain to hear the conversation and be deceived by it. "'What was it you told me of today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick'?"

Behind the makeshift "bush," Snape gasped, appearing astonished, and he tried to edge as close to the other men as his hiding place would allow.

"'I did never think that lady would have loved any man'," Ron declared, and Dumbledore nodded agreement.

"'No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor'," the Headmaster said, and Harry shifted uncomfortably.

He had spent the better part of seven years despising Severus Snape, considering the Potions Master one of the chief banes of his existence, but now, just because he'd caught a peek at the man's bare skin, he was as flustered as the two lovesick teenagers in the play. It didn't make any sense! How could he possibly go from hatred to desire so quickly?

Unless...

Unless the adage about hate being the flip side of--

It was just too much even to consider. It was just... just a softening of his former antagonism because of all he'd seen Snape do in the war with Voldemort. Too many beloved friends had perished, and while Snape was hardly in that category, he was a survivor, and he had shown true heroism. Harry's opinion of him had, naturally, adjusted accordingly, and that's what accounted for the difference now.

There could be no other reason.

"'Maybe she doth but counterfeit'," Sirius suggested, but Dumbledore scoffed, dismissing that idea vehemently.

"'O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it'."

They continued in that manner, piling exaggeration upon exaggeration to create the illusion of Beatrice suffering unrequited love for an unworthy Benedick, who would, they supposed, scorn her if he knew of her affections. At last, they wound down, and, assuming the bait had been taken just as they had wanted it to be, they left together to get ready for dinner.

Snape moved from behind the chair slowly, his expression a mixture of wonder and sadness as he moved to the front of the stage until he stood alone in center stage once more, a solitary, remote, forbidding figure, the darkness of his clothes only heightening the sense of isolation surrounding him. He stared straight ahead, his hands slowly curling into fists at his sides.

"'I hear how I am censured'."

The words were slow and measured, each one laden, not with accusation, but simple acknowledgment of a known fact. Snape bowed his head slightly and said nothing. Moments drew out, and in the wings, there came the sound of shuffling feet from those for whom the words paralleled reality all too closely. Snape was censured, on a daily basis, by most of his students. How foolish to believe he wouldn't know, Harry thought absently. Snape brought it on himself with his snide remarks and relentless badgering, but still...

Snape's head snapped up, and he drew himself up to his full height and lifted his chin. "They say I will bear myself proudly'." It was a challenge, flung in the teeth of unseen opponents. "'They say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection'." He lifted both fists and held them pressed just over his heart. "'I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous; 'tis so, I cannot reprove it. "And wise..." He gave a wry, self-deprecating little smile. "But for loving me."

He dropped his hands, unclenched, to his sides. "'By my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her'."

An air of melancholy seemed to surround him, despite the words of love he spoke. It should have been joyous, Harry thought. It should be a happy occasion to realize you're in love. But no matter that the feelings awakened by the conspirators' words were obviously real, they were also not a source of joy or celebration. This love was painful.

It was just a play, Harry reminded himself sharply. It was just words, just acting.

So why did Harry feel the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to run onstage and comfort Snape?

*~*~*

The flow of Diagon Alley shoppers swirled around them as Harry and Hermione strolled down the street at their leisure. Despite it was a Wednesday, they had the entire day off, thanks to Hermione. True to her word, she had arranged everything, having first sent an owl to her parents, asking them to make an appointment with an optometrist in London on Harry's behalf. Once that had been settled, she had spoken to the Headmaster, explaining what they needed to do and why, and Dumbledore had excused them from classes for the day. They had both arranged to get the assignments they would miss from their instructors, and they would simply make up the work over the weekend. After that, it was just a matter of walking to Hogsmeade and traveling by Floo Powder to Diagon Alley, where Hermione immediately steered him towards Gringott's.

"How much money do you have with you?" Hermione asked, and Harry riffled through his pockets quickly and gave her the total. "Hhm... I think you'll need to make a withdrawal to be on the safe side."

One hair-raising ride to his vault and back later, Harry had considerably more galleons and knuts, which he handed over to Hermione at her request, and she marched up to the nearest free teller.

"I'd like to exchange this, please."

The goblin teller nodded politely, took the money, opened a drawer, consulted a chart, and proceeded to count out stacks of pound notes in different denominations. Harry laughed and shook his head, amazed at his own obliviousness.

"It never once occurred to me to do that!" he exclaimed, and Hermione gave him a fondly exasperated look.

"Really, Harry, how did you think wizards manage in the Muggle world?"

The goblin slid the paper money across the counter to her, and she handed it to Harry, who stuffed it in his pockets.

"That should be enough. Come on, your appointment's in an hour, and we've still got to get there."

That part proved simple enough as well; once they stepped out of Diagon Alley and into the Muggle-bustle of London, they found a taxi, and within five minutes, they were off, headed to the optometrist's office.

Dr. Chapman was a convivial man who seemed fond of Hermione, and he welcomed Harry warmly when she introduced them. The examination itself was relatively quick, and at the end of it, Dr. Chapman assured Harry he could wear contacts, and, in fact, the office had some in stock in Harry's prescription strength. After a short demonstration of how to put them in, the doctor had provided the new contacts, and, after a bit of fumbling and poking, Harry managed to get them in.

"Here now," Hermione said, holding up a large hand mirror in front of him. "Have a look."

Harry looked -- and stared at the reflection he saw staring back at him. For the first time, he saw a face whose fine-boned features weren't overpowered by thick, heavy glasses.

"We can also fit you up with some new glasses, if you like," he suggested. "You'd be amazed at how thin and lightweight lenses can be these days, and you can choose new frames as well."

Harry had jumped at the chance, picking out a pair of frames that worked with his face instead of against it, and which allowed the wide beauty of his eyes to show through, although he felt himself blushing when Hermione described the effect his new look had on his eyes in those terms. He was able to take the contacts with him, and they arranged for the new glasses to be sent to Hermione's parents, who would then forward them via owl to Hogwarts; the bill was astronomical, but Harry paid it with a smile, feeling the money well spent indeed.

Afterward, he treated Hermione to lunch, insisting on paying since she had made all the arrangements for the day, and after a little protest, she agreed, and they decided to splurge a little, foregoing the lure of the fast food chains in favor of a small Italian restaurant that lured them in with the scent of fresh lasagne with hot, gooey melting cheese slathered all over the top.

"By the way," Hermione said casually after their meals had been served. "You're not still upset about that kissing scene at the end of the play, are you?"

"What?" Harry shook his head. "No, of course not," he said reassuringly. "Snape said we could fake it, and that's what I intend to do."

"Have you practiced?" She gave him a piercing look, and Harry focused on his lasagne as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

"No..." he admitted.

"Mm."

A moment of silence hung between them, and then she smoothly introduced another topic, but Harry's mind had already taken her casual words and run with them, reminding him that he had quite recently had naughty thoughts about his leading man. Given such developments, perhaps a little kiss for the sake of art wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Y'know..." Hermione mused, swirling her spoon in the hot fudge sauce of her dessert, and Harry stopped scarfing the cinnamon raisin muffin he was having for his own dessert long enough to pay attention to her. "We don't have to rush back to Hogwarts, and so I was thinking perhaps while we're here, you might want to go shopping as well."

"Shopping?" He stared at her blankly. "For what?"

"Muggle clothes," she stated bluntly. "Isn't it about time you had something to wear other than your hideous cousin's hideous hand-me-downs?"

Harry let his muffin drop back onto the plate as he considered this. Before today, buying his own clothes hadn't seemed like an option. But he still had some money left over from the optometrist's, more than enough to buy himself a few clothes, and he had to admit it would be nice to wear something that fit for a change.

"All right," he agreed. "Where do you suggest?"

Three hours later, Harry was staggering back to Diagon Alley under the weight of countless bags, some of them Hermione's, but most of them his. She had taken him to a store that was popular among young Muggles, and once there, she had outfitted him from top to bottom, sending a continual stream of garments into his fitting room for him to try on until he had completely lost track of everything he'd seen and worn.

Finally, he'd called a halt.

"Look," he had said, exasperated enough to ignore the amused look the salesclerk gave him as he marched out of the fitting room dressed only in a tee shirt and his cotton boxers. "Just tell me what looks best, and I'll buy that, all right? I don't need a whole closet full of clothes right away. I can always come back, you know."

"Oh, all right," Hermione had sighed, and proceeded to weed through the pile of clothes, stacking the accepted garments in his waiting arms and leaving the rejects behind.

He had still ended up with far more than he felt he needed: new jeans, a pair of khaki trousers, undergarments, pullover shirts, button-up shirts, socks, and shoes. But before they left the store, Hermione had made him stop and look in a full-length mirror, and the sight that greeted his eyes had stunned him.

For the first time, he wore jeans that he didn't have to roll up or cinch with a belt so that he didn't feel as if they were going to fall off; the new jeans fit his waist and hips snugly, and the length was perfect. Nor did his shirt sleeves need rolling up, and the shirt itself wasn't so large that it seemed to swallow his slender frame. For the first time, he felt he looked tidy and well put-together instead of sloppy; he didn't look as nearly as scrawny in these clothes, and the hunter green pullover shirt enhanced the color of his eyes.

"What do you think?" Hermione had stood behind him, peering at his reflection over his shoulder.

"Much better," he had said, catching her eyes in the mirror and smiling. "Thank you."

She had smiled back, and blushed a little. "What are friends for?" she asked quietly -- and then piled all the bags in his arms so they could return to Hogwarts at last.

*~*~*

Rehearsal went smoothly that night; everyone seemed to notice Harry's lack of glasses, and almost everyone commented on the change and how much they liked it, Snape being the noticeable exception, which didn't surprise Harry in the least. With Hermione's question still echoing in his mind, Harry had resolved to settle the matter of their stage kiss, and when the rehearsal was over, he strode purposefully up to Snape and confronted him.

"What do you want, Potter?" Snape looked down his nose at him, in much the same way he would look at a fascinating new species of bug.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath and looked up to meet Snape's eyes. "I think it's time we started working on that fake kiss."

Snape arched one dark eyebrow at him. "So soon?"

"I don't want to leave it for the last minute," he replied. "It's got to be realistic, so I thought we should have plenty of time to practice."

"I see."

There was an interminable moment of silence, and then Snape lifted his hand and beckoned for Harry to follow him back to his quarters. Harry's stomach clenched, but whether in apprehention or anticipation, he wasn't quite sure as they wound their ways through the halls, down to the dungeon. Snape swept into his quarters without looking to see if Harry followed; Harry followed, then pushed the door shut behind himself and turned to see Snape standing near the fireplace, watching him with an unreadable expression.

"Come here." Snape held out his arms, but Harry couldn't move; he was frozen by the sight of Snape waiting for him, arms open and welcoming., and Snape gave an impatient snort, obviously misunderstanding the reason for his hesitation. "Come here, Potter. We can't very well fake a believable kiss from across the room."

Slowly, Harry crossed the floor and stood in front of Snape, feeling at a distinct disadvantage thanks to the differences in their respective heights.

"Now what?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper; he didn't trust it not to betray him with a crack at higher volumes.

"I regret to inform you that, as distasteful as it may be, we will have to endure some amount of physical contact."

"Yeah, well... Whatever makes it look good," he muttered, trying to control his breathing, which had accelerated once he had drawn near to Snape; he felt as if he was burning up, and it wasn't only because of the flames burning on the hearth.

"Of course."

Snape's eyes were completely shuttered as he slid his arm around Harry's shoulders, pulling him close, so close that their bodies were almost -- but not quite -- touching. Harry longed to see something, anything, in that inscrutable face revealing how Snape felt about this, but there was nothing. The man was adept at keeping his feelings well hidden, or perhaps in this case, he didn't feel anything at all, and that thought was as sobering as a bucket of ice water. He felt Snape's other arm wrap around his waist, but still Snape kept a few inches between them, and Harry didn't move to close the distance.

"What should I do?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Put your arms around me... Yes, like that." Snape nodded approvingly when Harry wrapped both arms around Snape's chest, feeling the silken smoothness of Snape's robes sliding beneath his palms as he did. "Now then, turn your face towards me."

Harry followed instructions, his breath catching in his throat when Snape lowered his head so that their mouths were scant centimeters apart. He found himself staring into Snape's eyes as if he was mesmerized, his lips parting as he tried to take in more air. The heat shimmering between them was almost unbearable. Snape was so near... so near... all it would take would be one swift movement, and they would be kissing in earnest, and Harry wanted that. Oh, God, how he wanted to know how Snape kissed, if his lips were warm and soft, how he tasted...

"When we're like this, with your back to the audience, it appears that we are, in fact, kissing," Snape said. Was it Harry's imagination, or was his voice a little huskier than usual? "The illusion will only be obvious to those sitting on the far sides of the theater, since they will view the stage at an angle."

"Oh..." Harry continued to stare at Snape, at the dance of shadows across the older man's face. The merry crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, except, perhaps, the pounding of Harry's own heart, although he hoped that was audible only to him.

Part of him was still stunned that he wanted this -- wanted Snape -- at all, but for the most part, he didn't care. He was filled with longing, yet there was nothing resembling permission in the face so close to his own.

"So is that it, then?" he asked softly, and Snape nodded.

"It's that simple."

"Oh..."

It probably should have been a cue for him to pull away, but Harry remained right where he was, vaguely aware that he was running his hands up and down Snape's back in a slow, languid caress. He was quite aware, however, that Snape wasn't leaping to the other side of the room to get away from him either.

"You smell like mint," he murmured, breathing deeply of the cool scent wafting from Snape's clothes, or his hair, or perhaps just him.

"I often use mint in the potions I make for the infirmary to help cut the taste. The scent tends to cling."

"Oh..." How many times had he said that in the last five minutes? Too many, but how was he supposed to remain coherent with Snape in his arms? And still neither of them made any move to retreat. Snape's expression was as neutral as ever, but Harry knew if he'd been disgusted by the contact, he would have pushed Harry away by now. That he hadn't... Well, it said quite a bit that Harry wanted to hear.

"Maybe we should actually kiss." He hardly recognized the soft, purring voice as his own.

Snape blinked at him, looking stunned. "You... want to kiss?"

"Yes. For the good of the play, of course."

Harry discovered that his hand had slid of its own accord into Snape's hair, which felt soft and very thick, and not at all greasy.

"Of course."

Snape's arm tightened around his waist, and Harry found himself pressed deliciously close against that long, lithe body; it was all he could do not to wind himself around the man in a desperate attempt to relieve the ache within him.

"I mean, Dumbledore wants a good show, right?"

"It would be a shame to disappoint him."

"Yes, and if part of the audience can tell we're not really kissing, that'll blow the illusion, so maybe we'd better do it for real."

He was babbling, and he didn't care; Snape was holding him, Snape was looking at him with eyes that were no longer remote but smoldering, burning with dark embers that were catching fire within Harry.

"Is that what you really want to do?"

There were times when the usefulness of words ran out, and actions were needed. This, Harry decided, was one of those times.

Using the hand anchored on the back of Snape's head, he pulled Snape down, into a kiss. The entire world hung, suspended, and Harry felt a knot of apprehension in his stomach at the lack of response from Snape...

... And then Snape's lips parted, and the world was swept away in a rush of wet heat and desire as Harry found himself crushed in Snape's embrace. He gave himself over to need, arching against Snape, straining for contact as their tongues met for the first time. He felt light-headed, aroused to aching hardness by Snape's thorough exploration of his mouth, and he eagerly let Snape draw in his own tongue, more than ready to do some exploring of his own.

The initial wave of desire crested and ebbed, settling into a slow, steady throb; Harry slowed his pace, wanting to take the time to enjoy these heady new sensations. He'd felt passion with his other lovers, but nothing like this, and he wondered if it was because Snape was older and more experienced, or because this kiss was forbidden fruit in more ways than one.

Whatever the reason, Harry had never wanted anyone more in his life, never wanted to taste and to touch anyone as much. He wanted to feast on Snape, to memorize every inch of skin with his fingers, lips and tongue.

Still the kiss continued, warm and slow. Their tongues slid against each other, diving in and out of each other's mouths until Harry felt as if he had Snape's taste permanently imprinted on his tongue, and he didn't mind that idea one bit.

He didn't know how long they stood there, bodies all but melded together as their hands mirrored the slow, thorough exploration of their tongues. Finally, Snape pulled away, his sallow cheeks flushed, his lips bitten and sucked to a rosy hue, and Harry felt certain his own lips looked exactly the same.

"Well." The Potions Master drew in a deep breath and, carefully untangling himself from Harry's arms, took a step back. "That would indeed be a show-stopper."

"Wouldn't it just," Harry agreed, dazed.

Silence fell, and Harry took the opportunity to straighten his robes. To his surprise, he was feeling remarkably unembarrassed. He should have been mortified; he'd practically thrown himself at a teacher, after all, and said teacher was Snape no less. This should have been the single most humiliating moment of his entire life, but he couldn't seem to work up any embarrassment when his entire body was still tingling, and he thought he could still taste Snape on his lips.

"I believe we will need to resort to the illusion of kissing, after all," Snape said at last, in a low voice, and Harry darted a startled glance at him.

"Why? Don't try to tell me you didn't like it."

Snape waved dismissively. "Whether either of us liked it or not is beside the point. We cannot do that again."

"Whyever not?" Harry stared at him, puzzled.

"Teacher." Snape tapped his forefinger against his own chest. "Student." He tapped his forefinger against Harry's chest.

Harry made a scoffing noise. "In less than three months, I won't be your student any longer. We can do whatever we like then."

"There's also the age difference. I'm not a young man, Harry."

He smiled, knowing Snape had given away more than he'd intended with that accidental slip, and he found he quite liked the way Snape said his name.

"You're young. Your entire life is ahead of you. You've much to do and see in the world, and no doubt you will fall in and out of lust twenty times within the next month, as most normal boys your age do. You don't need any ties right now, and I..." Snape's dignity swirled around him like a well-worn cloak. "I have no patience for brief dalliances."

So that's how it is, is it? Harry mused.

"You're forgetting one thing."

"Oh, really. And what's that?"

"I'm not normal." He fixed Snape with a steady, somber gaze. "I've never been normal. I was attacked by Voldemort as an infant and survived. I spent the next ten years of my life being neglected and emotionally abused by my own aunt and uncle. Then I came here and spent six years being hunted by the most powerful Dark Wizard our world has ever known. I've seen and done more in seventeen years than most normal people see or do in a lifetime. If nothing else, I'd say that's probably had a maturing effect on me."

"All very true," Snape agreed softly. "But you're no longer living under a dark pall, and you should be free to enjoy it."

Harry nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Snape's. He understood what Snape was saying, and he thought he had a pretty good handle on what Snape wasn't saying as well. If he was honest, he had to admit he wasn't ready to rush into anything except bed. These reactions to Snape were still too new for him to understand completely, and if they stemmed from nothing more than teen hormones, it would hardly be fair to wheedle Snape into bed, then waltz away when the passion had burned itself out. He need time to think and to sort through his feelings before he could know of a certainty what they were and whether they were ephemeral... or something potentially more lasting.

"All right," he said, still favoring Snape with an unflinching gaze. "We'll do it your way. No more kissing."

"Good." Snape folded his arms and mustered a glare. "Now I suggest you hurry along. It's late, and you have classes tomorrow."

"Right." Harry turned and headed for the door, but he stopped and looked back once. "See you at rehearsal."

"Yes. Of course."

With that, Harry let himself out and wandered to the Gryffindor dormitory, remaining deep in thought every step of the way. He had many questions, but only time would provide the answers, and he knew patience wasn't his strong point. In this case, however, it was necessary for Snape, and for himself, and for whatever they might end up being to each other.

*~*~*

When Harry entered the Gryffindor common room, he found it empty, except for Ron and Hermione, who appeared to be studying, but as soon as he walked in, they both glanced up, appearing relieved.

"Are you okay?" Ron stood up and went to meet him. "We saw you go off with Snape, and we wanted to make sure you were all right."

Forcing a laugh, Harry moved to sit down in the chair across from Hermione. "I'm fine. Snape's proved he's one of the good guys, remember?"

"We know he wouldn't hurt you, Harry, but the two of you are a bit like oil and water," Hermione said, obviously trying to be tactful.

Funny, I thought we were more like instant combustion, he thought, slumping in the chair a little. "I'm fine, really."

He glanced at his two friends; Hermione was perched on the edge of her seat, watching him with concern in her eyes, and Ron had sat down again, claiming the chair beside hers. Seven years of trust and camaraderie... They knew him better than anyone, even Sirius, and he knew better than to think he could hide anything from them for very long.

"We didn't quarrel, but something did happen between us," he admitted heavily. Lowering his gaze, he studied his clasped hands as he struggled to find the words to explain the situation to them. They weren't going to like what he was about to say, but perhaps he could phrase it so the blow was lessened. "There's something... strange going on between Snape and me, and it has been for a while now. I don't know when it started. Maybe with the play rehearsals, maybe even before. All I know is that Colin saw it before I did."

"Saw what?" Hermione asked gently.

He drew in a shaky breath and lifted his head to look at them both. "Tonight, I went to his quarters to practice the stage kiss, and we kissed for real, and it was my idea. I wanted to, and it was brilliant. Probably the best kiss I've ever had, and that's saying something, especially compared to Fred."

Silence fell in the Gryffindor common room. Ron stared at him, his eyes wide as any House Elf's. Little clicking noises emerged from his throat, but no actual words. Hermione pressed one hand to her mouth, smothering a gasp.

"But, Harry," she said. "He's a teacher!"

Harry laughed again, genuine laughter this time. Trust dear Hermione to focus on that aspect rather than all the myriad personality conflicts a relationship with Snape would entail.

"He's -- he's Snape!" Ron exclaimed, finding his voice at last.

"Are you in love with him?" Hermione asked, cutting to the chase as she usually did.

"I don't know," he replied candidly. "Tonight, I wanted to shag him in the worst possible way--"

Ron started making clicking noises in his throat again.

"--but love? I dunno." He shook his head. "I don't know what I feel for him yet, or if it's just hormones, and we agreed we shouldn't... ehm... go any further until I figure it out."

"That's for the best," Hermione told him, reaching out to pat his shoulder reassuringly. "It could be just an infatuation, after all."

"Yeah," Ron chimed in, a hopeful note in his voice. "I mean, you're my best friend, and I'll still like you no matter what, but it was weird enough when you were dating my brother."

"We weren't so much dating as shagging each other senseless as often as possible," Harry informed him, the somber expression on his face belied by the mischievous twinkle in his green eyes, and Ron clapped his hands over his ears.

"Too much information!"

Laughing, Hermione rose to her feet and gathered her books, parchments and quills, then turned to Harry, serious once more. "I know it's a difficult situation," she said, her voice laden with sympathy. "And if you ever want to discuss it, we're here for you. We may not agree with you choosing Snape as your significant other, but Ron and I want you to be happy. Right, Ron?"

"Oh, er... right," he agreed as he scrambled to collect his own study material. "It's just..." He straightened, looking Harry in the eyes. "I'm not sure Snape'll be the one to make you happy, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." Harry stood up as well. "That's why I'm not rushing into anything, all right?"

Ron breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "All right." He paused, then added, "And if it's just you're a bit randy, you could always send Fred an owl. I'm sure he'd be delighted to... ehm... pay you a visit."

"Thank you." Harry regarded him with mock-gravity. "It's good to know I have your blessing anytime I want to spend a night of unrestrained passion with your brother."

Even by the time they got to their shared bedroom, the bright scarlet hue in Ron's face still hadn't faded.

*~*~*

"O, mischief strangely thwarting'!"

Ron's heart-rending cry was audible even over the bustle of activity backstage, and Harry stood close enough to the edge of the stage that he could hear the dialogue plainly. Don John had just informed Don Pedro and Claudio that he had "proof" of Hero's infidelity, which was false proof he and his men had fabricated, but the naive young Claudio believed it nonetheless, and now the suffered agonies of a broken heart.

Ron was doing a remarkably good job of portraying anger and anguish, without seeming too melodramatic, and Harry would have enjoyed the scene immensely had he not been so preoccupied. But he was preoccupied, and had been for nearly two weeks, ever since the kiss. Outwardly, the dynamic between himself and Snape hadn't appeared to change. They bickered onstage as Beatrice and Benedick, and appeared to ignore each other offstage. They were careful not to touch more than they absolutely had to, and if anything, it would probably seem to the casual observer that the temperature of their relationship had plummeted.

Nothing could be farther from the truth.

Harry found it difficult to keep his eyes from straying to Snape, seeking him out wherever he was, and when he let his gaze wander up and down Snape's black-clad form, he remembered the all-too-brief glimpse of what was concealed beneath those loose robes, and how it had felt to be pressed against that lean body. Sometimes, Snape caught him watching, and when their eyes met, Harry was surprised the very air didn't catch fire between them. Snape's expression may have shown nothing but his usual disdain, but those dark eyes told a different story of what lay simmering beneath the surface of his cool, remote exterior. One such look, and Harry was instantly aroused, not only by its intensity, but also by the memories it evoked, memories of one kiss that hadn't been nearly enough to satisfy him.

And so, they had watched and circled one another, the slightest brush of skin on skin enflaming Harry, and he doubted he was alone in that reaction. He wasn't certain which of them was the predator and which the prey; perhaps they traded off at times. All he did know was that the tension was growing between them, stretching out into a thin, taut line that could snap at any moment, and he had no idea what might happen if it did.

One good thing that had happened in the last couple of weeks, however, was that his new glasses had arrived, and he had been alternating between wearing them and wearing his contacts, since the contacts tended to get a little uncomfortable after a long day, particularly if he spent a great deal of time studying.

Somewhere nearby, a door creaked open, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Anne rush toward the dressing rooms; out of curiosity, he turned to see what she was in such a hurry for -- and the reason became perfectly clear.

Snape stood in the doorway of one of the dressing rooms, adjusting the wrist of one of his sleeves, and Anne approached him with a pincushion in one hand and a clipboard in another.

"How's that, then?" she asked. "Does everything fit all right, or does Madam Fischu need to make any adjustments?"

"It seems fine to me," Snape replied, and Harry agreed mutely.

Oh, it was a fine sight. More than fine.

Snape was apparently trying on his costume for size, the first glimpse Harry had gotten of any of the costume designs, and he gave his full approval to whomever had come up with the idea of putting Snape in deep indigo blue trousers tucked into black boots, a white drop-sleeved shirt, and a long, indigo blue waistcoat embroidered with silver. The cut of the clothing seemed to be 18th century rather than 16th, definitely old-fashioned, but somehow appropriate nonetheless. Much Ado About Nothing was a play that could easily be transferred to almost any time period, and Harry liked the costume designers' choice.

The shirt Snape wore had a lace-up V neck which he hadn't yet bothered to lace all the way; while Anne circled him with a critical eye, he picked up the laces and began threading them through the holes, pulling the neckline closed more tightly, and before he could stop himself, Harry closed the distance between them and batted Snape's hands out of the way. It was all he could do not to reach out and skim his fingertips across the light dusting of chest hair the shirt revealed.

"A proper scoundrel never laces his shirt all the way up," Harry informed him solemnly, trying to ignore just how tempting Snape looked in trousers instead of robes; they fit him just snugly enough to tantalize, without being too tight.

"And you would know this how?" Snape folded his arms, and Harry found himself mesmerized by the graceful fall of the cuffs across Snape's hands.

"I've seen more Muggle movies and television shows than you," Harry reminded him. "I know all about scoundrels."

"I thought perhaps you were going to reference personal experience."

He stared up at Snape, his eyes narrowing with speculation, but Snape's expression was bland, almost bored. Had Snape heard of his brief affairs? Hogwarts was a small place, and it was entirely possible that rumors had circulated, despite his attempts to be discreet. Still, it wasn't as if he'd left a string of broken hearts in his wake, or that he'd gone through partners like tissue paper. Far from it, he could still count the number of partners on one hand, and they had all known going in that Harry wasn't looking for a long-term relationship with them.

Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps Snape thought he wasn't interested in making a commitment, but that wasn't true. He did want to settle down; he simply hadn't found the person he wanted to settle down with. Was he to remain celibate while he looked? he wondered indignantly.

"My personal experience isn't all that vast," he replied with quiet dignity. "And I'm neither interested in scoundrels nor in being one. I haven't yet given my heart to anyone, because when I do, it'll be theirs for life, and that's the sort of decision I want to be sure about before making it."

"The heart seems to have a mind of its own sometimes, Potter. Don't be surprised if it makes the decision for you." Abruptly, he turned to look at Anne, who had retreated to a discreet distance. "Are we finished here?"

"Yes, Professor. Everything seems to be in order with the costume."

"Good." With that, Snape pivoted sharply and marched back into the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind himself, leaving Harry to wonder about the possible implications of his words.

*~*~*

The problem, as Harry saw it, was that his relationship with Snape seemed to be one of extremes. First, he couldn't stand the man, and now, he was lusting after him. There wasn't much middle ground to be had there. When he sat down and thought about it, he realized he didn't know much about Snape at all; he had no idea if there was any basis, however slight, on which they could form a satisfactory relationship that encompassed more than just sex. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to cut through both the antagonism and the haze of passion, and see if they could simply talk to one another. If they could, perhaps that would begin to answer the questions regarding his feelings. If they couldn't... Well, that would be an answer of sorts as well.

Of course, that had seemed like a much better idea back in the Gryffindor dormitory than it did once he was down in the dungeons with his fist poised to knock on Snape's classroom door.

It was the Saturday of a Hogsmeade weekend, and Hermione wasn't so foolish as to schedule a rehearsal all weekend. If she had, most of her cast would have been quite put out, but things were progressing smoothly enough that they could afford to take a break, and Hermione herself had made plans to visit the town with Ron. They had invited Harry to go with them, but having recently been to London, he wasn't in a shopping or browsing frame of mind. Instead, he'd opted to do a bit of studying... and then he'd decided to pay a call on Snape. Snape's office had been locked up tight, but the door to his classroom was slightly ajar, and Harry could see torchlight flickering within.

Well, he thought, steeling himself for whatever reaction might result, here's hoping for the best.

And he knocked.

"What?"

Harry rolled his eyes. Typical irascible tone. As if it would hurt the man to be polite once in a while.

"It's me." He poked his head around the door and saw Snape glance up from his cauldron -- one which appeared larger and more well-worn than those the students used -- with an expression that was a mixture of annoyance and distraction.

"What is it, Potter?" Snape turned his attention back to whatever he was brewing, a bilious green potion that smelled pleasantly of chamomile.

Despite not having been asked in, Harry entered the room anyway and leaned against the edge of Snape's desk, watching. Snape ignored him, moving to his cutting board, where he proceeded to chop up some dried herbs that Harry didn't recognize; his motions were quick and sure, and his precision with the cutting was little short of amazing. Harry became absorbed; in all his seven years at Hogwarts, he'd never actually seen Snape brew a potion, and he began to understand a little bit why even those who didn't like him respected his ability.

Snape's entire attention was focused on what he was doing, and he cut and measured ingredients with a deftness that spoke volumes of his mastery, and he never once consulted a book. He dusted a few of the herbs into the mixture with graceful motions of his long, thin fingers, nodding as if pleased when the brew began turning a darker green. His face was more relaxed than Harry had ever seen it; a little furrow of concentration had formed between his eyebrows, but his mouth wasn't pressed into a hard line, and his expression was one of studiousness, not contempt or anger.

So this must be where he's most happy, Harry mused.

"D'you mind if I stay and watch?" he asked quietly.

"Would you actually heed me if I said yes?" Snape turned back to his cutting board and began ladling snails out of a jar, not bothering to look at Harry.

"Probably not."

"Then why did you bother to ask?"

"Purely to be an annoyance to you."

"Congratulations on a job well done."

There was irritation in Snape's voice but no venom, and Harry smiled, wondering if the key to interacting with Snape was just that simple: if he snarks, snark back, only don't get angry about it. Without the heat of anger fueling him, Harry found he liked the banter. It was fun, and it kept him on his toes, trying to get the last word.

"I can help, if you like," he offered.

"Cut these." Snape indicated the snails. "And do try not to make your usual hash of it."

Pushing himself away from the desk, Harry moved to the cutting board and picked up a spare knife and a snail; it was still alive, and its little radulae undulated against his skin as he held it down and began slicing into it. They worked in silence for a while, which didn't bother Harry as much as he thought it might. It wasn't a tense silence, and he didn't get the feeling Snape was anxious to get rid of him.

"So what is it?" he asked, after he'd finished all the slicing and sorting Snape instructed him to do.

"A sleeping draught for Minerva," Snape replied absently, intent on measuring a precise amount of valerian. "She managed to anger Peeves to the point he's taken up banging pots and pans outside her door all night. He'll get tired of it soon enough, but until then, she needs this to get any rest at all."

He straightened, stirred the contents of the cauldron a few times, then stepped back.

"It just needs to simmer a while." For the first time since Harry entered the room, Snape turned his full attention on him. "Now then. I can't imagine you're really interested in this, so what was it you wanted?"

"Nothing, I..." Suddenly, Harry found words coming out of his mouth that he hadn't expected to say. "I suppose I should thank you, is all."

"Thank me." Snape's eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. "Whatever for?"

"You've looked out for me far more than I ever realized," he admitted, meeting Snape's gaze steadily. "Starting with Quirrel and going right up until the end. I never thought of it before, or showed much gratitude, but you've helped keep me alive, and I am grateful."

Snape shrugged and looked away. "I would have done as much for any student. I have done, in fact."

"I know." Harry nodded, his expression turning puzzled. "But you act like you hate most of us, so why have you tried so hard to keep us all safe?"

"Hate is a very strong word, Potter, and despite all appearances to the contrary, there are very few people in the world for whom I have harbored or do harbor outright hatred." Snape gazed into the depths of his cauldron, as if the bubbling liquid within held answers he sought. "Dislike, however... Well, that's something to which I must confess. Can you possibly conceive how frustrating it is, Potter?" He fixed Harry with a piercing stare. "Teaching class after class of apathetic children, whose minds expand no further than the next outing to Hogsmeade? This--" He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire classroom, "--is the foundation for their future. They're preparing for the rest of their lives now, and yet they have no more conception of that than those snails you just chopped up."

Snape shook his head, scowling. "I harbor no illusions that Potions is of much interest. It's all wand-waving and charms to them. The subtle intricacies of brewing potions is too much like real work! It takes time, patience, and skill to master the art of potions, but that's too difficult, and so they come in and doze off, or pass notes, or daydream -- anything but pay attention. They're content to do the bare minimum amount of work needed to pass, and anything above and beyond that is inconceivable because it would mean having to think about something for a change, and God forbid they should do that."

"And you, Potter..." Snape whirled on him, and Harry took an involuntary step back; this was far more than he'd bargained for when he began the conversation, but he got the impression it was something Snape had been carrying around for a long time.

"Your grades could have been almost as high as Miss Granger's, but you paid far more attention to the Quidditch field than to the classroom. You didn't apply yourself, you just breezed through. You're almost as bad as that godfather of yours. He was stupid, and careless, and thoughtless -- and I almost died because of it. At least the only person you've almost gotten killed is yourself, more times than I care to count, because you never stop to think. You just hare off, acting on your gut instincts and letting them rule you. And look where it's gotten you! Have you learned anything from all the times you've landed in the thick of trouble that way? Noooo."

Snape broke off, closing his mouth with a snap, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Quite finished?" Harry asked, and Snape nodded curtly. "Maybe I do act too impulsively at times, but if you ask me, you don't act impulsively enough. I can't even begin to imagine what you've got all bottled up inside you, but it's enough to turn you into an uptight, surly old bastard who could stand to ease up on all the control for a change, loosen up, and learn to have fun." He paused, then added as inspiration struck, "Maybe that's why you like acting so much. It gives you a freedom you're not willing to give yourself."

"That's your opinion, is it?"

"It is," Harry replied, meeting Snape's gaze and refusing to back down.

They stared at each other for what felt like a very long time, and it was only when the potion gave a noisy burp that Snape blinked and looked away.

"It needs stirring," he said, waving at the cauldron. "Make yourself useful while I clean up the mess."

"Right." Harry grasped the large wooden spoon sticking out of the brew like an unlikely Excalibur and began stirring slowly and evenly, as Snape had always taught. No more words passed between them, but he had the feeling enough had been said, and now they both needed time to think about and digest the conversation. He did, anyway. It had revealed a different side of Snape that he hadn't expected to see, and he needed to find out how it fit into his overall perspective on the man, and how it affected his feelings.

But deep down, he was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that.

*~*~*

"'You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady'." Diminutive Professor Flitwick was playing the Friar performing the marriage ceremony between Hero and Claudio, and he stood on a footstool in front of Colin and Ron.

Colin darted shy, adoring looks at Ron, who refused to look at his "bride," his face set in resolute lines of anger.

"'No'," he replied stiffly, earning confused looks from everyone around him, except Sirius, who, having witnessed Draco's set-up, appeared equally grim.

Dumbledore laughed and tried to pass it off as a joke. "'To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her'."

Flitwick nodded, smiling with relief, and continued with the ceremony. "'If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls, to utter it'." He looked as if he was going to keep on speaking, but Ron held up his hand and finally turned to Colin.

"'Know you any, Hero'?" he asked, his voice hard and cold, and Colin stared at him, bewildered and a little frightened.

"'None, my lord'," Colin whispered, eyes wide and full of alarm at this strange turn of events in what should have been a joyous occasion.

Ron gazed at Colin, then turned abruptly away as if the sight disgusted him. "'Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul give me this maid, your daughter'?" he asked Dumbledore, who was also growing concerned.

"'As freely, son, as God did give her me," Dumbledore replied, his voice revealing his uncertainty.

With a harsh cry, Ron grabbed Colin's arms and shoved him towards Dumbledore, making Colin stumble, and Dumbledore reached out and caught him, holding him close as if protecting him.

"'There, Leonato, take her back again'!" Ron exclaimed, his face ravaged with pain. "'Give not this rotten orange to your friend; she's but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she blushes here! O, what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal! Comes not that blood as modest evidence to witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, all you that see her, that she were a maid, by these exterior shows? But she is none: she knows the heat of a luxurious bed. Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty'."

Colin gasped and hid his face against Dumbledore's shoulder, but Dumbledore divided his attention between Ron and Colin, obviously not understanding what was going on.

"'What do you mean, my lord'?" he asked Ron at last.

"'Not to be married'," Ron snarled. "'Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton'."

Colin whirled to face Ron, visibly shocked, and Dumbledore looked horrified. "'Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, have vanquished the resistance of her youth, and made defeat of her virginity'--" he stammered, trying to come up with some kind of reasonable explanation, but Ron cut him off.

"'I know what you would say: if I have known her, you will say she did embrace me as a husband, and so extenuate the 'forehand sin. No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large, but, as a brother to his sister, showed bashful sincerity and comely love'."

"'And seemed I ever otherwise to you'?" Colin cried, weeping and clinging to Dumbledore; Harry, who was one of the bridal attendants, watched the scene play out with growing trepidation. Everyone else was doing just fine with the drama, but he wasn't so sure about his own ability to react realistically in the serious scene he had coming up. Comic banter was one thing, but being emotional... well, that was a bit harder to manage.

It also didn't help that Snape was standing nearby, and Harry felt as if he'd become preternaturally aware of the man, some bizarre form of Snape-radar kicking in whenever Snape so much as shifted stances.

The scene continued with Ron accusing Colin of being seen with another man, when actually it had been Hero's maidservant, Margaret, who had been spotted in the tryst. Overcome with emotion, Colin fainted as Ron and Sirius stormed off in a self-righteous huff with Draco following them and smirking over the trouble he had caused, and Harry rushed to Colin's side to begin his part in the scene.

"'Cousin'!" he cried, falling to his knees beside Colin. "'Wherefore sink you down? Dead, I think. Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar'!"

Lifting one hand to his forehead, Colin stirred, and Harry helped him sit up, cradling him in his arms and rocking him soothingly as he began to weep again. Dumbledore stormed over, his blue eyes snapping with wrath, and he grabbed Colin's arm in a vise-like grip, hauled him to his feet and threw him half-way across the stage. Snape tried to stop Dumbledore, but the older man shrugged him off and raced over to Colin, slapping him when he tried to rise again, and Harry scrambled to come between them, trying to shield Colin from Dumbledore with his own body.

It was almost frightening, seeing Dumbledore like this again, even though it was only pretend this time. The first time Harry had ever seen him angry -- truly angry -- had been a terrifying sight, and he'd vowed never to underestimate the venerable wizard again. That day had driven it home that there was a reason why Dumbledore was considered one of the most powerful Wizards in the world, and why Voldemort had feared him. His cheerful, mild exterior hid the heart of a warrior who could be ruthless in his own way, if necessary, and one whose anger it wasn't wise to provoke.

"'Do not live, Hero; do not open thine eyes'!" Dumbeldore roared, trying to shove Harry out of the way so he could get to Colin, but Harry refused to budge, and Snape finally got a firm grip on Dumbledore's arms and pulled him backwards. "'Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes? Why had I not with charitable hand took up a beggar's issue at my gates, who smirch'd thus and mired with infamy, I might have said 'No part of it is mine. This shame derives itself from unknown loins'? But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised and mine that I was proud on, mine so much that I myself was to myself not mine, valuing of her,--why, she, O, she is fallen into a pit of ink, that the wide sea hath drops too few to wash her clean again and salt too little which may season give to her foul-tainted flesh'!"

"Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attired in wonder, I know not what to say," Snape told him, trying to calm him a little, but Dumbledore wouldn't be calmed, and both Colin and Harry cast him grateful looks, glad that there was someone who wasn't going to jump to conclusions about Hero's guilt.

"Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie, who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness, wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die'!" Dumbledore snarled.

As Harry continued to comfort Colin, Snape and Flitwick managed to calm Dumbledore down enough to realize there was something suspicious about the whole thing, and some investigation was in order. Flitwick suggested that Dumbledore let it be known that Colin had not just swooned, but had died, and while he was "dead," the rest of them would try to figure out what had happened. Broken and weary, Dumbledore agreed and retreated from the stage, and Flitwick led Colin away, helping support him as he went into hiding within his quarters, to remain there until his name was cleared.

That left Harry and Snape alone onstage to enact the most serious scene between their characters thus far, and before they could even get started, Harry called a time-out.

"I'm not sure I can do this," he told Hermione. "I feel a little silly, getting so dramatic. I mean, I'm not really supposed to cry, am I?"

"No, but you do need to take this seriously, Harry," she told him. "It's the turning point of the play. Everything's been fun and games up until now, but here we get into the conflict and the drama which will take us to the resolution."

"I'm not sure..." He shook his head, trailing off.

"Try relating Beatrice's situation to your own life somehow," Hermione suggested. "Think about how she must feel: her cousin has been wrongly accused, and there's nothing she can do about it. She wants to do something -- anything -- to clear Hero's name, but there's nothing she can do. She's helpless."

"All right, I'll try it," Harry said resolutely.

With an encouraging smile, Hermione retreated to one side again, and Harry squared his shoulders, thinking about Beatrice and Hero, and trying to find some basis of relating. It turned out not to be difficult at all. All he had to do was think about the last seven years... or even the last seven months, when everything had come to a boiling point.

So many dead... Remus Lupin dying in Dumbledore's arms... Neville gone in the blast of a Death Eater's wand, valiently shielding Harry and Sirius with his own body in an effort to gain them desperately needed time... Percy, poor shocked and innocent Percy... So many gone... So many who should have been in the theater, in the school with them, but weren't, and he had been helpless to save them.

Oh, yes, he understood all too well how Beatrice must have felt.

"'Is that not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman'?"

Murdered my family, my friends?

"'O, that I were a man'!" Tears stung Harry's eyes as he roared out his pain. "'What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor--'"

Cut them down, burned them, with no pity or mercy or regard for age, just endless, senseless slaughter...

"'O, God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace'!"

Harry fell to his knees, sobbing; his breath scalded his lungs, and his eyes burned with the tears he fought not to shed. But then he felt someone's presence close by, felt someone kneeling beside him, felt an arm around his shoulders, and the tears could be resisted no longer. Harry wept, for the lost friends, for the family he never knew, and for the innocence he had left behind him on a scorched and barren battlefield.

His vision was too blurred to see who had offered comfort, and who now clasped his hand; he thought probably Hermione, or perhaps Ron, but then the familiar scent of mint wafted to him, and he knew it wasn't either of them at all.

"'By this hand, I love thee'." Snape's voice was soft, deeper than usual, and far more gentle than Harry had ever heard it before.

Harry turned his head and gazed up at him, eyes glowing like wet emeralds through his tears. "'Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it'."

He clutched tightly at Snape's hand, remembering other scenes now.

"'Enough, I am engaged'." Snape's voice was now rough around the edges. "'I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand'." He lifted their clasped hands, brushing his lips against the back of Harry's hand, and a frisson rippled along Harry's nerve endings at the contact.

It wasn't enough. Harry stared at him, lips parted as he fought to draw breath into lungs constricted by emotion -- grief, anger, and something more. Snape raised his eyes to meet Harry's, and their gazes held for an interminable moment, heat shimmering between them. More, Harry urged silently; as if he heard that unspoken message, Snape closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against Harry's hand, his expression almost pained, before releasing it quickly and rising to his feet.

"'And so I leave you'." Snape gazed down at him steadily, then raised his clenched fist. "'By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account'."

"'As you hear me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin. I must say she is dead; and so, farewell'."

Harry blinked, and whatever strange connection that had formed between them dissipated; a flush of heat rushed to his face as he realized everyone in the theater was staring at him, some with shock, some with pity for his emotional outburst. Only Snape's eyes held understanding.

"Well, Harry..." Hermione gulped, and clutched her clipboard tightly to her chest. "That was... much better. I think you've got it now."

*~*~*

The theater was deserted and almost completely dark. With only a couple of stage lights still on, Harry couldn't see the auditorium, but he felt its empty silence as he stood alone, thinking about the rehearsal that had concluded a short time before. The evening had been a turning point in his own grieving and healing process, and he found it odd but pleasant that he'd found release through playing Pretend. He felt calmer and more at peace than he had in months, perhaps years, and for the first time, he knew he was going to be able to let go of all the negative emotional baggage and move on with his life.

The question now was, in what direction?

Footsteps on the stage behind him, slow and measured. He didn't even have to turn around to know to whom they belonged. He just knew; he could feel the strange pull of Snape's presence.

"This isn't working, you know," Harry said quietly.

"I know."

"I can't stop thinking about you." It was easy to say the words when they weren't looking at each other, when he wouldn't risk seeing rejection in Snape's eyes.

"Nor I of you."

"So what do you suggest we do, then?"

"Take this discussion somewhere more private."

Minutes later, Harry found himself in Snape's personal quarters once again. They had walked to the dungeon in silence, Snape leading a few steps ahead; Harry had trailed behind for a reason, namely that he didn't know what kind of idle chit-chat conversation was appropriate for a situation like this, and it was easier to say nothing if he kept his distance.

This time, he took the opportunity to look around, paying more attention to his surroundings. The small living area screamed one thing loud and clear, even to the most casual observer: Snape was a born academic, and by the looks of things, he spent a lot of time in here alone. The stone walls of the room were lined with bookshelves; the ones on the right side of the room were stuffed to overflowing with books and scrolls, while the ones on the left were full of jars and bottles of various heights and sizes.

There was also a narrow desk which was covered in parchment, quills and a large inkjar; Harry doubted the scribbled-on parchment indicated Snape had an extensive, secret life as a pen-pal, but clearly he was busy writing something. Spurred by curiosity, Harry casually strolled closer and tried to sneak a look; a quick glance revealed it appeared to be an article about the effects of eye of toad on vision-enhancing potions.

Two chairs had been placed near the hearth. The over-stuffed wingback chair looked broken in, the upholstery faded in places as if with extensive wear, as did the footstool in front of it. A little tea table was conveniently placed nearby, with an empty teacup and a book resting on it. Harry could easily picture Snape sitting there, reading, his feet propped up and a steaming cup of tea within easy reach. The other chair, however, looked brand new and untouched, and he wondered if anyone had ever sat in it, or if it was there merely for ornamental purposes, because one was expected to have two chairs.

"So." Snape's voice brought him out of his reverie, and he turned to face the older man, who was once again standing by the fireplace, as he had done the first time they'd been here alone. "It would seem we have a dilemma."

"I suppose you could call it that." Harry moved to stand across from him and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep himself from touching Snape, no matter how much he wanted to -- and he did want to. "I think the problem is, there's this..." He floundered to find an appropriate word. "... this mutual interest, but it's not going away just because we decided not to act on it. It's there, we both know it's there, and it's going to keep growing as long as we ignore it, because we're both curious."

Snape turned his face away, looking disgusted, but whether with himself, with Harry, or with the situation in general, Harry wasn't sure. "I can't imagine how this happened."

"Neither can I, but it has," he replied quietly. "The question now is, what are we going to do about it?"

"What do you want from me?"

"What do I want? Right now, more than anything, I want you on your knees in front of me while I fuck your mouth."

Harry wasn't usually given to crude language, but something about the moment and Snape was bringing out the growling predator in him. Like the lion that symbolized his house, he wanted to pounce, to take, to claim possession of what was his. And for the moment, he considered Snape his alone.

Later, he couldn't be certain who moved first. One minute, they were staring at each other with equally shocked expressions, Harry because he couldn't believe exactly how much he meant what he'd just said, and Snape probably because he couldn't believe Harry had said it at all. And the next minute, they collided roughly, their mouths hungry and seeking. Harry threw his arms around Snape's neck, pulling him down, and Snape's arms were tight around Harry's waist, locking Harry in place against his body.

"One night," Harry said, panting as he pulled away long enough to speak. "We'll spend one night together, get it out of our systems, and then we'll be able to go back to normal. We'll have satisfied our curiosity, and that'll be enough."

Snape went still in Harry's arms, and somewhere in the depths of his eyes, a door quietly shut.

"One night," he echoed, his voice soft and deep. "Very well." He backed away, pulling free of Harry's embrace, and gestured to an open door on the other side of the room. "The bedroom is that way."

Harry's stomach lurched with apprehension, the enormity of what they were about to do hitting him between the eyes -- and considerably lower as well. He was going to have sex with Snape. He was going to be able to do every single thing his fevered imagination had come up with over the past few weeks to do to Snape's stomach, and more. That thought alone was enough to spur him into motion, and Snape didn't have to invite him twice; he headed to the bedroom, followed a few moments later by Snape, who had detoured to retrieve a jar from one of his numerous shelves first.

Snape's bedroom was even more austere than his living room; other than a large bed -- plenty of room to roll around on, Harry thought hazily -- that stood tall enough off the floor to make Harry wonder if he could get onto it without a stool, a wardrobe, and a nightstand which was covered with books and scrolls, there was nothing to mark it as Snape's personal space. There were no pictures or decorations of any kind, not even a Slytherin house banner.

Harry stopped by the side of the bed, feeling the first twinge of awkwardness; his previous lovers had been near his own age, and their level of experience had been roughly equal. Even Fred, who had been his most knowledgeable lover, had only a couple of years' of practice over him. But Snape was no teenager, still learning the ropes. Harry couldn't imagine Snape dating anyone, even in his younger days, but judging by the way he kissed, he obviously wasn't inexperienced. The last thing Harry wanted was to seem like a raw, bumbling neophyte, but he knew there was a wide gulf between them not only in years but in experience as well.

"I don't even know what to call you!" he blurted as Snape approached, set the jar on the nightstand amid the clutter of reading material and began unmaking the bed. He became abruptly aware that he was still referring to the man as "Snape" even in his thoughts, which was yet another form of distancing. But Snape said nothing until the bedspread was folded, and the sheets were turned back.

"There's no need to call me anything," Snape replied at last, reaching out to grasp Harry's chin. "Now shut up."

As if to enforce his command, Snape bent and kissed him, a far harsher and more demanding kiss than they had shared before, but instead of repelling Harry, it enflamed him. Eagerly, he parted his lips, seeking out Snape's tongue, and he felt Snape's fingers slide from his chin along his jaw, felt them unfurl until Snape's palm cradled his cheek. The kiss gentled then, aggression replaced by the familiar passion that had simmered between them for weeks, and Harry leaned into it, keeping his arms by his side, since Snape didn't seem to want closer contact at the moment.

When he broke off the kiss, Snape brushed his thumb across Harry's lips, and Harry bit the pad lightly, his gaze never leaving Snape's; a rush of pleasure washed through him at the flare of heat he saw in those dark eyes.

"Shoes." Snape pointed down at Harry's feet; Harry leaned against the side of the bed, standing on one foot and then the other as he pulled off his sneakers and socks and tossed them out of the way, and Snape did the same, only without leaning against the bed to support himself.

Show off, Harry thought, but with fond amusement rather than irritation. The fact was, his soon-to-be lover enjoyed playing one-up, and that would probably never change.

And then Snape began unfastening Harry's robes with swift, sure fingers, and Harry's breath caught in his throat, all such thoughts fleeing as desire pounded a low, throbbing beat throughout his body. Snape pushed the black material off Harry's shoulders and down his arms, letting the garment puddle at his feet and leaving Harry standing in only his plain white cotton boxer shorts. Harry stood proudly, not blushing or fidgeting as Snape let his gaze wander over Harry's body. He wasn't nearly as tall as Snape, but he was in good shape; his muscles were toned, and he still possessed the lean ranginess of youth. His chest hair wasn't much to speak of, he thought, glancing down at the sparse patch located between his nipples, but he figured that would change in the next few years as his body reached its full maturity.

Moving closer, Snape rested his hand on Harry's chest, his fingers splayed as if to cover as much skin as possible, then slid it down Harry's torso from shoulder to hip slowly, melding it against every angle and curve along the way. The touch, as simple as it was, seemed to burn into Harry's skin like a brand, and it was a disappointment when Snape let his hand fall back to his side.

On the other hand, Harry realized it gave him the chance to even things up a bit, and he reached out to unfasten Snape's robes in return. Moments later, the one question that had been both plaguing him and fueling his fantasies was answered.

Dark green flannel boxers.

He pressed the palms of both hands against Snape's chest and slid them down in a slow, exploratory caress; he already knew Snape was in good physical condition as well from the one brief peek he'd gotten. Now he drank in the sight of that firm stomach, and ran his fingers along the happy trail leading down past the waistband of those green boxers, pleased to feel an answering quiver in Snape's abdomen.

There was so much he wanted to do, so much he wanted to taste and to touch, but suddenly, Snape curled his hand around the back of Harry's neck and hauled him close, pinning Harry against him and pulling him into another searing kiss. Harry slid his arms around Snape's broad shoulders, pressing close, reveling in the luxurious feel of skin-on-skin and the hot, open-mouthed kisses that were setting his blood on fire. Then he felt Snape pushing him back and lifting him up until he was sitting on the edge of the bed; he wrapped his legs around Snape, urging him forward until they were hip-to-hip, and he could feel Snape's erection brushing against his own.

A low moan rose in his throat, and he slid one hand between their bodies, stroking the flannel-clad hardness. Oh, flannel was nice... so soft and warm... so very nice indeed...

Snape's hand closed around his wrist. and he uttered a wordless protest.

"Not so fast." Snape's voice was a black velvet whisper against his ear. "We have all night, and I intend to make use of it."

Unlocking his legs from around Snape's hips, he scooted backwards on the bed, holding out his arms and beckoning for Snape to join him, and a heartbeat later, he found himself sprawled on his back with a long, lithe body stretched atop his. It was exactly where he wanted to be at the moment, especially when Snape began nuzzling his ear, running his tongue along the shell and nipping gently at the lobe before moving down Harry's neck, seeming to map out all the places that made Harry writhe beneath him, returning to them again and again, nibbling and sucking until Harry was certain he couldn't stand anymore--

--and then Snape moved lower, fastening his mouth on Harry's nipple, and Harry nearly arched off the bed. All the while he feasted, Snape stroked and caressed Harry, running his hand up and down Harry's arm, along his side, down his leg in a hundred little touches that made Harry's desire burn even hotter. Slowly, he moved down, exploring every inch of Harry's torso with his lips and tongue until he reached Harry's underpants. There he stopped, and nuzzled his cheek against Harry's erection, drawing a desperate whimper from Harry, who fisted his hands in the bedclothes and struggled not to start thrusting.

"Please... Oh, God, please..."

"Please what?" Snape asked silkily. "Please remove these?" He hooked his finger in the waistband of the boxers and tugged it up.

"Yes... Get them off now..."

"Demanding, aren't we?" Snape's voice held amusement, but he complied with Harry's request.

He did indeed begin removing Harry's boxers -- one, slow, torturous inch at a time. He pushed them down a fraction, and then spent interminable minutes exploring the new expanse of skin he'd uncovered, everywhere except where Harry wanted the attention most. By the time Snape had finally -- finally! -- pulled them off completely and tossed them over the side of the bed, Harry felt as if his entire body was one massive, taut wire on the verge of snapping.

"Roll over." Snape moved away from Harry long enough to allow him to comply, and when Harry was settled on his stomach, Snape covered him again, showing his back the same meticulous care and attention as his chest had received, moving lower until he was between Harry's legs.

The first touch of a firm but gentle tongue against his opening was nearly Harry's undoing. He cried out, feeling his entire body tightening, hovering on the verge of release.

"Oh, God -- please -- I'm going to -- I can't--" he stammered brokenly, and he heard a low chuckle from behind him.

"I'd enjoy seeing if I could make you come like this. Perhaps later. Right now, I have something else in mind for you."

Snape moved away from him, and he felt the mattress bouncing a little, heard the sound of rustling fabric, then a jar lid being unscrewed; he moaned softly, knowing what was next, and he wanted it, needed it -- needed Snape -- desperately.

Moments later, where Snape's tongue had just explored, Harry felt a long, slick finger take its place; whatever Snape was using as lubricant was cold, but it heated quickly, and Harry wriggled and panted as Snape slid his finger deep, stroking the sensitive spot hidden within until Harry was light-headed.

"More.." He groaned as a second finger joined the first, and at long last, a third as Snape stretched and prepared him carefully, and then Snape rolled away from him again.

"Up."

Harry didn't have to ask what Snape meant, and he scrambled to get on his hands and knees, gasping in sheer anticipation as Snape grasped his hip with one hand. He smoothed the other down Harry's back in a soothing gesture, but it wasn't necessary. Harry was trembling, yes, but it was from need, not apprehension. He knew what to expect, and he wanted it, was ready for it.

"Oh, yes... YES..." The cry was wrenched from his very soul as Snape eased into him with slow, gradual thrusts until he was buried within Harry's willing body, and Harry pushed back as if that would somehow drive him even deeper.

"You want this, don't you?" Snape didn't move, and he grasped Harry's hips in both hands to ensure that Harry couldn't move either.

"Yes!" he panted desperately. "Yes, yes, I want this -- I want you -- move, damn you!"

There was a moment of silence and stillness... and then Snape pulled out almost completely and thrust forward again, deep and hard, and Harry cried out again in a mixture of pleasure and relief. Still clutching Harry's hips, Snape set a steady rhythm, stroking Harry's prostate and driving him closer and closer to the brink with each thrust, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the pleasure-tension building within him, coiling tighter as Snape pounded against him ever faster and harder. He gasped for air, hovering on the edge, but feeling unable to fall -- and then Snape's hand closed around his shaft, slick fingers pumping him, and Harry shattered, orgasm hitting him with the force of the Whomping Willow. With a wordless shout, he gave himself over to sensation, which doubled when he felt Snape's pulsing release deep inside, riding the shockwaves of pleasure until they ebbed away at last, and he let his head drop, barely able to keep himself up any longer.

He felt Snape's slow withdrawal, felt Snape helping him ease down onto the mattress, and he let himself collapse into a limp heap. He lay sprawled on his stomach, eyes closed, mouth open, still panting; finally, he managed to turn his head to look at Snape and found him lying on his back, a safe distance between himself and Harry, his eyes closed, one hand resting limply on his chest, the other tucked behind his head. His hair looked like an ink stain blotting the white purity of his pillow.

Despite having just experienced the most intense climax of his young life, Harry was nowhere near being done with Snape yet. A little rest, and then he had plans of his own to enact. It would be time, he decided with a weary but evil smile, to see if he could make the Potions Master writhe.

*~*~*

When Harry woke from his light doze, he was alone.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he glanced around, searching for any sign of Snape, and the sound of running water from an adjacent room assured him that he hadn't been abandoned. A few minutes later, Snape emerged from the bathroom, still naked and seemingly unabashed by it; he showed no trace of awkwardness as he crossed the room and returned to bed.

"D'you mind...?" Harry asked, indicating the bathroom, and he got a patented Snape "don't be an idiot" look in return.

"Go on." Snape waved dismissively, and Harry smiled his thanks as he slipped out of bed and retreated to clean up; he felt sticky, and already a little sore, but he had no regrets. The pleasure was worth any discomfort this night brought.

His ablutions finished, Harry returned to Snape's bed, refreshed, awake, and ready to implement some plans of his own. Snape was lying with his eyes closed again, but those dark eyes opened and filled with surprise when Harry pounced on him, straddling his waist and bracing both hands on either side of his head.

"My turn." Harry's grin was feral as he gazed down at Snape, whose expression reverted to safe neutrality once the surprise of being pounced upon had passed.

"Indeed. And what do you intend to do?"

Harry lowered his head for a light, but lingering kiss. "Not going to tell you," he whispered against Snape's lips, then nibbled the lower lip gently.

As much as he wanted to move on and explore other parts of Snape's body, he wasn't quite finished with Snape's mouth yet, and he settled in for a longer, deeper kiss, coaxing Snape's lips apart with his tongue and enjoying a leisurely taste of his lover. Snape wrapped his arms around Harry, smoothing his hands up and down Harry's back in a slow, sensual caress, but the moment Harry felt Snape was about to try to roll over in order to be on top, he braced himself and pulled back from the kiss.

"Oh, no." Harry shook his head. "You stay right where you are."

"And if I don't?"

"I stop."

There was a prolonged silence. Green eyes met black, locked and held. Resolve was silently tested. Harry found himself holding his breath, waiting for the final outcome; he knew this was a defining moment for them. If Snape refused to give in, Harry would know Snape saw him as nothing more than an inexperienced boy whom he didn't respect enough to allow some give-and-take in their sexual activity, and that he didn't consider Harry worthy of his trust, which was what it would take for Snape to give up any amount of control.

Snape didn't remove his arms from around Harry, but Harry felt him relax into the mattress. The answer was given.

Emboldened, Harry stretched out beside Snape and began exploring his new playground with delighted wonder; propping himself up on one elbow, he slid his free hand along Snape's shoulder and down his arm, molding his fingers and palm to fit the curve of every muscle. He skimmed his fingertips down the column of Snape's throat and along his jaw. He smoothed his palm along the planes of Snape's torso, pausing only to tease each nipple with a quick brush of his thumb, smiling at the soft gasp he heard in response. He touched as if he wanted the memory of Snape's body permanently imprinted on his hands.

Soon, touching wasn't enough, and Harry leaned over Snape so that he could close his mouth over one nipple, laving the hardened nub with his tongue while he stroked the other with his fingers; he felt Snape's body grow taut beneath him, heard Snape's breathing accelerate, and he smiled to himself, pleased that he could elicit such reactions. Trailing his lips down Snape's stomach, he stopped when he reached the thatch of dark hair that had tempted him for so long, and he released a soft little sigh at finally being able to enjoy it as he pleased.

Resting his cheek on Snape's abdomen, he combed his fingers through the soft nest, then nuzzled it with his nose and cheek, enjoying the mild tickling sensation it caused on his skin. Almost purring with pleasure, he breathed deeply of the warm, musky scent that was Snape's alone, feeling as if he wanted to wallow in it for a while.

But no. There were other things needing his attention, and he continued to drift lower, mouthing kisses on the delicate expanse of skin where hip joined thigh. Fascinated by the dichotomy of hard muscle sheathed in velvety skin, he trailed his fingertips along the length of Snape's shaft, lightly exploring. Levering himself up further, he began brushing his lips along the same path his fingers had taken, smiling to himself when Snape began to shift restlessly beneath him.

This was one area where he didn't feel at a disadvantage; his previous lovers, both male and female, had told him he possessed an excellent instinct for giving oral pleasure that practice and skill would only enhance. They had also given him plenty of chances to practice, and he'd never been more glad of that than now, when he wanted to drive Snape mad. The truth was, he enjoyed being able to watch his lovers surrender to passion, knowing he was the source of their intense pleasure. It made him feel both powerful and tender at the same time, and this time was no different.

With infinite care, he cradled the heavy sac in one hand and massaged with a feather-light touch, testing to see how Snape responded; Fred had loved the attention, but Aaron hadn't, and he didn't want to do anything Snape wouldn't like. A low moan told him it was perfectly all right to continue, and he kept up the careful massage even as he fastened his mouth on the underside of Snape's now fully erect penis, moving from base to tip with slow, gently sucking kisses until he reached the sensitive spot just beneath the head and lingered there, nibbling, lapping, and sucking. There, he could drown in his lover's taste and scent, reveling in the pleasure of sensory immersion, and the pleasure of hearing Snape moaning with need, of seeing his hands crawling amid the sheets, opening and closing as if seeking something that remained elusive.

Finally taking mercy on his panting lover, he closed his hand around the base, and drew the rigid shaft into his mouth as deeply as he could, wriggling his tongue along the underside as he bobbed up and down, moving faster, sucking harder--

"Stop!"

Harry lifted his head, green eyes alight with mischief as he acknowledged Snape's hoarse cry. "Why?"

"I'm... too close." Snape slumped against his pillow, eyes closed, stray tendrils of hair clinging to his damp face; Harry had never in his wildest dreams imagined Snape looked thoroughly debauched, but he did now, and Harry wanted nothing more at that moment than to shag him senseless.

"I can tell." He squeezed gently, drawing a moan out of Snape. "But as much as I'd love to know how you taste--" Another moan. "--that'll have to wait."

Rising to his knees, Harry leaned over and grabbed the pot on the nightstand, peering at its contents: a clear, viscous substance. Reaching in, he scooped up a generous amount on his fingers; Snape hadn't been at all frugal with the lubrication, and neither would he be. He didn't bother turning away as he coated himself liberally, letting Snape watch him prepare, and the smoldering look in the dark eyes following his every move was worth it. He scooped up a bit more to cover his fingers thoroughly, then set the jar aside again and moved to kneel between Snape's legs.

His fingers weren't as long as Snape's, but that didn't seem to matter; he sought out the sensitive gland, stroking it again and again until Snape's breath was shallow and ragged, until he had the man writhing beneath him. Adding another finger, he scissored them carefully, then withdrew to add a third, but Snape snaked out one hand and grabbed his wrist.

"Now."

It wasn't a request.

Pausing long enough to claim a hot, demanding kiss, Harry maneuvered himself into position, with Snape's long legs draped over his shoulders; given the difference in their heights, he knew it would be less awkward for him this way, and besides, he liked the idea of being able to see Snape's face. Whatever that jar contained, it was an excellent lubricant, easing Harry's passage better than anything he'd ever used before, and in no time, he was sheathed completely inside Snape's body, surrounded by tight heat, and he had to think of anything -- History of Magic lectures, flobberworms, Moaning Myrtle-- anything that would keep him from exploding right then and there.

"It's lovely..." he breathed, smoothing his clean hand down the side of Snape's face as he began to move slowly. "Absolutely lovely..."

There was no response to that, and Harry concentrated on angling just the right way to stroke against Snape's prostate with every thrust. With a strangled groan, Snape turned his head to one side and threw his arm across his face; Harry wanted to protest, wanted to be able to watch as Snape grew nearer to climax, but his body had caught a rhythm, and he was losing himself in it, losing himself in Snape. His hips pistoned sharply as he moved faster, straining toward release; he retained enough presence of mind to reach between their bodies and grasp Snape firmly, stroking in time with his thrusts. Mere seconds later, he felt Snape bucking beneath him, felt a spurt of hot fluid over his hand, and that was all he could take. He pounded into Snape hard and fast as the explosion hit, crying out his ecstasy to the stone walls; a few weak thrusts saw the last waves wash over him and away, and he slumped against Snape, heedless of the mess.

If Snape wants to clean up, he thought numbly, it'll just have to wait a few minutes. His lungs still felt scorched, and his limbs felt as if they were made of lead. He couldn't have moved them if a mountain troll suddenly appeared in the room and threatened to bash his head in. Fortunately, Snape lay still, and judging by his labored breathing, Harry figured he was just as knackered.

He had just begun to drift into a light doze when Snape pushed his shoulder, and he blinked muzzily, grumbling as he rolled off his warm, human mattress. It wasn't fair...

But Snape was utterly without sympathy, all but dragging him to the bathroom, although a few minutes later when he was clean, his skin still glowing from the hot water, he was glad. Some things were just far easier to clean up before they dried, and this way, he could go to sleep in comfort.

Part of him wanted to curl up next to Snape, not cuddling, really, more like sharing body heat, but Snape stayed on his side of the bed, and Harry reluctantly kept to his, rolling onto his side and letting sleep claim him at last.

He didn't know how long he slept, but he was roused by the gradual awareness of a warm body molding itself against him from behind, of breath whispering against the back of his neck, of a leisurely caress up and down his arm. Without opening his eyes, he nestled against that warm body, making a soft little humming sound of pleasure and contentment. On his neck, the breath turned to kisses, and the caress moved to his chest, teasing his nipples, and he arched into it languidly.

His mind and body were both heavy with sleep, his defenses and inhibitions gone; he simply reacted without thought, answering his body's growing need. A need he knew could be fulfilled by only one person.

A familiar hardness nudged him, and he shifted slightly, moving one leg forward to accommodate it. He was relaxed from sleep and still loose from their first time, and Snape slid into him easily, entering him with one smooth thrust, taking him... no, making love to him with slow, deep strokes. In and hold. Out and hold. Over and over, again and again, never increasing the tempo until Harry lost himself in the rhythm of their joined bodies, until he felt as if he was melting into the mattress.

Snape smoothed his palm down Harry's stomach, and Harry covered it with his own; after a moment's hesitation, Snape spread his fingers, a silent invitation which Harry didn't refuse, twining his fingers with his lover's.

"Severus..." he breathed, scarcely even aware that he spoke.

"Harry." Warm lips caressed his ear, and he shivered at the tingling pleasure they brought.

They continued to rock together, completely in sync, neither in any hurry to reach completion; this was a joining of more than bodies, the pleasure they sought would be found in more than mere physical release. Harry's orgasm built slowly this time, like a flower unfurling in sunlight, blooming deep within him and spreading outward; he clutched Severus' hand, calling out his lover's name, vaguely aware that his own name was echoing in the room as they came together.

He was pleased when the warm body didn't retreat again once their passion had been spent as it had done twice before, and he snuggled closer, holding fast to his lover's hand as he surrendered himself to sleep once more.

*~*~*

Harry awoke with a start, jerking upright, momentarily disoriented when he didn't see his familiar bedcurtains, but memory came flooding back in the next instant, and he remembered why he was naked, in a strange bed. A glance around the room showed Snape was already up; the bathroom door was standing open, which meant he was probably in the parlor.

Yawning and stretching, Harry slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom, freshening up enough to make it back to the Gryffindor dormitory for a shower and fresh clothes. He was grateful it was the weekend; considering how little sleep he'd gotten, he knew he never would have made it through his classes without dozing off, and he was going to have a difficult enough time explaining things to Ron and Hermione as it was. Ron had no doubt noticed his bed hadn't been slept in, and a glance at his watch showed he'd slept through breakfast, which meant Hermione would be concerned as well, especially if Ron blabbed about his overnight absence.

After pulling on his socks, robes, and sneakers, Harry wandered into the parlor, expecting to see Snape there, perhaps in his chair, or perhaps at his desk, but likely with a cup of tea nearby. When he walked in the room, the fireplace was lit, the flames crackling cheerfully, but the room itself was empty. Harry stopped dead in his tracks, looking around as if this would somehow cause Snape to appear, disappointment knotting his stomach when he realized Snape had left without a note or a word.

He left Snape's quarters and headed down the hall to the Potions classroom to see if perhaps Snape was busy brewing up something for someone, but the door was locked, and he could hear nothing that indicated anyone was inside. Harry squared his shoulders. Well, that left only one place, then. He marched to a door farther down the hall, which led to Snape's office; it was standing wide open, revealing Snape sitting at his desk, grading homework.

Pausing on the threshold, Harry cleared his throat; now that he was here, he didn't know quite what to say. He'd never had a one-night stand before, and he hadn't realized morning-afters were quite so uncomfortable. Snape spared him a brief glance before returning his attention to the rolls of parchment in front of him.

"What is it, Potter?" His tone was one of annoyed boredom, as if he didn't want to be bothered with anything, least of all Harry.

"I..." Harry abruptly realized his hands were ice cold. "Look, about last night--"

"One night," Snape interrupted, keeping his attention on the homework even though his quill wasn't moving any longer. "The night is over. Curiosity has been satisfied. We may now return to normal."

The words were delivered quietly, without inflection, but Harry felt them like a punch in the stomach, despite they were his own words, returned to him. He raised one hand to his face, scrubbing it absently. The sex had been brilliant, Snape was being agreeable about the conditions, and this... this... whatever-it-was that had built up between them over the past few weeks would surely dissipate now they had satisfied their needs. Everything had turned out perfectly.

So why did he feel as if something had gone horribly wrong?

"Right, of course." He nodded. "I'll... just be going, then."

"Mm."

Snape continued grading, and Harry backed away, the last vestiges of pleasure and good humor left over from the night before swept away in a tangle of confusion -- and pain. Where had the pain come from? It makes no sense! he berated himself as he strode along the corridors, back to Gryffindor, back where he belonged. It was just a one-night stand, nothing more. It meant nothing. Snape meant nothing. It was just... just two lonely people keeping each other company for a while, that was all.

By the time he reached the common room, he almost believed it.

*~*~*

Three days later, he knew he was the biggest idiot in Hogwarts, perhaps in all of Britain.

"Potter, you stupid git." He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, having interrupted himself in the middle of shaving with the realization he was a complete prat. "How in God's name did you ever survive the last seven years, when you can't even figure out one simple matter?"

Another line of garbage, and he knew it. Nothing was ever simple when it came to himself and Snape, not even a one-night stand.

Ron and Hermione had, as expected, rushed to accost him the moment he had walked into the common room, wanting to know where he'd been and what he'd been doing.

"You were with him, weren't you?" Ron demanded, but Harry had waved them both away.

"Yes, I was, and that's all I want to say about it right now."

He'd turned and walked away, and behind him, he heard Hermione advise Ron to back off, followed by Ron's reluctant acquiescence. They had both shown a restraint for which he felt he should applaud them, not pushing, not asking any questions, obviously waiting until he was ready to discuss the situation with them.

The problem was, he didn't know where to begin. It should have been simple! He should have woken up that morning, feeling light and free, unburdened by his bizarre fascination with Snape. He should not have spent the following days feeling as if the Whomping Willow had gotten hold of his broomstick again. Instead of getting Snape out of his system, having sex seemed to have had the opposite effect: Snape was even deeper under his skin than before, and it was driving him mad.

Especially since Snape was behaving as if everything really was back to normal!

Harry found his gaze continually drawn to Snape, memories of their night together flooding back every single time, but never once did Snape seem to feel the weight of Harry's gaze, and never once did Harry look up to find Snape watching him. In class, during rehearsals, it was always the same: Snape went about his business, interacting with Harry with his usual levels of snarkiness -- neither more nor less venomous than before -- when it was necessary, and ignoring him the rest of the time. It appeared as if he had put what happened behind him and was indeed moving on without a second thought, as if it had meant nothing to him.

The damnable thing was, Harry couldn't figure out if he was upset by that so much because it was a blow to his ego, or...

With a prolonged sigh, he finished shaving, rinsed his face, and decided it was time to face the inevitable. He needed a conference with his friends, if only to let them be his sounding boards so that maybe, just maybe, he could figure out how to get Snape out of his head once and for all.

*~*~*

"... so I was miserable before, lusting after him, and now, I'm still miserable, only I don't know why," Harry explained. "And I'm sick of it! I want him out of my head, and I'm open for suggestions, because I'm fresh out of ideas."

Classes were over for the day, and he had gathered up Ron, Hermione and Colin -- who had seen this whole debacle coming, apparently -- and led them outside, not only because it was a pleasantly warm spring day, but because they had a far better chance at maintaining their privacy than in the dormitory. The little group was gathered under a tree; Hermione sat with her back at the trunk, Ron and Harry were sprawled on the grass on their stomachs, and Colin was sitting cross-legged and listening quietly.

Harry plucked a blade of grass and chewed on it while he waited for the others to digest his news. Ron appeared pole-axed, which wasn't a surprise; Hermione was frowning a bit, wearing the "I should go to the library and research this before answering" expression they all knew so very well; and Colin appeared to be deep in thought.

"Harry..." Hermione said slowly, smoothing wrinkles out of her robes idly as she spoke. "Has it ever occurred to you that you might be in love with Professor Snape?"

"What?!" Ron sputtered. "But, Harry -- it's Snape. You can't fall in love with Snape. He's a greasy, slimy, sanctimonious, devious, manipulative bastard!"

"He's also a brave and loyal man, who took great risks to help defeat Voldemort," Harry reminded him sharply.

"Are you forgetting how he treated you -- how he treated all of us, except his precious Slytherins -- all these years?"

"I haven't forgotten anything," he assured Ron. "But there's more to him than that. I mean, sure, he's a snarky bastard, but the snarking isn't so bad if you just don't let it get under your skin, and in his own way, he's always been there for me."

"I don't think much of him as a teacher," Hermione sniffed, "but he's served Professor Dumbledore loyally, and Harry's right: Snape has tried to protect him, even if he was wrong about what Harry needed protecting from at times."

Harry nodded agreement, remembering the show-down in the Shrieking Shack during their third year, but Ron stared at her, appalled.

"Are you saying you think Snape's been in love with Harry all these years? Yeargh!"

"No, I just think their relationship has been complex all along, and it's only gotten moreso now," she corrected.

"I thought I hated him," Harry admitted. "It was easier then. Snape was the bad guy, poking his big nose in our business, trying to get us into trouble, and ruin our fun. That was simple to understand. But then..."

He wanted to say Voldemort's final strikes, the war that ensued, and all the times he'd been thrown into Snape's company and seen the man's different brand of heroism for himself had changed his perspective. That he couldn't hold a childish grudge against someone who'd put his life on the line repeatedly for him and for whom he had risked his own life as well, that trying to stop Harry and his friends from sneaking around the castle after curfew seemed very small and insignificant compared to fighting alongside one another on the battlefield of good and evil.

But in the end, he simply said, "But then I grew up."

He ran his fingers through the grass, trying to put his thoughts into words. "When I went to his quarters that night, I noticed he's got two chairs by his fireplace, and one of them looks new, like it's hardly ever been sat in since he bought it. I don't think anyone's ever sat in that chair. D'you realize how sad that is? I want to sit in that chair. I want that to be my chair -- and I shouldn't feel that way!" he exclaimed furiously, pounding his fist on the ground.

"Why not?" Colin spoke up for the first time, his voice quiet but firm.

"Why not?" Harry stared at him, stunned that he could even ask the question. "It's Snape, for God's sake. I mean, the whole student-teacher problem aside, the man's an utter git."

"You were just defending him to Ron."

"We'd never manage," he insisted stubbornly, ignoring Colin's point. "We're nothing alike."

"Aren't you? You're both strong and strong-willed, stubborn, brave, unstoppable when you're certain you're right, reserved, loyal, have had difficult past experiences... Do I need to go on?"

"Definitely not," Harry replied, feeling his face grow warm.

"What would you be doing right now, if you felt this way for anyone else but Snape?" Hermione asked gently, and Harry felt undone by the question... or perhaps the answer. "Would you be asking us to help you get them out of your heart?"

Anyone but Snape, and he'd be ebullient. Anyone but Snape, and he'd be able to admit he'd never felt like this about anyone before. Anyone but Snape, and he'd be able to tell them he'd finally learned what wanting forever meant.

Anyone but Snape.

"Neville," Colin said softly. "Lee... Angelina... Dennis..."

"Professor Lupin," Hermione picked up when Colin trailed off, his voice sounding too thick to continue. "Lavender..."

"Percy and Bill..." Ron spoke up, watching Harry with suspiciously bright eyes. "They're right, Harry. Life's too short, and you never know when it's going to be over. You shouldn't deny your feelings just because they're for Snape. I mean, who knows? You could make each other happy for the rest of your lives, or you could get sick of each other in six months. Either way, there're no guarantees, so you've got to take love and happiness where you find it, and enjoy it while it lasts."

Harry leaned over and nudged Ron with his shoulder, feeling a little tight in his own throat at the moment. "This from our resident expert on love."

"Well, at least being single means I don't get myself into situations like this," Ron retorted, and Harry threw a leaf at him.

"All right, fine..." Harry sighed. "I admit it. I'm in love with Snape." To his surprise, as soon as he said the words, the heavy weight he'd been carrying around for three days lifted. "Now what am I supposed to do about it?"

Three voices chorused as one.

"TELL HIM!"

*~*~*

"'Tell him', they said. Oh, right, like it's that bloody simple," Harry muttered as he laced up his bodice, yanking on the strings harder than necessary in an effort to vent some of his frustration.

Days had passed since he'd finally come to terms with his feelings for Severus Snape. In that time, he'd accepted he was indeed in love. No amount of denial or rationalization was going to change that fact, and he now faced an important crossroads: either he could say nothing and live with unrequited love, or he could confess his feelings and hope that Sn... Severus felt the same way.

Remaining silent was the infinitely safer option, considering Severus' remoteness the morning after their night together. That cold dismissal still caused an icy fist to clench around Harry's stomach every time he remembered it. But as much as it hurt to remember, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that there was significance to Severus' choice of words.

After all, he hadn't said, "Get out, Potter" or anything like that. He'd echoed Harry's own words of the night before, and Harry doubted it was coincidental.

There were also his memories of their last round of sex. He'd been drowsy that time, but not so drowsy that he didn't remember it had been far slower and more intimate than the first two times. He was pretty sure he'd called Severus by name at some point, and he thought he remembered hearing his own name whispered in his ear. Never in a million years would he have guessed that Severus could be... well, tender. That was the only word for it.

The first two times, they'd had sex. The last time...

The last time, they'd made love. He understood the difference now, and he wanted more. And, given his recollections, he doubted he was alone in that. Severus was a good actor, true enough, but there were some things that couldn't be faked, and Harry felt certain that he'd seen an aspect to the Potions Master that night which few people had ever seen, and even fewer suspected existed at all.

He'd spent countless hours trying to think his way through this mess, and in the end, he was just disgusted with himself for being so wishy-washy... and for living in denial for so long. If he'd been honest enough with himself to acknowledge his feelings that night, then he probably could've spent every night since then in Severus' bed, making love with his irascible, brilliant, stubborn, passionate, annoying bastard of a partner instead of wandering around like a moonstruck calf. What a waste.

The bottom line, he decided, was that there were only two possible outcomes if he admitted his feelings.

First, Severus could reject him. That would hurt like hell, and it definitely wasn't his preferred option. But the pain and humiliation would fade eventually, and in a matter of weeks, he was graduating, which meant he wouldn't have to face Severus for much longer after making himself so vulnerable.

Second, Severus would reply that he shared Harry's feelings, and they would make a go of a relationship. Harry still wasn't certain what he planned to do after graduation, but even if he ended up having to leave the region near Hogwarts to work elsewhere, they could still be together. There were brooms and owls, after all, not to mention Floo powder. In addition, Severus knew how to Apparate, and Harry planned to learn, which gave them plenty of methods of communication and transportation if they ended up having a long-distance relationship. Any obstacles can be faced and overcome together, he told himself firmly.

Either way, he would have an answer, and that's what he wanted. Not knowing was too difficult to bear, far more difficult than the thought of potential pain and humiliation. That would pass with time, but the regret and question of "What if?" would linger for the rest of his life. He just hoped he hadn't realized the truth of his feelings only when it was too late, and Severus had decided he wasn't worthy of a second chance.

And so he stood in front of a full-length dressing mirror, lacing his bodice and muttering to himself because he'd finally made up his mind to tell Severus the truth. The only problem was, he didn't know how he was going to go about it.

"You look lovely, dearie," the mirror snickered at him. "Quite the blushing maiden."

"Oh, shut up." Harry, who was indeed blushing, glared at it, then studied his reflection.

Tonight was the dress rehearsal, which meant he was going to be seen in his costume for the first time, and he was a little apprehensive. Although he'd drawn the line at letting his hair be magically grown out for the rehearsal, he was in costume in every other way, dressed in a white, long-sleeved peasant blouse beneath a white pinafore, and simple white, slipper-style shoes.

The bodice of the pinafore had been sewn so that when he laced it up tightly enough, it gave the illusion of slight cleavage, which embarrassed him to no end, but at least he didn't have to stuff oranges or socks or anything like that down his shirt. His skirt only reached mid-shin, and Parvati had wanted him to remove his leg hair because of that! He'd considered asking Severus for some sort of depilatory potion, but he'd opted to shave instead, not feeling up to a private encounter just yet.

Unfortunately, he couldn't avoid going onstage any longer, even though he wasn't quite feeling up to that yet either. Squaring his shoulders and bracing for the inevitable, he marched out of the dressing room and onto the stage, trying to ignore the rush of heat in his face when the whistles and catcalls started.

"Oo, isn't she a lovely little girl?"

"Don't you tart up nice?"

"Looking good, Harriet!"

All the males, however, remained mercifully silent, and Hermione quickly hushed the raucous tech crew who were heckling him. Sirius even gave a reassuring wink as Harry walked by. Keeping his head held high, he joined Ron, who gave his friend an exaggerated once-over.

"Didn't know you had such a nice figure," Ron teased, grinning. "I think I understand what Fred saw in you."

"Don't you start," Harry growled a warning.

Just then, Draco sauntered by and smacked Harry on the bottom as he passed, his infuriating smirk saying more than any drawled, scathing comment could, and only one thing kept Harry from smacking Draco in return much harder, perhaps in front rather than back.

Severus walked onstage, looking edible in his indigo blue-and-silver costume, and Harry immediately forgot about Draco, forgot he was wearing a dress, forgot his legs were itchy from the stubble, forgot everything except how much he wanted to be able to shout to the entire school, "He's mine!"

Love on, he thought, recollecting one of Beatrice's lines from earlier in the play. I will requite thee.

*~*~*

"'No, I was not born under a rhyming planet'," Severus said, crumpling a piece of parchment on which Benedick's pitiful attempt at love poetry was written, and tossing it aside. "'I cannot woo in festival terms'."

Harry repressed a smile as he walked onstage, thinking how appropriate the line was, although unlike Benedick, Severus seemed to do nothing in "festival terms," except, perhaps, brew potions.

"'Sweet Beatrice'." Severus glanced up and noticed his approach. "'Wouldst thou come when I called thee'?"

"'Yes'," Harry replied with a sultry tone, allowing the desire he felt when he looked at Severus to kindle in his eyes, thus giving his words a double-meaning and causing Severus to raise a questioning eyebrow at him. "'And depart when you bid me'," he added, staring directly into Severus' eyes and holding them.

"'O, stay but till then'." Severus stretched out one hand, and Harry slid his fingers into the waiting palm, wanting -- needing -- this little bit of contact after such a long drought.

"'Then' is spoken. Fare you well now'." He made as if to pull away, then he turned back, smiling shyly. "'And yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came, which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio'."

"'Only foul words'," Severus assured him, tugging on his hand; Harry feigned resistance at first, but he quickly acquiesced and allowed Severus to pull him close. "'And thereupon I will kiss thee'."

If only this was for real! Harry thought fleetingly even as he pressed his fingers against Severus' lips to keep him away. "'Foul words are but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed'."

Severus shook his head. "'Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward'."

He wrapped both arms around Harry's waist, and Harry leaned on his shoulder, relishing the embrace, even though it was meant for Beatrice, and not for him. "'And, I pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me'?"

Turning to one side, Harry reached up and smoothed his hand down the side of Severus' face, deliberately mimicking a gesture he'd made during their night together; judging from the sudden flare he saw in the dark eyes gazing down at him, Severus remembered it well. "'For them all together,'" he answered softly, seriously.

Something hovered between them, finely poised... but now wasn't the time, and Harry forced himself to laugh and tease in character. "'Which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me'?" he asked coyly.

Severus gave a derisive snort. "'Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will'."

"'In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart!" Harry cupped Severus' cheek in his hand. "'If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates'."

Capturing Harry's hand, Severus twined their fingers, and it was Harry's turn to have a flashback. "'Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably'."

Heat bloomed in the pit of Harry's stomach, and his heart pounded against the walls of his chest, beating out a song of hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't too late after all.

*~*~*

"I can see my mum and dad!" Colin hissed as he peeked out at the auditorium from behind the curtain, and Harry grinned, pleased to see the young man showing some of his old energy and enthusiasm. "Look there -- in the third row, center!"

Ducking back, Colin turned to Harry, so excited that he was fairly vibrating in place. They were both already in costume and had had their make-up and hair done; Colin's hair had not only been grown out, but also curled, so that it tumbled down his back in a mass of ringlets. With his slight build and delicate features, he made a charming, attractive Hero, and if it hadn't felt so weird to think such a thing, Harry would have been envious that Colin was a prettier girl than he was.

But Harry considered himself passable. Parvati had used a lengthening spell to make his thick, dark hair shoulder-length, and she'd done nothing but brushed it out, letting the natural waves fall riotously around his shoulders.

"The touseled look suits the character," she had said, and Harry had silently agreed.

Taking Colin's place at the curtain, Harry scanned the audience, spotting Hagrid immediately -- he was impossible to miss -- and the Weasleys as well, including Charlie, Fred and George. Only Ginny was absent, and that was because she was part of the tech crew, helping work the lights.

The theater was packed; he couldn't see a single empty seat, and he felt a sudden lurch in his stomach, and his hands turned to ice. He was about to walk onstage and try to perform in front of these people! To entertain them! And he knew most of them! It seemed as if every student who hadn't gotten involved in the play had come to see it, and they, combined with the families of the cast and crew, filled the theater completely.

Dumbledore, of course, was delighted by the prospect of performing to a full house. He was making the rounds backstage, wishing everyone a Happy Shakespeare Day and telling his fellow cast members to "break a bone." Harry smiled wanly as Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder, tugged one of Colin's curls and said how pleased he was to have such a lovely daughter, then moved on to comfort Martin, who was experiencing a severe bout of stage fright.

Harry drifted back to his dressing room to sit down and calm his nerves before the curtain went up. It wasn't only the idea of performing in front of the entire school that worried him, it was also the plan he intended to enact during Act Five. He patted the pocket of his pinafore for hundredth time, assuring himself that what he needed was still there. It was, and he felt a fresh rush of apprehension at the enormity of what he planned to do.

But he had to do this. He had to know the truth, one way or another. If he was wrong, he could flee Severus' presence as soon as the play was over and take refuge with Ron, Hermione, and Colin, rather than suffer through an awkward and painful private confrontation.

And if he was right, he would be able to celebrate in front of everyone and show how proud he was to love and be loved by someone like his Severus.

*~*~*

As the play unfolded, Harry found himself losing himself in the role, relaxing and enjoying himself as the audience responded to him, especially when he sparred with Severus. Their bickering caused much laughter, and at one point, Hagrid yelled out, "You tell him, Harry!" which caused even more amusement, among the cast watching from the wings as well as from the audience.

There was laughter and sentimental "aww"ing when Beatrice and Benedick were fooled into admitting their true feelings, and gasps of shock and horror when Leonato struck his daughter and willed her to die. The next time he appeared onstage, Draco even got boo'd and hissed at for his character's villainy.

But the mischief was uncovered, and Hero's name was cleared. All gathered to witness not only Hero's "miraculous" resurrection from death, but also her marriage to Claudio at last.

"'All this amazement can I qualify'," Professor Flitwick announced, projecting his voice well for so small a man. "'When after that the holy rites are ended, I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death. Meantime let wonder seem familiar, and to the chapel let us presently'."

"'Soft and fair, friar'." Severus stepped forward and gestured to the row of bridal attendants who were still veiled. "'Which is Beatrice'?"

Harry drew in a deep, steadying breath as he stepped forward and pulled off the veil obscuring his face. It was almost time...

"'I answer to that name'," he said, proud of himself for keeping his voice so steady when he felt as if he had been struck by a Jelly-Legs Jinx. "'What is your will'?"

"'Do not you love me'?" Severus asked haughtily, and Harry drew himself up to his full height, staring at Severus with equally haughty disdain.

"'Why, no'!" he retorted sharply. "'No more than reason'."

"'Why, then your uncle and the prince and Claudio have been deceived'." Severus sneered down at him. "'They swore you did'."

"'Do not you love me'?" he countered.

"'Troth, no'." He paused, then did an imitation of Harry's voice and tone that drew snickers from the audience as he echoed Beatrice's words. "'No more than reason'."

Harry smiled with false sweetness up at him as he cooed, "'Why, then my cousin Margaret and Ursula are much deceived; for they did swear you did.'"

"'They swore that you were almost sick for me'." Severus braced his fists on his hips and glared down at Harry, who matched him glare for glare, mimicking his stance as well.

"'They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me'!" he shouted.

"'Tis no such matter'," Severus assured him frostily. There was a beat, then his expression softened marginally. "'Then... you do not love me'?" he asked, not quite hesitantly.

"'No, truly, but in friendly recompense'." Harry folded his arms and turned his back on Severus, his nose in the air.

"'Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman'!" Dumbledore called out, his eyes twinkling merrily.

Oh, if you only knew... Harry thought, feeling more twinges in his stomach. The moment was upon him, and there was no turning back now.

"'And I'll be sworn upon it that he loves her'!" Ron crowed triumphantly, reaching into Severus' waistcoat pocket and snagging out a slip of parchment tucked within it. Severus made a futile grab for it, but Ron danced out of reach and handed it off to Harry, who snatched it eagerly. "'For here's a paper written in his hand, a halting sonnet of his own pure brain, fashioned to Beatrice'."

"'And here's another'!" Colin exclaimed, pulling a piece of folded parchment from Harry's pinafore pocket; Harry slapped at Colin's hands, but Colin laughed and quickly handed the parchment to Severus. "'Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, containing her affection unto Benedick'."

Watching Severus from beneath his lashes, Harry pretended to read the parchment he'd been given; it was blank, of course, a mere prop. But the one Severus now held...

Harry's breath caught in his throat as Severus unfolded it, holding it between his long fingers as he read the words inscribed there: "You're an insufferable git, but I love you."

Time seemed to come to a screeching halt as Harry waited and watched for any sign of a reaction. He saw Severus' brows knit slightly, saw him swallow once, hard. Finally, Severus refolded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket, not looking at Harry, who felt his heart begin to plummet to his feet.

"Well," Severus said, his tone oddly subdued. "'Here's our own hands against our hearts'."

At last, he looked up.

At last, he met Harry's gaze.

At last, Harry could see the small, secretive smile curving his lips, and Harry closed his eyes, feeling light-headed with relief.

"'Come, I will have thee, but, by this light, I take thee for pity'," Severus said with smug condescension.

"'I would not deny you'," Harry replied archly. "'But, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption'."

"'Peace! I will stop your mouth'."

There it was.

The line that had, in its own way, started this whole business. What Harry had protested so vehemently in February, he now wanted more than anything in the world.

If the moment had called for him to be somber and serious, he couldn't have done it; there was no way he could have masked the silly grin wreathing his face as Severus wrapped one arm around him and pulled him closer.

"Well?" Severus asked in a voice low enough for Harry's ears alone, and, sliding his arms around Severus' neck, Harry whispered yes.

With permission given, Severus brought his other hand to the back of Harry's head, positioning him for a kiss -- a real one -- and bent to brush his lips lightly against Harry's. But Harry had no intention of letting it end there. He parted his lips, inviting more, and Severus accepted, capturing his mouth for a deep, loving kiss that he returned with his whole heart.

He was vaguely aware there were gasps and murmurs from both the audience and the cast as they embraced, but he didn't care.

He also knew they had a few more lines in the play to get through, but he didn't care about that either.

The Seeker had found what he was looking for at last.

-End-