Disclaimer: Not mine. I’m just borrowing the characters for a little non-profit geared fun. I’ll return them (relatively) unharmed once I’m done. ;-)
Summary: ‘Harry just wanted to be normal in at least *one* thing, and really, he didn’t think it was too much to ask.’
Special Thanks: To hazelhawthorne for beta-ing and then taking it one step further and calming my frazzled nerves, I don’t know how I ever managed without her. To thecoalbunker for the wonderful support, and the faultless ability to make me smile, even when life is in upheaval. And to dawning_star, my internet bodyguard, for the heartwarming encouragement and enthusiasm.
Harry Potter worried that there was something wrong with him.
Seventeen-year-old boys were supposed to be preoccupied with thoughts of sex, it was the unwritten law, handed down from one generation to the next, since the very first single-celled organism had existed. Everyone said so, everyone knew it. ‘Hormones with feet’ he’d heard his aunt refer to his demographic once, though frankly, the thought of his similarly-aged cousin having said hormones and putting them to any kind of use was enough to put him off of seedy preoccupation for life. In fact, the thought of any of the Dursley’s engaging in any type of hormonal activity was traumatizing to an extreme degree.
Still, he knew that his thoughts ought to be centered on the opposite sex, or even his own sex (he didn’t think he’d be picky in that regard as there had been plenty of blokes he’d fancied in the past - that is, before his oft freakish life had surpassed the level of ‘nightmare’ and barreled swiftly towards ‘hell’ with the onslaught of the war), or just plain sex in general, to no effect.
And now, with the war over, and his life, despondent though it was, free to participate in such frivolous occupations, he found, to his continuing frustration, that his brain (and other highly valuable body parts) just would not cooperate. He had tried really hard to feel attracted to someone, anyone. He’d looked everywhere, leaving no corner of Hogwarts unturned, and could only muster a distant apathy. His body, or soul, or brainwave patterns, whatever, just didn’t seem to be all that interested in relationships, in all their many incarnations.
He was starting to get a bit bitter about being left out, like always, when it was clear that everyone else thought that such couplings where the begin all and end all of the universe.
Hermione, his self-proclaimed therapist, had waved it off as ‘post-traumatic stress disorder‘, or some such Hermione-esque term like that. She had then gone on to proclaim that Harry had spent so much time just trying to survive day to day leading up to the final defeat of Voldemort, that his instincts were still on ‘survival’ mode and hadn’t moved up Maslow’s hierarchy of needs quite yet… Whoever the fuck Maslow was supposed to be. Harry really didn’t care much about him, either, he just wanted to be normal in at least *one* thing, and really, he didn’t think it was too much to ask.
Thus, he continued to look for someone that ‘did’ it for him. Failing that, he decided his best bet might be skipping the whole attraction process. Perhaps engaging in a hormonal activity of sorts, entirely on a whim, might jolt his libido into some sort of working order. His own form of shock therapy, as it were. He was certain Hermione would approve in a clinical sort of way, though had no real plans to tell her. Lacking in testosterone, he might be, but he was *not* lacking in propriety.
Upon further thought he came to the conclusion that if he was going to do this, he needed a partner who was somewhat of an expert, or, at the very least, someone who knew what they were doing and thus would be more likely to awaken the raging fire within (he really needed to stop hanging around Ginny so much, her whimsical way of speaking was affecting his thoughts through some weird form of osmosis).
Finding an expert pretty much left out his fellow students, who were still too flushed with youth and vigor to be slow, patient, and more importantly, skilled.
An adult it would have to be, then.
Which, by process of elimination, left exactly one person he could approach… There was only one adult in his life who already despised him enough that Harry was past being concerned with what his reaction would be. With anyone else the subject would be unbearably awkward. With Snape it couldn't be much worse than asking him to repeat the third step for brewing the deflating draught last week.
After all, he could give a flying fuck what Snape thought. And it was very clear that Snape could give a rat’s ass about him. But Snape did owe him one for that little life saving thing Harry had done for him during the war. At the very least, if the man was adamant against it, Harry’s proposition might embarrass him a little, and a floored Snape would amuse Harry profusely. It was really a win/win situation; either way he’d have something to be happy about.
Which is why he left his smirk firmly in place as he approached his Potions Professor’s office. He hoped the smirk alone would piss Snape off. If not he might have to up the ante to a smirk *and* an eye roll after everything Snape said, it had always seemed to work in the past.
“What do you want, Potter?” the Professor grated out through clenched teeth the moment he spotted Harry walking into the room.
“Sex,” the dark-haired boy answered honestly, and then had to fight back the laugh that threatened to escape his throat when he witnessed the blatant shock that passed over the older man’s face.
“With you,” he added in after thought, trying to get that stunned expression to stay as long as remotely possible.
Alas, it wasn’t meant to be, for Snape recovered rather quickly; an act that actually left Harry rather impressed, though he would never, *ever*, admit it to the man out loud.
“Run out of students to tempt, Potter? Have you moved on to propositioning your teachers now?” Snape inquired with narrowing eyes, a sneer worthy of ten burly Death Eaters replacing any remnant of alarm on his wizened face.
“No actually, none of them interest me,” Harry responded with a shrug, continuing with the blunt honesty since it had been working so well… he wasn’t cursed or dead yet, and those were both checks in the plus column, as far as he was concerned. “And before you ask, you don’t really interest me either. In fact, no one does. Which is the problem I’m trying to rectify. I figured that maybe once I knew what sex was, I might have more of an interest in it. I came here because you, being an adult, and quite frankly, rather old, have probably had enough of it to do a bang up job. Er, no pun intended.”
Ah, there was that shocked look again, Harry had missed it so.
This time the Professor didn’t recover quite so quickly. In fact, he seemed to be studying Harry rather intently, as if… oh.
For the first time since those painful months following Sirius’ death, Harry allowed his mind to be read without instinctively blocking the intrusion, letting Snape experience the seriousness of his request first hand.
Apparently it was enough, for Snape withdrew after mere minutes, and gave Harry a slight nod, his face completely blank and unreadable.
“Alright, I agree to your terms,” he answered rather briskly, as if he had agreed to something menial, and fulfilled these types of requests daily.
This time it was Harry who was stunned. He wasn’t proud of it, in fact, he was disgusted with himself for it, but he was shocked, and he couldn’t make that shock go away as easily as the Professor had. The evil grin that teased the corners of Snape’s mouth as he gestured Harry to follow him out of the room and further into the dungeons only served to rub that fact in.
Bastard, how dare he turn the tables! When he was finally able to move again, Harry’s only thought, other than the rather important fact that he was going to finally have sex, was: ‘this game is *on*!’
The thing about sex was that Harry quite liked it.
In fact, it only took once for him to become rather addicted. It just felt so good, so… exhilarating.
Apparently his hormones had been there all along, they had just needed Snape to find them and, as suspected, the man really had done a fantastic job of it.
And he had made the experience… well, he had made it rather fun; their mind games and teasing quests for dominance transformed into the most imaginative foreplay.
He would have never thought it of his Professor, but the old guy was actually pretty spry. And, most surprising of all, he was also a very considerate lover. The animosity between them had gotten lost somewhere between the door of Snape’s bedroom and his bed, which, upon reflection, had been sort of… sweet, in an entirely non-girly way (damn Ginny and her freaky osmosis thing again).
So that seemed like plenty of justification for approaching the man again… and again… and again. After all, he did have years of repressed teenaged longing to make up for, and Snape seemed just as eager to see him as Harry was to be there.
Whoever had said that too much of a good thing made one tired was obviously either a priest or a eunuch. Though he supposed sex did make him tired in the physical sense, especially after three rounds of it back to back... He couldn’t let Snape top him in the amount of orgasms a single, healthy, adult (teenage) male could experience within a two-hour period, after all. But this sex thing just seemed to get better and better. In fact, lately Snape had been so incredibly tender with him, almost affectionate even. And that coupled with this new intensity the older man had in his eyes whenever he looked at Harry just made the experience that much more passionate.
After months of repeated behavior, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was really the sex he was addicted to, or if it was Snape, himself, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that he liked both in equal amounts. He and Snape really did have quite a bit in common, what with the respective chips on their shoulders, a truly large variety of sarcastic repartee to play with between the two of them, screwed up childhoods’ they'd just as soon obliviate from their memories, a starkly competitive nature, and a joint love of sex with each other.
Once Snape had finally gotten it through his thick, stubborn skull that Harry wasn’t James Potter, it was fairly easy to tag team their combined intolerance of idiocy, and their bitter knowledge of how the little unwritten laws of society worked, into everyday life - away from the prying eyes of the rest of the school, of course, at least up until Harry graduated.
Together they were formidable, and they both knew it. Well, at least Harry knew it, and he suspected Snape did too, especially during the moments he’d send Harry this look of complete understanding. One that said, without saying, ‘I empathize with you, kid. This world is truly deranged to an almost absurd degree and no one seems to recognize that fact but the two of us, but we have each other now and that is what’s important.’
“You brought me back to life,” Harry couldn’t help but announce in the warmth of afterglow on the cusp of an approaching morning, looking wonderingly at his lover, “after the war I was numb, and you gave me feeling. Good feeling.”
Severus seemed speechless at Harry‘s uncustomary verbalization of warmth, though his face was just as unreadable as it was capable of being. But then he reached up and pulled Harry to him harshly, crushing the smaller man to his body as if he wanted to pull Harry all of the way inside him, and kissed him, hard, and Harry figured he could read Snape pretty well, too.
That meant, ‘I unreservedly share in that sentiment, will wonders never cease?’
It was then that Harry realized that there wasn’t really anything wrong with him, per se, neither was there anything wrong with Snape; it was pretty much everyone else who was off their rocker.
That thought, combined with his lover’s arms, made him feel truly at peace.
He wondered what term Hermione would come up with to diagnose *that*.