chiraldream (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lesyeuxverts) wrote2006-07-31 08:28 pm
lesyeuxverts) wrote2006-07-31 08:28 pm
Entry tags:
Happy Birthday, Harry
Title: Happy Birthday, Harry
Author: Les Yeux Verts
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: umm ... barely-of-age Harry - he has just turned 18.
Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor Severus Snape nor any of the less interesting characters created by J.K. Rowling.
Summary: Harry receives an unexpected birthday present from the last person he'd have ever expected to find in the basement tampering with the wards.
The wards had been clanging in Harry’s head all evening, the irregular discordant sounds repeating themselves without cease and it was all he could do to keep his feet moving and listen to the lethargic conversation between Ron and Hermione and answer when they spoke to him. As soon as the three of them crossed the threshold of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Harry dropped his muddy cloak to the floor and rushed off to check the wards. Ron and Hermione’s argument, repeated often enough to be more than a habit, over who would use the master bathroom with its large claw-footed tub first trailed off behind him as he ran headlong down the stairs to the dank basement.
The bright lights that represented the wards were worsening Harry’s headache, but he continued to squint at the intricate tangle of lines. The green swirl that was the proximity ward blinked an erratic beat, a jazzy counterpoint to the thud of Harry’s heart. He touched it with his index finger, let the rough vibrations travel up his arm and through his veins and into his magical core, and the clanging in his head was silenced. The other wards had not been disturbed, and Harry stepped away from them, ready to go upstairs into the dismal grimy atmosphere of the ground floor where Ron and Hermione were arguing still for the first use of the bath. He could hear their faint voices through the wooden door and Ron wasn’t yielding to Hermione, even though he should have learned by now that she always won the right to the first bath no matter how many times they had the same argument.
With a sigh, Harry decided that it would be best to just give in and let both of them have the bath first – muddy and cold as he was, longing for a bath to wash away the memories of the wasted day, he was too tired to argue with them, too tired to repeat the paths that a hundred conversations had already taken. Today marked the anniversary of a year of fruitless searches for the Horcruxes, never mind that it marked his birthday, never mind that there was no hot food to be had, nothing in the cupboard, nothing to mark the day except cold mud and achy bones and the promise of a hot bath to soothe them. His foot poised over the bottom step of the staircase, Harry wobbled and almost fell when someone said his name.
Strong arms steadied him and for just a second, Harry was held in a warm embrace that was unlike any embrace he’d had from Mrs. Weasley or Ginny or even Ron or Hermione. It was steady and smooth and sparked with just a hint of danger, being held by an unknown person in the dark basement, it felt like the nutmeg in eggnog, and it was warm where he was cold, tingling all along the nerves of his spine, unseen fingers stroking a curve along his ribs, and he rather wished it wouldn’t stop.
“You almost did a decent job on the wards, Mr. Potter.” Warm breath flowed over his ear and Harry felt the heat of a body standing just behind him and it took a moment for him to think beyond the pleasant sensation of warmth on his cold skin.
He spun around and raised his wand. “Snape,” he said, and that was a mistake.
A nonverbal spell wrenched his wand out of his grasp and Harry stumbled backward, stumbled into the stairs and fell.
“Still too slow,” Snape said. His velvety voice was intimate in the dark basement. It skated along Harry’s cold skin like the sheen of oil on a rain puddle, a noxious rainbow of colors with its strange dark allure.
Harry flinched when Snape reached down to help him stand, he tried to knock the man’s hand aside, tried to scramble up the stairs on all fours.
“Potter, you always were a graceless lout, but this is extreme behavior even for you.” Snape pulled Harry to his feet and dragged him over to the corner where the light of the wards shimmered.
“Look at this, you foolish boy. This connection here is improperly made – go on, fix it – and you need to make the wards exclusive to you. There’s a charm that you can link to all of the wards and then no other wizard will be able to modify them. Go on, Potter, you should have learned this charm in your third year, don’t gape at me.”
It had been a year longer than any year Harry had known before since the last time he had seen this man and Snape had murdered Dumbledore and Minerva had assured him a hundred times that the Potions Master was innocent but Harry had seen the murder with his own eyes, seen the green jet of light that arced from Snape’s wand and he wasn’t ready to trust him, wasn’t ready to modify the wards that he’d slaved over at this man’s order.
“What are you doing here?”
Snape loomed over Harry with all his height, poked Harry’s own wand, the wood cold in the chilly basement air, into the hollow of Harry’s throat. “Do as I say.”
Snape held a wand on Harry while the wards were fixed to his satisfaction, though he refrained from making his usual snide comments. He forcibly reclaimed Harry’s wand when it was finished, Snape’s warm fingers lingered on Harry’s cold fingers for a second as he yanked the wand from Harry’s grasp.
“Well, boy, have you no manners, or aren’t you going to invite me to sit? No offers of refreshments? Your hospitality does not impress, Potter.”
Harry looked at the staircase and Snape took hold of his chin with long fingers, turning his head back. “Don’t bother calling for your little friends. They won’t hear us.”
The multicolored lights of the wards did eerie things to Snape’s face, elongating his hideous nose and casting shadows under his eyes and he was grotesque and goblin-like in the semi-darkness. “No one will hear us,” Snape repeated. “I could do anything to you here and no one would come to save you. Do you understand, Potter? The progress you’ve made this year is not enough.”
There was no sneer on Snape’s face now, there was nothing except for the tangle of wards that sparkled green and blue and black and were reflected in Snape’s dark eyes. “You … you …”
“You’re as incoherent as you always were, Potter.”
Snape leaned forward, his fingers were hot on Harry’s chin, they burned his cold skin. Snape’s breath was hot on Harry’s face and then the man reached out and brushed a clump of mud off Harry’s face and it was almost tender, it was almost a caress and there were strange reflections of light dancing in Snape’s eyes. It had been over a year since Harry had seen Snape and the man hadn’t changed, he still smelled of potions and spices in the darkness, he still knew how to cut with his words, he hadn’t changed at all except for the strange hint of gentleness that had infused his words and touches, the feel of his strong arms in an embrace from behind, the touch of his hand on Harry’s cheek, and this warm man was the man who had killed Dumbledore.
Snape inched closer and closer and the breath caught in Harry’s throat and then Snape’s hand had moved to his neck, pulling him close with long fingers that were clean and warm. Snape pulled Harry forward and his lips met Harry’s lips in a dry caress and Snape paused there for several long breaths, not moving but only holding his lips against Harry’s lips.
Harry didn’t jerk away, didn’t scream for Ron and Hermione, didn’t spit on the Headmaster’s murderer, didn’t know why he didn’t do any or all of those things. He stood there. Snape’s skin warmed him, in the darkness it was hard to see Snape, and then Snape deepened the kiss, his tongue was warm against Harry’s tongue and Snape tasted of cinnamon and milky tea and his mouth was warm.
Then Snape pulled away and Harry, cold again, wrapped his arms around himself, as a shield from the cold or from Snape or from the confusion that held him there and kept him from fleeing. A sheen of sweat had formed just above his upper lip, probably from Snape’s warmth, and Harry reached up to brush it away.
Snape produced something from one of his pockets, a tiny box that he enlarged with a casual flick of his wand. It was wrapped in Slytherin green and silver and as Snape held it out to Harry, the man said, “Yes, somehow I knew that these colors would look well with your complexion. You can tell even in this dim light. Go on, take it.”
Harry’s hand went back to his lips instead, touching the skin where Snape had touched him with his lips, feeling nothing of the kiss’s warmth there. “How do I know …”
“Trust me.”
The ward light flickered on the silver ribbon and Harry didn’t know how Snape expected to be trusted, wondered if that one kiss had somehow been meant to erase everything that had ever passed between them. Snape stood there as though he were etched in black and white marble, the green box held steady in one outstretched hand.
At last Harry reached out and took the box from Snape, he took care to keep from touching Snape’s hands but the man reached out and clasped one of Harry’s hands. Snape’s skin was dry and warm and he pressed Harry’s wand into the limp hand before he bent to kiss the back of it. Snape’s lips lingered on Harry’s skin, warm and spicy like nutmeg now that he knew that it was Snape who made his nerves tingle like this, Snape’s lips lingered for only a second before he said, “Happy birthday, Harry,” and then he disappeared.
Harry cast as many curse detection spells as he knew on the box before he opened it to find Hufflepuff’s cup nestled on a bed of silver tissue paper. Harry reached out to touch the cup, to feel its smooth warm reality, to touch the metal that Snape had touched, and then he headed upstairs to join the ongoing argument between Ron and Hermione over who got the hot bath.
[mood|
bored]
Author: Les Yeux Verts
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: umm ... barely-of-age Harry - he has just turned 18.
Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor Severus Snape nor any of the less interesting characters created by J.K. Rowling.
Summary: Harry receives an unexpected birthday present from the last person he'd have ever expected to find in the basement tampering with the wards.
The wards had been clanging in Harry’s head all evening, the irregular discordant sounds repeating themselves without cease and it was all he could do to keep his feet moving and listen to the lethargic conversation between Ron and Hermione and answer when they spoke to him. As soon as the three of them crossed the threshold of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Harry dropped his muddy cloak to the floor and rushed off to check the wards. Ron and Hermione’s argument, repeated often enough to be more than a habit, over who would use the master bathroom with its large claw-footed tub first trailed off behind him as he ran headlong down the stairs to the dank basement.
The bright lights that represented the wards were worsening Harry’s headache, but he continued to squint at the intricate tangle of lines. The green swirl that was the proximity ward blinked an erratic beat, a jazzy counterpoint to the thud of Harry’s heart. He touched it with his index finger, let the rough vibrations travel up his arm and through his veins and into his magical core, and the clanging in his head was silenced. The other wards had not been disturbed, and Harry stepped away from them, ready to go upstairs into the dismal grimy atmosphere of the ground floor where Ron and Hermione were arguing still for the first use of the bath. He could hear their faint voices through the wooden door and Ron wasn’t yielding to Hermione, even though he should have learned by now that she always won the right to the first bath no matter how many times they had the same argument.
With a sigh, Harry decided that it would be best to just give in and let both of them have the bath first – muddy and cold as he was, longing for a bath to wash away the memories of the wasted day, he was too tired to argue with them, too tired to repeat the paths that a hundred conversations had already taken. Today marked the anniversary of a year of fruitless searches for the Horcruxes, never mind that it marked his birthday, never mind that there was no hot food to be had, nothing in the cupboard, nothing to mark the day except cold mud and achy bones and the promise of a hot bath to soothe them. His foot poised over the bottom step of the staircase, Harry wobbled and almost fell when someone said his name.
Strong arms steadied him and for just a second, Harry was held in a warm embrace that was unlike any embrace he’d had from Mrs. Weasley or Ginny or even Ron or Hermione. It was steady and smooth and sparked with just a hint of danger, being held by an unknown person in the dark basement, it felt like the nutmeg in eggnog, and it was warm where he was cold, tingling all along the nerves of his spine, unseen fingers stroking a curve along his ribs, and he rather wished it wouldn’t stop.
“You almost did a decent job on the wards, Mr. Potter.” Warm breath flowed over his ear and Harry felt the heat of a body standing just behind him and it took a moment for him to think beyond the pleasant sensation of warmth on his cold skin.
He spun around and raised his wand. “Snape,” he said, and that was a mistake.
A nonverbal spell wrenched his wand out of his grasp and Harry stumbled backward, stumbled into the stairs and fell.
“Still too slow,” Snape said. His velvety voice was intimate in the dark basement. It skated along Harry’s cold skin like the sheen of oil on a rain puddle, a noxious rainbow of colors with its strange dark allure.
Harry flinched when Snape reached down to help him stand, he tried to knock the man’s hand aside, tried to scramble up the stairs on all fours.
“Potter, you always were a graceless lout, but this is extreme behavior even for you.” Snape pulled Harry to his feet and dragged him over to the corner where the light of the wards shimmered.
“Look at this, you foolish boy. This connection here is improperly made – go on, fix it – and you need to make the wards exclusive to you. There’s a charm that you can link to all of the wards and then no other wizard will be able to modify them. Go on, Potter, you should have learned this charm in your third year, don’t gape at me.”
It had been a year longer than any year Harry had known before since the last time he had seen this man and Snape had murdered Dumbledore and Minerva had assured him a hundred times that the Potions Master was innocent but Harry had seen the murder with his own eyes, seen the green jet of light that arced from Snape’s wand and he wasn’t ready to trust him, wasn’t ready to modify the wards that he’d slaved over at this man’s order.
“What are you doing here?”
Snape loomed over Harry with all his height, poked Harry’s own wand, the wood cold in the chilly basement air, into the hollow of Harry’s throat. “Do as I say.”
Snape held a wand on Harry while the wards were fixed to his satisfaction, though he refrained from making his usual snide comments. He forcibly reclaimed Harry’s wand when it was finished, Snape’s warm fingers lingered on Harry’s cold fingers for a second as he yanked the wand from Harry’s grasp.
“Well, boy, have you no manners, or aren’t you going to invite me to sit? No offers of refreshments? Your hospitality does not impress, Potter.”
Harry looked at the staircase and Snape took hold of his chin with long fingers, turning his head back. “Don’t bother calling for your little friends. They won’t hear us.”
The multicolored lights of the wards did eerie things to Snape’s face, elongating his hideous nose and casting shadows under his eyes and he was grotesque and goblin-like in the semi-darkness. “No one will hear us,” Snape repeated. “I could do anything to you here and no one would come to save you. Do you understand, Potter? The progress you’ve made this year is not enough.”
There was no sneer on Snape’s face now, there was nothing except for the tangle of wards that sparkled green and blue and black and were reflected in Snape’s dark eyes. “You … you …”
“You’re as incoherent as you always were, Potter.”
Snape leaned forward, his fingers were hot on Harry’s chin, they burned his cold skin. Snape’s breath was hot on Harry’s face and then the man reached out and brushed a clump of mud off Harry’s face and it was almost tender, it was almost a caress and there were strange reflections of light dancing in Snape’s eyes. It had been over a year since Harry had seen Snape and the man hadn’t changed, he still smelled of potions and spices in the darkness, he still knew how to cut with his words, he hadn’t changed at all except for the strange hint of gentleness that had infused his words and touches, the feel of his strong arms in an embrace from behind, the touch of his hand on Harry’s cheek, and this warm man was the man who had killed Dumbledore.
Snape inched closer and closer and the breath caught in Harry’s throat and then Snape’s hand had moved to his neck, pulling him close with long fingers that were clean and warm. Snape pulled Harry forward and his lips met Harry’s lips in a dry caress and Snape paused there for several long breaths, not moving but only holding his lips against Harry’s lips.
Harry didn’t jerk away, didn’t scream for Ron and Hermione, didn’t spit on the Headmaster’s murderer, didn’t know why he didn’t do any or all of those things. He stood there. Snape’s skin warmed him, in the darkness it was hard to see Snape, and then Snape deepened the kiss, his tongue was warm against Harry’s tongue and Snape tasted of cinnamon and milky tea and his mouth was warm.
Then Snape pulled away and Harry, cold again, wrapped his arms around himself, as a shield from the cold or from Snape or from the confusion that held him there and kept him from fleeing. A sheen of sweat had formed just above his upper lip, probably from Snape’s warmth, and Harry reached up to brush it away.
Snape produced something from one of his pockets, a tiny box that he enlarged with a casual flick of his wand. It was wrapped in Slytherin green and silver and as Snape held it out to Harry, the man said, “Yes, somehow I knew that these colors would look well with your complexion. You can tell even in this dim light. Go on, take it.”
Harry’s hand went back to his lips instead, touching the skin where Snape had touched him with his lips, feeling nothing of the kiss’s warmth there. “How do I know …”
“Trust me.”
The ward light flickered on the silver ribbon and Harry didn’t know how Snape expected to be trusted, wondered if that one kiss had somehow been meant to erase everything that had ever passed between them. Snape stood there as though he were etched in black and white marble, the green box held steady in one outstretched hand.
At last Harry reached out and took the box from Snape, he took care to keep from touching Snape’s hands but the man reached out and clasped one of Harry’s hands. Snape’s skin was dry and warm and he pressed Harry’s wand into the limp hand before he bent to kiss the back of it. Snape’s lips lingered on Harry’s skin, warm and spicy like nutmeg now that he knew that it was Snape who made his nerves tingle like this, Snape’s lips lingered for only a second before he said, “Happy birthday, Harry,” and then he disappeared.
Harry cast as many curse detection spells as he knew on the box before he opened it to find Hufflepuff’s cup nestled on a bed of silver tissue paper. Harry reached out to touch the cup, to feel its smooth warm reality, to touch the metal that Snape had touched, and then he headed upstairs to join the ongoing argument between Ron and Hermione over who got the hot bath.
[mood|
bored]