Taking Care of Business

I am a total disgrace. An embarrassment to the Banes-of-Harry-Potter's-Existence everywhere. I should be making his every waking and sleeping moment unbearable, mocking him cruelly, taunting him without mercy, humiliating and humbling him until he is broken and pleading before me. I should not, however, be watching him indulgently as he sleeps, curled up like a fucking puppy, cheek pressed into the arm of the couch.

Which is why it's so disturbing that that is precisely what I'm doing.

I awoke hours ago, unwilling to move, telling myself I was simply in too much pain to get up -- knowing full-well there was a hell of a lot more than a few meager bruises keeping my rear-end glued to this chair.

I've been sitting here for almost four hours now, pretending not to listen to the slightly raspy sound of Potter's breath, pretending not to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelashes flutter every so often, the way his lips move in some distant and unknown dream dialogue. I've been pretending not to notice him for nearly seven goddamn years now - what's another four hours going to hurt?

But it does. Hurt. And it's a pain that goes beyond the split lip, the pulled muscle in my leg, and the rib I suspect is cracked. It's been brewing, just below the surface, since even before I knew the brat existed. The pain of Not Caring has been simmering under my skin for the greater part of two decades, and it takes a hormonal adolescent to make me see that it's all been an elaborate, enormous, self-deceiving game of just-pretend.

The joke's on me, I suppose. Ha fucking ha.

Potter shifts restlessly, breaking me out of my cycle of self-deprecation. His head is bent at an awkward angle, and he moves around, struggling to find a more comfortable position. He turns his face away from me and I see faint red creases marring the smooth skin of his cheek where the coarse fabric of the sofa has pressed into it. I wait until he settles down and then close my eyes, ignoring the vision of Potter imprinted behind my eyelids. I know I should wake him, send him to bed, but the thought of putting even that small bit of distance between us makes me cringe.

I hate myself for this unexpected weakness toward the boy. Unexpected, undignified, and most certainly unwanted. In a matter of days he has managed to crawl under my skin and disintegrate every goddamn wall I've built around myself - each and every one, carefully and painstakingly constructed with brick upon brick of resentment, bitterness, and rage - all gone in a single night.

Tonight, everything has changed. A week ago -- hell, yesterday morning - I wouldn't have flinched when they gave me my orders. I wouldn't have felt a rush of fear that threatened to consume me when they proclaimed the coming hour of his death, and by whose hand it will occur.

I tell myself that my horrified shock is ridiculous - I've suspected for years that this job would fall to me, and I've spent the time since preparing for it. Of course, I was never meant to carry through with it, but that knowledge does little to ease my nerves. Dumbledore is no longer here to help execute the plan we created to handle this situation, and I honestly don't know if I have the strength to deal with it on my own.

And if I don't... well, that's something I can't ponder right now - something I've been sitting here trying resolutely to ignore throughout the night.

I've failed spectacularly.

And so now I stare at Potter as he sleeps, allowing myself for once to appreciate the shape of his face - harder, more angular as he approaches adulthood - the pronounced bow of his upper lip, the barely-noticeable furrow between his brows that makes him look so much older - all in the vain hope of distracting myself from the inevitable hardships to come. Perhaps not the best coping mechanism, but it's all I have at the moment. And besides, I couldn't look away from him now if there was a Dementor, or hell, Voldemort himself, breathing down my neck.

I decide it will be best for all involved if I do not pause to ponder the significance of that.

Resigning myself to the fact there will be no rest for me this day, I come to the decision that at least one of us should be comfortable. I shift out of my chair, wincing at the stiff soreness of the previous night's injuries, and shuffle over to the couch, where I bend carefully over the sleeping boy. I place a gentle hand on his shoulder, pausing briefly to wonder if I've ever done anything gently, and why he of all people should evoke such a change in me, and shake him awake.

"Potter," I hiss, trying not to catch my breath when he blinks sleepy green eyes at me. "Go to bed, you ridiculous boy."

"Wha...? Professor?" He frowns at me for a moment and struggles to sit up. I watch him with an almost-smile on my face as he sniffs and looks around, confused.

"Where's Remus?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

My jaw clenches tightly and a cold feeling shivers along my spine. "What, Potter? Did he leave without a goodbye kiss?"

He notices my sneer and his frown deepens. "When did he go?" he asks, looking angry and for all the world like a jilted lover.

"How should I know?" I snap, hating myself for the petty jealousy smoldering in the pit of my stomach. I don't know why I should care who Potter does or does not kiss, or fuck, for that matter, but this sudden protectiveness I feel for him has me completely discombobulated, and I can't grasp a single coherent thought. "I was asleep before you, wasn't I?" I finally manage.

In truth, I was awake when the werewolf left, and I saw the too-fond look he cast at Potter before disappearing into the fire, but I am very adamantly not thinking about it.

"Can't believe he would do that," Potter mutters, almost to himself. "I specifically asked him to stay here until you woke up."

"You did what?" I ask incredulously.

"I asked him to stay here until you woke up, or until I did."

"Whatever for?" I ask, truly surprised.

Potter grimaces, looking a bit sheepish, but he meets my gaze steadily. "I knew you wouldn't wake me if you were in pain," he says, "and I wasn't really sure how bad-off you were. I tried to stay awake in case you needed anything, but..." He shrugs and glances away, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Well," I say, at a loss. "The pain isn't really... it isn't all that bad." Good Lord. I'm the one who's had the ever-loving shite beat out of him, and here I am, trying to reassure bloody Harry Potter!

He gives me a skeptical look, but he nods finally, and stretches his lithe frame before moving around me toward the fireplace.

"What are you doing?" I ask as he takes down the jar of floo powder. I am panic-stricken for a minute, thinking he is going to leave. It takes several seconds for me to remember that I am the one in charge, and he cannot leave without my express permission.

"I'm going to call Remus and give him a piece of my mind, is what I'm going to do," he grumbles, sifting out a handful of the powder. I realize that as much as I would like the warm tingle in my belly to be merely the sign of a full bladder, it is instead directly related to Potter's unwarranted concern for my well-being.

I reach out a hand and grasp his wrist before he can toss the powder into the fireplace - much as I appreciate his intentions, I have absolutely no desire to deal with that mangy beast this early in the morning.

Potter looks up at me, startled, and then his gaze drops to the place where my hand rests.

"Don't," I say softly, the line of my vision unconsciously following his. My hand is very pale against his skin, my fingers almost long enough to wrap entirely around his wrist. My thumb rests in the hollow of his hand, and unthinkingly, I caress his palm.

"Why?" he whispers, and I'm not sure whether he wants to know why I don't want him to contact Remus, or why I'm touching him the way I am - the way a lover would.

The reality of the moment crashes around me and I drop his wrist as though it's a hot poker. I can feel my face harden and I smirk at him mirthlessly. "Well, Potter, I'm not particularly in the mood for a lovers' quarrel this early in the morning," I say, and tell myself that it's the truth, partly, anyway.

He rolls his eyes and puffs out an exasperated breath. "I told you last night," he says, his voice thick with annoyance, "you don't know anything about it."

I want to protest, to tell him that I may be old and lonely, but I know desire when I see it, when it hits me that I truly did see it, only a moment before. The thought immobilizes me, and it's all I can do to tear my eyes away from his face.

"You need some sleep, Potter," I finally say, opting to close the matter entirely. "You should go to bed."

"Well, I'm awake now," he says stubbornly, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Might as well fix some breakfast. You want anything?"

I look at him, surprised at the offer. "Erm... no. No, thank you," I add, making a half-hearted attempt at politeness, though I'm not sure why. "I never eat breakfast."

Potter raises an eyebrow. "Never?" I shake my head. "Funny," he says, "you always struck me as the 'most important meal of the day' type."

I snort and he grins, and somehow in that moment all the tension has disappeared. He turns and heads into the kitchen, and for some horrendous and unfathomable reason, I follow him. I sit at the table and watch, once again, as he cooks. I'm not sure why, but the activity seems to relax him, and he talks non-stop, prattling on about his wretched Muggle relatives, sharing anecdotes about he and his friends' misadventures, even going so far as to tell me all the details of their famous potions-heist in second year. I am in no small way surprised to find myself interested, even amused, by what he has to say.

I do the dishes afterward, pretending not to notice his shocked expression.

My exhaustion catches up with me after that, and I am ready to excuse myself when a loud noise from the living room interrupts me. We find Remus in the middle of the room, loaded down with boxes and parcels.

"Hello!" he calls cheerfully, nearly dropping his armful. "You're looking better this morning, Severus! How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been attacked by a rabid werewolf," I say drily, taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in seeing him flinch.

He clears his throat uncomfortably and gestures to the piles around him. "I've brought the supplies. There's enough food here to last for several weeks, as well as everything you'll need for your lessons. I took the liberty of going to your rooms and collecting some clothing and other personal effects for the both of you. Do let me know if there's anything else you'll need."

I nod curtly and pray he'll leave.

"How are you this morning, Harry?" he says, stepping further into the room. "Get enough sleep?"

Damn, damn, damn.

Fortunately, Potter isn't in the mood for small talk.

"I asked you to stay with him," he says without preamble.

Remus looks surprised at his terseness, and looks to me as though for some sort of explanation.

"Well, Harry, you both seemed to be sleeping peacefully, and I assumed neither of you were in any danger. Besides, I had to get back to Hogwarts to pick up these things for you."

"What if something had happened?"

"But nothing did," Remus says gently.

"But what if it had?" Harry is fuming now, and I recline against the arm of the sofa, prepared to enjoy the show.

"What if Snape had woken up in pain," he continues, " and thought he was alone? What if he cried out and I slept through it? He almost died last night, Remus. I would think you could put aside your petty rivalry for one night, especially as a favor to me."

Potter is breathing hard by the end of his little speech, and I am a bit stunned to realize how sincerely angry he is. Lupin appears to be surprised as well, not to mention quite hurt. His amber eyes darken and his shoulders droop, and for a scant moment I am almost sorry for him.

"I... I apologize, Harry," he finally manages to say. "I didn't realize... I... perhaps I should go." He looks around the room for a moment, seeming lost, and then places his packages on the coffee table. "I'll just... leave all this here. Erm, let me know, if there's anything... if you need... anything else. I do hope you feel better, Severus."

I consider rebuffing him, but he looks so pathetically sad that I give him a polite nod and am actually relieved when he straightens up a bit.

"Well," he says, reaching for the floo powder, "goodbye, then."

"Remus," Potter says, stopping him.

I should have known. Damn bleeding heart.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," he says, and Lupin lights up like a goddamn bloody Christmas tree.

"It's alright, Harry. You're right, I should've stayed. I'm sorry I didn't."

Potter nods. "No hard feelings then?"

"None at all," Lupin says with a sickening smile. I notice nobody seems to give a damn whether or not I have any hard-fucking-feelings.

They continue to grin at one another idiotically for what seems like hours, until Lupin finally bids us good day and disappears. I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, and look up to meet Potter's expectant gaze.

"What?" I say, immediately on the defensive.

"Nothing," he says, watching me strangely. "It's just... well... you were almost... polite."

"And your point, Mr. Potter?"

He shakes his head, frowns, and then shrugs. "Never mind," he says. "It just seemed... nothing. Forget I said anything."

I roll my eyes heavenward. "As stimulating as this conversation is, Potter, I seem to be suffering from a severe lack of sleep. I'm going to bed now - I suggest you do the same."

"Not tired," he mutters, but I can see that he is.

"Suit yourself," I say, already on my way up the stairs. "But we'll be beginning lessons as soon as I wake up. I'd hate to see the boy-who-lived lose a limb due to lack of concenration. The-boy-who-was-maimed just doesn't have the same ring."

I do not wait to see if he heeds my advice, but I smile to myself when I hear him come up the stairs and go into his room several minutes later. Moments after that, I am asleep.

***

I took a post-graduate course in lucid dreaming after I left Hogwarts, at the request of my father. He had come from a long line of dream-walkers, and hoped that I had the gift as well.

I did not.

I performed miserably in the class, and though I received barely-passing marks, my instructors made it clear that was only on the merit of my scholarly application - I could study and learn and regurgitate the theory, but I had no real talent.

The problem was that I could become conscious of the dream, but I could do nothing to control it. Most lucid dreamers can dictate the place, the people, and the circumstances they dream about, and be in control of themselves the entire time. I would get far enough to know I was dreaming, but be completely helpless to do anything about it.

Such is the case now, as I watch Potter being hideously tortured by death eaters. I recognize the form of Lucius Malfoy, masked and robed though he is, as he delivers a heart-wrenching blow to Potter's jaw. The boy is whimpering softly, tears coursing down his cheeks, but he says nothing, does nothing but kneel on the hard stone floor and take their worst.

I know this is a dream. I tell myself over and over that this is not really happening, that it is a figment of my overworked, over-stressed imagination, but that does nothing to quell the panic that has seized my lungs.

I want to cry out to Potter, to shout at him to do something, anything to get away from them. I want to distract them, so he can run. I want them to beat me instead, because I can take it. I've been taking it for years now, they cannot break me.

But they can break him. As I watch him now, I note how fragile, how delicate he seems. Oh, I am not stupid - I am fully aware of what a powerful wizard he is, but he is just a boy. A scared, hurting little boy with haunted, grown-up eyes and an adolescent body.

He is ageless; he burns with wisdom and innocence, power and vulnerability.

And as I watch, I know what Dumbledore meant, what he wanted me to do. And suddenly, it's what I want, too.

To take care of him. To protect him from those who would bring him harm, those blind idiots who cannot see his goodness, his purity. I was one of them, too-short a time ago. But now...

Now I see him for what he is, who he is. I see the horror that is in his future and I ache for him.

I am paralyzed, unable to reach him, call out to him, completely impotent and full of self-loathing. The beating continues, and though I try to look away, I cannot. He is openly crying now, and I can see in his face that he hates himself for it, for showing them weakness.

He is whispering, so softly I cannot hear him, and I strain to make out the shape his lips are making. When I finally decipher it, my blood runs cold and my heart stills in my chest.

Severus.

He is whispering my name. He does not stop, even as his lip bleeds and swells, even though he cannot see me, cannot know I am there. His attackers do not let up, even when, endless moments later, he seems to lose consciousness.

He slumps over, cheek pressed into the floor, his bruised flesh a garish purple in the dim light. One of the death eaters, still Lucius, I think, bends over him, yanking up his robe and bunching it around his waist. It is not until he begins to pull down the boy's trousers I realize what he means to do.

Something long dammed-up within me bursts then, and I find my voice.

"Potter!" I shout, but they do not hear me. Lucius runs a hand, slick with blood - Potter's blood - along supple, smooth white flesh, and I snap.

"Harry! God, no! Harry! HARRY!"

And suddenly I am yelling, shouting myself hoarse, and he's there, real and solid and warm and so fucking alive. He's in my bed and in my arms before I even know what I'm doing, and I'm pressing my face into his hair, breathing in the scent of him - sweat and soap and cologne from some damn admirer or other - and I'm whispering his name, just like he was whispering mine, and it feels so good, to finally say it out loud, better than I'd ever thought it would.

I know I'm frightening him - I can hear his ragged breaths, feel his racing heartbeat, but I can't let go - can't stop drinking him in.

"Harry," I say against the hot skin of his neck. "Harry, Harry, Harry..."

"Shh," he says, reaching up to stroke my hair. "Shh, it's alright, I'm here. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." He pulls away minutely and stares into my eyes. I can see his fear and confusion, his concern for me, and... something else. Something more.

"Professor," he says softly, and then, "Severus..."

It does not occur to me at first to be gentle with him. It is only after I am crushing my lips against his that I realize I am most likely terrifying him, forcing myself on him. But when I pull away, he moves with me, not allowing me to break the contact. He presses his mouth hard against mine, and when his tongue darts out to taste me, I groan.

If anything, this encourages him, and he thrusts into my mouth, filling me with the essence of him. I respond unthinkingly, unable to remember a time when I felt a desire so powerful, so strong. When he begins to retreat, I bite down gently on the tip of his tongue, savoring the strangled sound he makes low in his throat.

He is, of course, a teenage boy, and I tell myself I shouldn't be surprised at feeling his hardness when he pushes his hips into mine, but there is a part of me that finds it incomprehensible that that is... for me.

I should be disgusted, I know - with him, for his blatant sexual advances on a professor, with myself for being so fucking turned on by them, but I can muster only some unnamed and overwhelming emotion that surges through my chest and lodges somewhere in my throat.

And of course, there is the fact that I started it.

I do not dwell on it though, as pure sensation demolishes every thought, and I arch against him. My own erection strains against the constricting fabric of the Muggle trousers, and later I will wonder how anyone can stand to wear them.

But not now.

Now I grasp his hips firmly, pushing them downward as I thrust up, laughing hoarsely as he gasps into my mouth.

"Severus," he says again, as he desperately tries to find a rhythm. "Oh, god... please..."

"Please what?" I ask, teasing him, reaching a hand between us to feel his heat.

"Please..." he moans, rubbing against my palm. "I want..."

"What, Harry?" I whisper, thinking - knowing - I would give him anything.

"Your mouth," he says finally. "I want your mouth."

I almost stop then, thinking it has gone too far. But we have already gone too far, too fast, and there is no going back. I roll him gently onto his back, taking a moment to simply look at him, laid out before me like a holy sacrament, wanton and yet still pure, desire clouding his eyes.

I run a hand lightly, reverently, over the opening of his trousers, loving the way his entire body reacts to my touch. I unzip him slowly, enjoying the wonderful torture as he is gradually revealed to me. And when I finally take him in my mouth, it is sweeter than I could ever have imagined.

His startled cry sounds so beautiful, and I swallow him as deeply as I can. I know it will not take long, not with our frenzied, passionate build-up, not with him being so young and inexperienced.

So young...

Oh, god. He's so young. So fucking young. And I'm... I'm old enough to be his father, and this is wrong, this is bad, this is so, so... shit!

But there is nothing I can do, because he is coming, hard and fast, and he is hot and bitter in my mouth. And then I am coming too, without a touch, and it is the singular most powerful thing I've ever experienced in my whole miserable life, and all I can think is that I've corrupted him, dirtied him, taken his beautiful, bright spirit and tarnished it with my own filth.

***

I awake sweaty and sticky, sated yet ashamed. I fall back into the pillows, panting hard, wondering if this situation could possibly get any worse. I look up when I hear a soft whimper, and see Potter's silhouette framed in the door.

Of course, I tell myself. It can always get worse.