Alliance

Alliance Part I

by Leni Jess

Welcome Guest

Snape approached Dumbledore's rooms snarling inwardly. He would not have a good night, required to be polite to an unwanted guest. Maybe he could quietly tell Potter his devotion to professional Quidditch was idiotic for an accomplished warwizard.

What night was good, though the war was three years done? It was not past for those warped by service to the Order of the Phoenix. His Slytherins were not hated as they had been while their supposed master was a threat; instead they were openly reviled. How many of them had suffered and even died fighting with the Order in the Last Battle, still unrecognised by the wizarding world?

Perhaps that was not Potter's fault. Much was due to Albus, whose prejudices created a world no less totalitarian than the one they had avoided.

There the brat was. Well. Not so much the brat these days. Hardly taller, but solider, as the Muggle clothing half concealed by his open dress robes showed. Turning professional had done something for his self-confidence, though he had always been brazenly impudent. And somehow he had mastered his hair; when had Potter learned to make it worthwhile to consider dishevelling him?

The young man moved towards him and greeted him politely in a deeper voice than he remembered. Anyone would think Potter was pleased to see his Potions teacher again.

No meaningless lies about how well he looked. Snape found himself feeling charitable, possibly even grateful, responding, "Good evening, Mr Potter. Has Albus asked you to address the students?"

Potter's face changed very slightly, but Snape could read the revulsion.

He replied smoothly enough, however, "I don't think it's appropriate. I'm not a public speaker; I don't recruit for the sport. There's nothing else to say to them."

So Potter refused to capitalise on his present, earned, glory. Remarkable. And he had refused Albus. Really remarkable, and not easy, as after twenty years Snape knew.

Snape returned the Headmaster's greeting, accepting the inevitable cup of tea, as he saw Potter had done. Albus was not twinkling over the half-moon spectacles; perhaps he was disconcerted that his favourite would not perform for him.

A few social platitudes, mostly from Albus. Snape, as always, remained silent, and Potter's responses were devoid of content. Well. The brat had turned out interesting.

When Albus was interrupted by a Floo call from the Ministry Snape hardly hesitated. "Would you care for a drink, Mr Potter?"

They left the untouched tea, and though Potter did not drink Firewhisky either they found plenty to discuss. Not the war. They talked of mutual friends damaged and recovering, Hogwarts, the present Minister's faults, then turned to potions.

Potter ran a hand through his hair, looked at Snape's messy tangle and offered, "Let me show you something, Professor Snape."

Some time later Potter's hands were in his hair, but Potter's mouth on his neck was a welcome surprise. He stopped resenting Albus's ridiculous paternal love and concentrated on enjoying something real that would harm no one.

A New Alliance

Harry followed his host predictably deep into Slytherin territory. Snape's rooms were austere rather than welcoming, the spare chairs probably meant for erring or needy Slytherins. He refused Firewhisky; he had found it a treacherous support system at best.

Discussing the luckier victims of Voldemort's war, those only injured in the Last Battle, he found Snape's sympathies went beyond those of his students who had gone to war with him and Dumbledore and Harry.

Together they criticised the new Minister of Magic and all the promises he was not keeping, aware they had small chance of influencing the path the wizarding world took after the war. Snape was despised as an untrustworthy double-agent; while for his own peace Harry had chosen to be a professional sportsman and never to open his mouth in public.

The need to revise the werewolf laws, which Snape now seemed to accept, led to a discussion of the Wolfsbane Potion and then of potions generally.

Harry found himself considering Snape's hair, long, black, thick, and a mess. As children they had referred to him as a greasy git, but he was clean, his nails fastidiously trimmed and his hands scrubbed. Perhaps the materials he worked with affected his hair more than his skin, or perhaps he had not had the benefit of the professional advice thrust upon Harry once he became a member of the England Quidditch team.

It might be satisfying to salvage his hair. It would be more than satisfying to get his hands in it, to wind it round his fingers, to encourage Snape in what, Harry abruptly realised, he seemed quite interested in doing. Harry shifted slightly in his chair, wondering if Snape was as oblivious to that impulse as he had been.

Snape's inaction suggested he thought he still had a teacher's responsibilities. Harry's cock stirred at the thought of seducing him - perhaps he had not entirely left the past behind either, to feel that thrill of impropriety.

He made his offer, and it was accepted. The next offer was made without words, and accepted with considerably more enthusiasm.

Harry had discovered some time ago the benefits of generosity. It was often reciprocated, and where it was not, that served as a warning. Severus Snape accepted everything, and responded with an incredulous abandon that showed how long he had been starved, for sex, yes, and for pleasure, but even for the simple touch of hands on skin.

He was surprised that Harry had only a limited experience to draw on. It seemed to suffice them both.

As they tumbled, still wet, onto Snape's narrow bed Harry discovered in himself a libidinous creature who wanted, and took, and gave pleasure that left him blind and gasping. Snape's ravenous appreciation of his companion's body and its responses sealed this unexpected compact.

They went to dinner contented, easy with each other, hopeful, and extremely neat. Each felt certain that Dumbledore would have difficulty in getting him to do anything he did not intend.

Beloved Children

It had been a long life. Nothing extraordinary for a wizard, but seeing out two Dark Lords had wearied him. He could not face another.

He hoped to see his favourite children reconciled. He could adopt no more sons; the burden of love was crippling.

He did not desire life's vespertine time, with its loss of all sunshine. He would be glad to pass the veil of night, be released from knowledge of his mistakes rippling outwards, still doing harm, impossible to reverse. Let his new portrait watch over the school.

Over dinner he looked at Severus, imperceptibly relaxed, at Harry, no longer the Quidditch professional on display, and guessed what they had done, alone together. He could have howled aloud at yet another mistake, though this time not his.

These two needed understanding of each other, not to use sex to avoid it.

His long-ago carelessness had maimed Severus. His good intentions had wounded Harry; hesitating to expose him to harm, he had compounded its effects. He who loved them had authored their distress. Did fathers of the blood bear such bitter responsibilities?

Afterwards he invited them to his study with Minerva, sympathetic to all three, to provide some warding. He discovered that while Harry was more responsive, the war, and hence much of his schooldays, was still tabu. Severus joined in the conversation, surprising Minerva by not confining his remarks to the school, or potions, and by not complaining of anything.

They excused themselves before he could make a real attempt to dissuade them gently from pursuing the path they had chosen. They went out together, Severus close-lipped, Harry smiling that terrible star-player smile; their goodnights to Minerva were warmer than to him.

It dawned on him that even yet he was not forgiven.

The next weekend Harry returned to Hogwarts, though he did not know until Harry walked into the Great Hall with Severus, whose hair was oddly shining.

He caught a little of an exchange between them: Harry recommending herbal mixtures to Severus for experiment. While Harry by defiant application had achieved an A in Potions in his NEWTs, it was inconceivable the Potions master should take notice of a former student's opinion. That Severus did so seemed a sign he was not merely enjoying a mutual casual pleasure, however inappropriate, but infatuated.

In the common room afterwards they shared a couch and Harry touched Severus - only his hand, only lightly, but significantly - deliberately allowing him to see, smiling at him. It was unlike the boy to manipulate the feelings of others; he was a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.

When they said goodnight this time Harry murmured, "Thank you, Professor, for inviting me to return. I need a new perspective on the past."

Severus added, "In a different light events and people shift their shapes."

What could he do but renew his invitation, mistaken though his beloved children were, if this was the only way they could find towards the sunlight he wanted them to inhabit?

Changing Choices

As the staircase bore them down from Dumbledore's rooms Snape was startled when Potter touched his elbow, murmuring, "There's nothing he can do."

That sounded more like hope than conviction.

His own bitterness responded, "He'll try to run our lives. Or ruin them - there's not much difference, just a vowel."

They set off down the corridor.

"The all-important 'I'. Is that what it's about? He truly believes he's doing his best for us."

"Albus didn't choose our best in the past. He used me, and used you more shamefully still - at least I was adult, and consenting. For a purpose more important that we, certainly, but he never admitted he would sacrifice us to it."

Potter shrugged, asserting, "Now we choose."

In his rooms they frowned at the undeniably comfortless bed.

"You change it." Transformation was not his strong point.

Potter transformed the narrow bed to a broad replica of a dormitory fourposter - complete with Gryffindor red hangings. He apologised, evidently mortified, and while Snape smirked he felt a certain sympathy.

Determinedly recovering, Potter joked, "Red and green make black," and changed the curtains.

Snape's blankets he transformed to a fat goose-down quilt, explaining it filled the chinks round bodies better, keeping warmth in. Even Snape would admit that was needed in the dungeons. He liked the idea of sleeping close to Potter all night.

Later his anticipation was confirmed. That strong and flexible young body had given him pleasure, and taken it, fiercely intent; but it was wonderful to be lying next to its heat, to feel the arm flung over his shoulders draw him nearer while Potter slept.

In the morning he was surprised how rested he felt. Before he could worry about what came next Potter asked, hesitantly, if he might return at the weekend, which was free of professional commitments.

By Saturday, however, Snape's doubts, which had nagged him all week, were clamorous. Was Potter just defying the old man, punishing him? Was he repaying Snape for years of snarling criticism of his undeserved wizarding world stardom, by making Snape dependent on him?

Snape was angry with himself for wanting to do anything he could to keep Potter as long as possible. Stiffly, and rather reluctantly, he invited Potter to his bed, since presumably the young man was most interested in that.

Potter surprised him. "That would be great later, but for now why don't we get outside? It's spring. Walk round the lake, stroll to Hogsmeade, make a day of it. Or Floo to Diagon Alley; you might enjoy visiting the apothecary, or the Knockturn Alley fellow?"

Snape realised that Potter was as nervous as himself, as anxious to please. Without thought he pulled on his Head of House responsibility-taking hat and spoke firmly.

"Come to bed now; then we'll see what's left of the day."

Potter's professional smile was replaced by a decidedly mischievous Gryffindor grin as he moved closer. Snape wondered if the boy intended to let him up in time for dinner.

TBC