Save Your Face

Walk away to save your face, you never were a genius

Walk away to save your face, you let it come between us...

***

I'm feeling rather smug as I watch you walk away from me.

The tables have turned; I have successfully humiliated you. After seven long years of unendurable treatment, both in and out of your classroom, after all that unfounded loathing, I have stripped you to skin and bone, exposing your vulnerability in a way you've never been able to expose mine. You've submitted to me. For what it's worth, I've become your best-kept secret, your station for depraved release, another guilty stain on your conscience. And judging by your frenzied return of all my kisses and touches tonight, I don't think you'll ever want to wash me off.

And somehow, I can't take as much pleasure in that as I ought to. Maybe it's to do with the memory of Dumbledore's death flashing brilliantly through my brain, the knowledge that Voldemort escaped this last battle unscathed, or those protective feelings that came over me when I saw Pettigrew's Cruciatus curse on you.

Do you want to know the truth? I've never hated you, not really. You scowl and mock and spit insults and reprimands, but you're good for me. You bring me back to reality. Others would make me a god, a savior, an icon. But you remind me of my imperfections, my frailty, those things that make me human.

Do you want to know even more truth?

I love you. I think.

I mean, I don't really know what it feels like to love somebody. I've never been conscious of doing it. I appreciate those who love me and the things they do for me. I'm thankful for their presence--Hermione, Tonks, Lupin, the entire Weasley family. They're good friends. But they don't understand me, and I don't understand them. How can I reciprocate their love if I don't even understand it?

But you do understand me, in a way I've never been able to understand myself. Until now. And I understand you, although you'll swear with your dying breath--God, I don't want to think about that--that I know nothing about you.

I do.

You're pragmatic, calculating, shrewd. Sometimes it's excessive. You refuse to show outwardly that you care one way or another about anything, which is precisely why I expect to receive nothing from you in the way of feelings. But you do care. I know you do. And I know how much you despise sentimentality, which is why I would never utter any of this aloud to you.

Is it love, then, Professor Snape? Severus? I don't even know what to call you anymore; I didn't have to call you anything tonight. Is it love? As if you would know. You've never loved anybody, either, I'm sure. For all your skill with a wand and a cauldron, you've never been a genius when it comes to human emotion. I won't hold that against you.

Maybe it's not love. Maybe it's just these adolescent hormones. Even now, as I'm seeing you at your weakest, thoughts of all the gravelly, velvet murmurs and that feral, flesh-searing gaze and that talented mouth on mine and those callused fingers on so much bare skin tantalize me as much as they ever have. I must be a sick fuck. You, too, obviously.

I'm glad it happened, sir. Professor Snape. Severus. We'd needed it, both of us, and possibly deserved it. Albus Dumbledore was the only thing protecting either of us. The end is eminent now, but how it will end is still uncertain. I detest uncertainty, and so do you.

See, Severus? Professor? Sir? I do understand you.

Pain requires comfort and release. Especially when you're an eighteen-year-old boy who stands a good chance of not living to see nineteen. Even more especially when you're a sullen Potions master who's been bottling up pain all his life. It wasn't madness that crushed my mouth to yours. It wasn't delirium that tore the clothes from my body. It wasn't predation that pressed itself inside of me. And it wasn't guilt that flooded into me or out of me at the end of it all.

It was Nature. Honest to God Nature.

What would Sirius say if he knew what had happened under his roof? I don't even want to think on it. And does it really matter anyway? Sirius Black has been dead for over two years, and this is my roof now. He left the house to me, after all.

But why you and me? Was it mere coincidence that we two somehow ended up in privacy, coincidence that we both wanted it? It must be, because I don't believe in fate and neither do you. But why you and me, I ask again?

I'm not too worried about it. I'm glad it happened.

And I want it to happen again. And again. And again. I think you do, too. You probably won't let it, though. Sometime while I slept, your principles came flooding back to you. I didn't realize Slytherins actually had principles. But obviously they do.

You think I'm still asleep. You think that I don't see you letting your temporary lapse into nobility come between us. You walk away to save your face.

Still, I think your face would be safer on the pillow, next to mine.

***

Walk away to save your face, you never were an actor

Walk away to save your face, here comes the morning after...

***

Foolish boy.

Are you even listening to what Lupin says? You'd do well to; your life depends on it. All our lives depend on it. Dear Merlin, my fate rests in the hands of an adolescent imbecile who can't even get the memory of great sex out of his brain long enough to...

I did say "great sex," didn't I?

I can't get it out of my brain, either.

Do not expect me to admit that to you, though. I'm a bit surprised I've even admitted it to myself. But how could I ignore it, when the memory is quickening my pulse, reddening my face, tingling across my skin, twitching beneath so many layers of black robes. It strikes me as queer that you, of all people, should know what lies beneath these robes.

In a moment, I fear that Shacklebolt might glance over and ask me what's wrong. "Nothing at all. It's just that I can't shake the image of my eighteen-year-old former student writhing beneath me from my head." Whatever I answer, I'm half-certain that you'll smirk at me like the cheeky little imp I have always known you to be.

Have some tact, won't you, boy? I know you're a better Occlumens than this; I have seen it in action. If anyone sees that smirk I'm so afraid of now, they will see every mark--real or imagined--that I have left on your skin. Pay attention, Potter.

And if you so much as think to call me a hypocrite, I will take one thousand points from Gryffindor.

Hell, you know what? Forget Lupin! Don't listen to him! Just die at Voldemort's hand, and save me the trouble of having to catch my breath every time I look at you!

God.... I didn't mean that. But I am not sorry I said it.

God damn you, Harry James Potter. Did you know when you kissed me last night how far I would take it? Did you know I had not looked upon you with disgust in almost two years? It is myself I am disgusted with now.

What do you want from me, you insolent wretch? I said it was great sex already, did I not? That should be enough to stroke your ego. Meanwhile, I will keep to myself just how much I wanted you last night, how much I needed you, that I will probably need you so many times before it's all over. It was wanton and rash and inexplicable, and I don't regret it for one second.

Hypocrite, I can almost hear you mutter again. I am, after all, the one who walked away at the end of it all. But I had to leave, Harry. As loath as I was to crawl out of that bed, you have to understand that....

Wait a minute. Why am I trying to justify my actions to you? Just because I poured every ounce of desire and sorrow and fear from myself into you, that does not mean that I, out of necessity, love you. I am concerned for your well-being, and I....

Yea Gods, who am I kidding?

"Harry, have you heard a single word I've said?"

Your eyes lift from the empty focal point in front of you to Lupin's stern expression. I think I know your answer. What I do not know, however, is that you somehow have the gall to kick your chair out from beneath you, dart toward the meeting room door, and spit the words "Sod off, Lupin" over your shoulder before making your sweeping exit.

Walking away to save your face? Ah yes, the angelic, innocent face that belongs to the savior of all Wizardkind.

Angelic and innocent, my arse. I know better. But they don't. You're too good at hiding it.

I have taught you well.

***

The second door slam and the footsteps that echo down the hall, coming after me, are unmistakable. I know it's you. I just didn't expect something so impetuous out of you. Right. Because taking me to bed wasn't at all impetuous....

Still, I refuse to turn around, even for you. You're an intelligent man; if you want me, for whatever reason, I'm sure you'll follow me.

It's my bedroom I'm retreating to. Just in case. I lock the door behind me and hurl myself onto the bed. Rather than striking some enticing pose, my limp, wiry limbs are splayed artlessly across the duvet. I'm sure I look far too much like the little boy I sometimes feel I still am.

"Alohamora!" I hear you mutter from the other side of the door, which opens with a loud pop. It seems a bit silly; I'm just going to lock it again once you're in here. But at least you're on this side of it now, where I need you to be.

But before I can even think to climb off the bed and lock the door back, you've taken it upon yourself to handle the task for me, adding your own Forgetfulness Charm along with it. Nice touch. I told you that you were an intelligent man....

"What was that all about?" you ask with surprisingly little reproach in your tone. I half-expected to be scolded for running off like the immature whelp you sometimes take me for.

I shrug my shoulders, which isn't an easy feat when you're lying face down on a bed. "I couldn't take it," I answer. "Not right now. I couldn't just sit there and listen to Lupin planning out what might very well be certain death for me. I'm not in the mood."

I hear you cross the room, moving closer, and then the mattress sags on my right side. There's a mass of black cloth inches from my face, folding over the bend of your knee. I turn my head awkwardly upward, trailing eyes over the buttons of your cloak, the high collar of your shirt, the thin line of your mouth, and then those fathomless pits you call eyes. I wish you would just touch me already. This proximity is killing me.

"You're going to have to be in the mood for it sooner or later," you say, and only after a second do I realize that you aren't talking about sex. Damned hormones.

You don't speak after that, and I'm grateful for it. I don't know if I could stand the reprimanding I deserve. Part of me wants to cry, but I think you'd just laugh at me. I won't be weak for you, not after last night. I was the stronger of us then, and tonight won't be any different. Unless you refuse me. Then you'll see just what the Golden Boy looks like on his knees, begging for anything you might possibly have to give. Have I no shame?

You do touch me then. I feel a tentative hand against my back, not resting, merely deciding whether or not it should settle into the contact. It does. After a minute or so, it slides up over my shoulder blades, the back of my neck, the top of my head, then softly down over my cheek. I'm not sure if you're trying to comfort me or turn me on.

You're doing both, either way.

I close my eyes and press upward into the touch, letting my open mouth glide over your fingertips before kissing them. When I look at you again, your mouth is open, too, startled. Are you scared, Professor? Yeah, right. I'm not fooled for a second. You knew this would happen when you followed me.

"Why are you doing this?" you try to whisper, but with a voice so gruff and throaty, whispering is an impossibility. Did you know I used to sit in your classes and just listen to that voice, pretending it was murmuring all sorts of delicious things in my ear? Ever wonder why my marks in Potions were so terrible? There's your answer.

I turn over onto my back and take hold of your hand, tugging on it as if to urge you to lie down beside me. You don't. But I know eventually you will.

"Because I want you, Professor," I answer, grinning. Why don't you slap this grin off my face? That's what you would have done before last night. You would never have hesitated to put me in my place.

But you don't. You don't even tell me not to call you Professor. You probably ought to do that as well. How can you even think of me this way, knowing I'm the same idiot boy that fouled up lessons in your classroom for seven years? Or maybe you like it better like this. You always were a little twisted.

"You don't want me," you say, shaking your head. "You want to be with somebody, but you don't want me."

"Is that the way you feel?" I ask, pulling that large cauldron-roughened hand onto my chest and resting it just above my heart. "Are you just craving contact with anybody, settling for me because it's what you know you can get?"

Is that a smile I see playing on your lips? It must be.

"You'll suffice." I have a feeling you're only being a sarcastic bastard. You usually are, after all. I know it's really me you want. "Now, answer my question."

I shouldn't have to, because you didn't really answer mine. Not out loud, anyway. But...

"I'm in love with you," I whisper.

"No, you aren't," you reply flatly, your expression unchanged. It's so infuriating, the way you do that. Does nothing shock you?

I feel my jaw clench as I lift my back off the bed.

"Don't you dare presume to tell me what I feel!" I hiss at you. My anger only stretches the smile on your face. "I'm not a child!"

"Like hell you aren't!" you laugh. "You are a child, Potter. The fact that this accusation would enrage you so greatly only serves to prove that. You cannot see yourself for what you truly are."

I don't know what to say, but it doesn't matter. You've covered my mouth with yours, filled it with that talented tongue once more. I'm not conscious of moaning. That is to say, I don't hear the moan, but I can feel it in my throat, can feel you swallowing it. But I do hear myself whimpering when you pull away from me.

"You don't have to grow up for me, Mister Potter," you say huskily, your fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt. "I want you just the way you are."

Want me. Need me. Love me. What's the difference, really? Whatever significance I might hold for you, the point is simply that you have me.

I shrug my shirt off my shoulders, smiling a little when I realize I can feel your eyes on me, travelling down over my body. I don't trust my trembling hands to work the complicated silver fastenings of your cloak, but you have enough good sense to deal with them yourself. Or maybe you're just in that much of a hurry. The heavy black cloak falls to the floor, and in a matter of seconds your stiff, high-collared white shirt joins it.

My hands settle on your naked shoulders, and I lean forward, pressing my face into your chest. The sparse black hair tickles my nose when I sigh against your skin. Your hands glide artfully up my back and fight to pull me closer.

"What do you want from me?" I whimper, nuzzling against you. I'm not entirely certain whether I'm posing the question to you or to myself. I don't think I want to hear your answer; you'd just insult me. But what about my answer? What do I want from me? I still don't know....

I'm indescribably thankful when you opt not to say anything and instead put your mouth to better use, trailing warm, wet kisses down my neck as I fall back onto the pillow. Your hands pull mine above my head and pin them.

I like this. It's just like all that rubbish I remember reading in my aunt's trashy Muggle romance novels, and somehow that's comforting, because somebody out there expects two people to do these very things. Maybe just not these two people. Nobody in their right mind would expect this out of you and me.

You lift yourself up and kiss me hard on the mouth again. "Turn over," you purr in my ear. Did anyone ever tell you your voice is like liquid sex? I have a feeling you could read off your storage room inventory and bring me to climax. Aural pleasure. It's funny because it's true.

I obey your command, rolling over onto my stomach and burying my face in my pillow once again. If I had the strength to lift myself onto hands and knees for you, I'd do it, but for now I'm all dead weight. I hope you'll settle for that.

I'm sure you will.

After you've divested us both of the rest of our clothing, we don't bother touching much, just enough prepare us properly for what must inevitably ensue. I can't wait for it any longer. It's been almost twenty-four hours now; I think I've waited long enough.

"Take me," I groan, my words muffled by the pillow. I wonder for a moment whether or not you can hear me properly, but the sudden warm stinging in my lower back doesn't lie.

Reality blurs around us. There's only you and me...Snape and Potter...no, Severus and Harry...and this painful pleasure, if such a thing can really exist. It's proving to me that it can, though. I'm yours to take, to control, to mold and make new if you so desire. Can you think of anything you've ever wanted more?

It doesn't take long at all for our passion to find its release, but when it finally does it feels like it's taken forever. As fantastic as it feels, though, I'm glad it's over, if only because it's the culmination of all this eager anticipation. I can feel the emotions you've stirred up in these last twenty-four hours rushing out of me, sinking into your skin. And now I know that the first time wasn't a fluke. And if it can happen twice, it can happen three, four, a hundred times. I hope it does. I think you probably do, too.

It isn't until you climb off the bed, off of me, that I start to feel naked. Why hadn't we been patient enough to bother with sheets? Quickly, I pull my pants back up over my legs and fasten them, and behind me I hear you huff out a cleaning charm. Thank God for your good sense.

I turn over to discover that you've already fastened up the buttons of your white shirt and that the cloak is nearly taken care of as well. My heart sinks a little at the sight of you. Methodical, systematic sex--Is that all this will ever be?

"You're leaving?" I ask, and then wait for you to chide me for posing such an imbecilic question.

You merely grunt an affirmation.

I sigh heavily. "Just like last time."

I can almost feel your eyes narrow as, now fully clothed, you glare down at me. "What would you have me do, Potter? Stay shacked up in here with you all evening? Oh, I'm sure your fan club would just love the implications of that!"

"You put a Forgetfulness Charm on the--"

"So no one could come in!" you bellow. "But after they realize for the hundredth time that you and I are missing and that they seem to be repeatedly remembering urgent engagements, they'll likely put two and two together. Even Weasley isn't that dim!"

It occurs to me that I ought to be indignant at your condescension, but I'm not. I like that you don't tolerate my idiocy, that you refuse to be patient with me simply because you feel obligated to or because I'm someone special who ought to be an exception to every rule. I know I'm nothing special, as far as wizards go. I just wish everyone else would figure it out as well.

I rise from the bed and am standing in front of you in a matter of seconds, arms wrapping tight around your waist. You dip your head just a little, and when your eyes meet mine I see that look of annoyance fade from your face. I smile broadly before kissing you. Do you know how much I've grown to love kissing you in the past twenty-four hours? I've grown to love a lot of things about you.

"Don't go," I say simply. It's not pleading, not whining, not even an order, really. Just a suggestion I thought I'd throw out.

You just huff and shake your head. "I need to," you answer. Your voice is a bit hard still. I imagine it's because you're trying to keep up a mask of resolve and not just because you're a grumpy bastard. "It wouldn't look right if I didn't. Not that it's going to look right, anyway."

"I don't care what it looks like!" I groan. Why am I groaning when I know how much it irritates you? "I couldn't care less what they all think! I'm eighteen years old, and I'm not your student anymore. We can sleep together if we bloody well please!"

A hand silences me, and you screw your eyes shut. "Don't do this," you say to me in a low voice. "It's not as simple as all that. Listen to me, I'm not leaving because I want to get away from you. If that's the fear I need to dispel, then I promise to come back tonight and stay here with you, if you want me to."

You kiss me again quickly before pulling away and moving toward the door.

"I'll hold you to that promise, then," I say hoarsely.

"Count on it," you say to me before disappearing into the hallway.

Funny thing is, I know I can count on it. I swear, sometimes you really do surprise me, Severus Snape.

***

"You know, what you said before...it's not true."

Damn you, you insolent little.... Can't you be silent and give me one moment's peace? Oh, right. That's what the sex was supposed to be for.

"Which bit?" I huff, trying to understand why I'm not wholly irritated by the hand stroking my forearm. And why are my arms wrapped around you, anyway? Dear Merlin, I've broken character, haven't I?

"You said I didn't want to be with you, I just wanted to be with somebody. That's not true. It's you I want. I didn't realize just how much until last night, but I'm glad I did realize it. I just thought you should know that."

I think you've mistaken my silence for acceptance of your confession, because you settle deeper into my embrace. Somehow I know that I am the first person to ever make love to you; call it an instinct. This is precisely what I did not want to happen. If I could go back and undo what's been done, I would. But I cannot, and so I see no point in wishing things could be different.

Did I just call this "making love?" Heaven help me, I did, didn't I? From "great sex" to "making love".... Read nothing into that, Mister Potter.

I shall thank you, though, for managing to restrain yourself from posing all those questions I cannot answer and saying all the things I do not want to hear. You don't ask to know if I feel the same. You don't ask what I'm doing here, in this bed, holding you. You don't remind me how little chance you stand of living through this war. And most notably, you don't make the mistake of telling me again that you are in love with me.

For that, you deserve the utmost praise. Ten points to Gryffindor.

In love with me? Honestly, Potter! How could such an absurd notion as that pop into your pretty little head?

And then it occurs to me...You wouldn't say that if you didn't mean it. Not to me, you wouldn't. You would have been too terrified of my reaction, which might likely have been to humiliate, insult, or chastise you for such unabashed sentimentality. But my reaction was none such as that.

And why not? Thankfully, you do not pose that question, either.

Please, Mister Potter, do not tell me you love me again. I am horrified to even imagine how I might reply.

"You're a fool," I whisper, hardly aware of the words pouring from my mouth. "Why should you be in bed with an old man?"

"Bollocks," you mutter. I can feel the exhalations of your bitter laughter against my chest. "I like you just fine. Besides, you're not even forty."

Point taken. Has it truly only been thirty-eight years? I feel as though I have lived an eternity. I'm almost certain you know the feeling. But I do not require your empathy, nor do I ask for it, so there is no need to offer it. And you won't. You know better. You're catching on rather quickly, actually.

"Professor?"

I shudder at the use of that title. "You aren't my student, Potter," I say sharply. "Call me by my name."

Your head shoots up, glowing green eyes meeting my gaze. "Fine, Severus," you say with too much cheek for your own damn good. "Quit calling me 'Potter,' then. 'Harry' seems to work just fine for everyone else."

Another point taken. Trust me, boy, if you were still my pupil, you would never get away with such impudence. Of course, if you were still my pupil, I would have enough good sense and moral integrity to keep myself out of your bed.

"Harry then," I grumble. "What did you want?"

Dammit, can't you take those eyes off my face for one moment? If they remain there any longer, I fear they may burn a hole straight through me.

"I just..." you begin confidently, but then, as if you've read my mind, your gaze shifts downward. "I always thought that you hated me, but you don't, do you?"

I try to determine the simplest way to answer, because it would be wholly out of character for me to pour my heart out to you and explain the million reasons why I could never hate you, could never do anything but hate myself for not hating you. It's far too difficult to make admissions like that and maintain my reputation for being a heartless bastard.

"No," I say softly. "I've never hated you."

Simple enough.

I can almost feel you smiling against my skin. Smiling, really? Why? Because now it's confirmed that everyone adores the Golden Boy of the wizarding world, even his surly Potions professor?

Well, if that's what you think, you can wipe that ridiculous grin off your face this instant. I don't see the Golden Boy when I look at you. I see Harry. I see a boy struggling to make sense of the life he was thrown into seven years ago. I see your desire to prove your worth. And I see your fear that perhaps you aren't worth as much as everyone seems to think.

I'll let you in on a secret, though, Harry: You are.

"I never hated you, either," you whisper, fingers dancing delicately up my arms before curling around the back of my neck. "I meant what I said, Severus, even if you won't believe it or accept it. I love you."

Funny. Here I thought those three words would be impossible to stomach again.

You tilt your face upward, eyes closed, lips puckered and slightly parted as if to convince me that kissing you would be the only appropriate thing to do. Perhaps you're correct. But as our mouths meet, as my body delights in the nearness of you, appropriate no longer seems to be the right word. Necessary, I believe, rings truer. I have never needed anything so much as I need this, as I need you.

I do love you, Harry. So very, very much.

Please forgive me if I don't say that out loud.

FIN