Title: Gut Feeling

Author: Gingertart

Feedback address: ginger DOT brandonburg AT tesco DOT net

Rating: NC17

Beta: Rakina; you're a star. Thanks for your welcome to the wild and wonderful world of wicked, wanton and wanking wizards

Summary: Snape has stomach-ache. Lupin interferes. A dose of Potter is better than Pepto-Bismol. Snape is in trouble but so, ultimately, is Voldemort. Harry discovers sex magic and Snape finds a family.

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world and characters are the sole property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from writing fanfiction; I just think the boys should be allowed fluff and smut and I'll put them back when they've finished playing. Good grief, you don't think anyone pays me to write this stuff, do you?

URL to the DtD website: http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex. h tm

Warnings: spoilers for HBP, chocolate over-indulgence, reluctant camping, mpreg, sex magic ritual, character death, fluff & smut

Note 1: What if?? What if some event in the books went differently (namely the end of HBP). What if Snape and Dumbledore faked Dumbledore's death so that

1 Snape gained Voldemort's complete trust,

2. the old headmaster sneaked up on Voldemort and together with Snape and Harry, cast a curse to destroy he-who-spent-too-much-time-gloating-instead-of-watching-his-back.

3. Snape returned to Hogwarts and resumed his old career as Potions Master and

4. Lupin once again taught DADA.

Note 2: Incorporates the following challenges from Waves I & II:

Challenge 8 - Snape's got a funny feeling whenever Harry's around. Is it indigestion? Heartburn? Appendicitis? Snape's never been in love before and realising what's going on with him is simply... unacceptable. Or is it? (Kira)

Challenge 48: Harry and Sev come out to their families and friends.(Titti)

Challenge 82: Incorporate the following sentence in a story: "I don't take it up the ass, Potter," Severus snarled. (Kira) (well, almost this sentence…)

Challenge 105: Harry and Snape are slowly easing into a relationship. They are incredibly attracted to one another, but they don't have that much in common - at first glance - and they disagree on a lot of things, but ... slowly they come to realise what they *do* have in common, which is more than what you might think, such as ...a daughter? (Kira)

Challenge 163: Harry thanks Severus for always being there.(Nienna Ciryatan)

Challenge 164: Include Harry saying, "Aw, piss off!" to someone. Not necessarily Severus. (Nienna Ciryatan)

Challenge 169 - Remus Lupin smells the attraction between Harry and Severus on each of them and decides to play matchmaker. (Maddie Eerie)

Challenge 185 - Snape. Harry. Altar. Sex. (Art) (Madbyrd) (Yes I know it isn't art but I wanted them to have sex on an altar. In front of the rest of the Hogwarts faculty. Am I normal? Is it time for my potion yet?)

Severus Snape gulped the goblet of mint-flavoured potion and sighed, sinking back into his favourite armchair. He very much wanted a stiff drink. The acidic churning in his gut suggested alcohol would be a bad idea. Another dinner like that, and he was going to do something he would regret.

What had possessed Albus to employ the werewolf as DADA professor again? Agreed, Lupin was a popular, half-way-decent teacher, not bad company and he even seemed to have forgiven Snape for outing him the last time, but he had one huge disadvantage in Snape's opinion. He brought his damned friends along with him and those friends included the boy-who-just-would-not-go-away. There they were, invited guests at the staff table, the Dream Team stepping down from Mount Olympus to greet their adoring public. Potter himself, he of the scar and charming smile (ousting Lockhart from Witch Weekly's record number of votes polled in their annual competition by a huge margin), plus his Gryffindor mates. Weasley and Granger – sorry, Weasley and Weasley now. And going to be Weasley, Weasley and Weasley, judging by the shape of the know-it-all. Snape sighed and folded his slender hands over his own flat, muscular and very uncomfortable abdomen. The roast pork had been a bad idea, he had known that it would disagree with him, but he had been so distracted that he had barely noticed. Then rhubarb crumble and far too much stilton. He felt like hell, and when someone was stupid enough to knock at the door of his private chambers, he lost it.

“What?” He flung open the door, snarling, wand hand twitching, and glared into a pair of slightly alarmed amber eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Snape turned away, suppressing a need to burp. “What do you want, Lupin?”

“I came for my Wolfsbane potion,” the werewolf said reproachfully, “You told me to collect it after dinner. What's the matter? You look pale – well, even paler than usual, if that's possible.”

Snape indicated that Lupin should come in and shut the door.

“Your potion is there on the desk.” He pressed his hand against a sharp pang and wished the stomach remedy would hurry up and work. He wondered if he would feel better if he threw up. When Lupin touched his shoulder, he flinched.

“Severus? What's wrong?”

‘Stomach upset,” Snape muttered, lowering himself back into his chair.

“Have you seen Poppy? Taken anything?”

“Strychnine, but it has not worked yet.” Then he relented just a little and waved a hand. “Yes, I took a potion and there is no point going to see Poppy, she always says the same thing: ‘try to relax, stop stressing, chill out.'” He snorted. “As if.”

“Well you do seem to do stress as a way of life,” Lupin pointed out with infuriating accuracy. “You always have done. Is there anything in particular that sets it off?”

“Now that you mention it, yes,” Snape said, wincing at the very thought. “Harry Potter.”

“Harry?” Lupin sounded a little too amused and Snape treated him to a force eight glower. “What's Harry done to annoy you this time?”

Snape lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

“Just exists.”

“He barely spoke to you, that I noticed; he certainly didn't say anything to wind you up.”

“I can feel him thinking it; Potter does not have to say a word. I cannot even take points off him any more.” Snape rubbed distractedly at his middle. “Has he no work to do, no people to impress or fans to greet?”

“He resigned from the Hit Squad after the last fiasco,” Lupin said. Seeing Snape's interrogative frown, he added “You know, it was in the Prophet.”

“I never read the Prophet, bloody sensationalist rag – “

“Yes, yes, calm down, Severus,” Lupin said, sounding far too much like Albus Dumbledore, “You'll only irritate your stomach. Harry and Ron and a couple of other Aurors cornered four Death Eaters but it was a trap and they were lucky to get out alive. Harry brought down the lot with that curse he specialises in – that one that hamstrings the victim at knee level? Shaped curse? Really clever bit of hexing; he followed up with a massive stunning hex and the whole gang are now languishing in Azkaban awaiting trial. Harry decided that he'd had enough of cursing people and handed in his notice. Not much the Ministry can do about it, really.”

“How lovely,” Snape said dryly. He had heard quite enough of how wonderful Potter was, thank you very much. He got it from McGonagall, Flitwick, Dumbledore and Hooch on an almost daily basis and all he really wanted was to forget about the little brat, curl up with a potions journal and nurse his grumbling gut. “You make it sound like a Quidditch match,” Snape added.

“Oh yes, Harry's coming to the match on Saturday, I forgot to tell you.”

Gryffindor versus Slytherin, that was all he needed. He had promised to go to support his House, especially as three of the team were exceptionally young and talented, and now he would have to sit in the teachers' box with his Wizarding highness himself. Great. He might as well brew a stock of double-strength stomach potion just for Saturday.

“Thank you, Lupin,” Snape muttered. “Do you not need to go and howl at the moon or something?” Lupin picked up the flask of Wolfsbane and went to the door, but could not resist a parting shot.

“I think you ought to try to get along with Harry. Let go of all the old baggage and forge a new relationship of mutual indifference even if you can't manage friendship. After all, you and I get on fairly well now. Harry's likely to be around a lot more in the future.” With that, he went out. Snape doubled over and groaned, resting his forehead on his knees.

oooOOOooo

Snape found himself staring at the back of Tonks' hair as she sat next to her werewolf lover. Bright cerise and blond stripes, leaving after-images in his eyes when he looked away. If he had any influence over the Ministry of Magic, Snape would have made it illegal to be so obviously and sickeningly cheerful. He had thought that Lupin would be pining for his doggy buddy, but now he and Tonks were carrying on like hormonal adolescents and Snape had quite enough of that to deal with on a daily basis without them joining in. He pulled his scarf more closely around his neck and huddled into his heavy-weight winter robes as a gust of sleet whirled across the pitch.

“Looks like snow,” a tenor voice remarked next to him. Snape's head turned as if attached to a wire, he could not stop himself. A pair of bright green eyes gazed steadily into his and Snape's stomach gave a slow, queasy roll.

“Potter,” he managed with a brief nod. Potter sighed, settling himself on the bench.

“It was ‘Harry' once,” he said quietly.

“You were a child then,” Snape snapped.

“I was eighteen, and we managed to work together on the same side.”

“We cast the same curse at the same time; I do not think that makes us bosom friends.” Being next to Harry made every muscle in Snape's body clench tight and the tension was like a red-hot hand gripping his stomach. The pain inside made him want to snap and snarl like a fox caught with its leg in a trap.

“What is your problem, Professor Snape?” Potter sounded genuinely interested and even a little concerned. No doubt it was a tone that he perfected when talking to his many devoted fans. “I'm no longer failing to hand in my homework, I'm not exploding your cauldrons, so why are you unable to have a civil conversation with me?”

Snape truly did not know the answer to that question. He shifted uneasily, his conscience – such as it was – giving him a little prod. The brat – hero – man – whatever – had been indispensable at the final showdown. Had his innate powers not been added to those of Snape and Dumbledore, Voldemort would not have fallen. Snape realised that he had been silent for too long and those radiant eyes were watching him with thoughtful amusement. Radiant? Where had that thought come from? Wasn't it bad enough that his stomach was out of control, why did his brain have to take a sabbatical and join it?

“I have no idea.” What had happened to his satirical wit and caustic tongue? He had not intended to say that at all; he sounded like Hagrid. How the hell had he ever made it as a spy?

Potter leaned back in his seat, turning a little sideways so that he and Snape were half facing one another.

“Professor?” Potter's bright gaze swept up and down, then fixed once more on his face. “Are you really Professor Snape or are you someone else using Polyjuice?”

“Don't be a dunderhead, Potter.”

“Ah, that's more like it. Come to think of it, Remus said you haven't been very well. You are looking a bit fragile.”

“Fragile?” Snape snorted. ‘Thank you, Potter, that makes me feel exceptionally vigorous and fit.”

“Well, fit perhaps,” Potter muttered, and unaccountably blushed. “Ah, here's Madam Hooch, we're about to start.” He turned away to watch the game and Snape slipped a hand inside his robes and massaged his belly. Something inside Snape was fluttering madly like a trapped bird.

oooOOOooo

Snape was proud of his little snakes. They had managed to defeat the Gryffindor lions after a very closely fought game but he was glad when it ended. He felt washed-out and shaky; an unusually severe reaction to a simple game of Quidditch. He told himself that he was no longer a young man, and one of the after-effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse was an intolerance to sustained high levels of adrenaline. He watched as Lupin and Tonks accompanied the rest of the staff out of the box and waited for Potter to follow them, but the young Auror seemed to be hanging around for some reason.

“Professor Snape? Are you all right?”

“I am fine, Potter!” Irritably, Snape surged to his feet and stomped off down the stairway, robes swirling. What was the brat thinking? Making him feel around ninety years old. Right. Far too old. Far too old for what? Bloody hell, what was he thinking about? Snape clutched at the rail and felt a hand fasten on his arm.

“You're not all right at all, are you?” Potter murmured.

Snape yanked his wrist free from the strong grasp and whirled, eyes blazing. “Leave me alone, Potter! Just fuck off and leave me alone!” Then he fled to the cold, dark, potion-scented safety of his dungeon.

oooOOOooo

As if Lupin wasn't bad enough, now he had Albus Dumbledore twittering around him; Albus with his withered hand and snow-white beard and lined face, all of a hundred and fifty years of age, worrying about a forty-five year old Potions Master with indigestion.

“Albus, for the last time, I have a delicate stomach, that is all. Anyone would think I was dying of some lethal ailment.” This conversation wasn't helping, either.

“Poppy's concerned that you might be developing an ulcer, Severus, and that can be serious. You need to take better care of yourself.”

Snape sipped his tea, wishing for a cup of the vitriolic coffee that Sprout brewed in the staff room; you could stand a spoon up in it and it stripped the patina from old coins, but by Merlin, it woke up your brain in the mornings. Probably chewed holes in your oesophagus, too, a small internal voice remarked.

“I am taking care of myself,” he grumbled. Albus raised a snowy eyebrow.

“Yes, so I see.” Did the headmaster really wonder where Snape had learned his sarcasm? “I think you deserve a rest, my boy.”

“You intend sacking me,” Snape said in a flat, cold voice. “Fine.”

Albus gazed at him for a while, sighed, came around his desk and sat down next to Snape, reaching to pat his hand.

“You know I'm not, Severus. Won't you tell me what's wrong?” The unspoken proviso: “Or I'll read it from your caffeine-marinated, semi-conscious brain anyway.”

“For Merlin's sake, Albus,” Snape gave in. He said dully, “I just – some days I just feel like shit. My stomach gives me hell and if that wretched brat comes near me once more I shall hex him.”

“Ah,” the headmaster sighed. “Yes, young Mr Potter. You do have a problem with the family, don't you, Severus? I think you may be in some kind of denial there.”

“Why does he keep coming back?”

“Because I'm going to employ him.”

Snape laughed. He had to, because the alternative didn't bear thinking about, not in front of Albus anyway. His laughter was sour and tasted like bile.

“As what? Chef? Filch's deputy? Landscape gardener?”

“Split between assisting Remus with Defence Against the Dark Arts and… assistant Professor of Potions.”

Even Albus had the good sense to say it quietly then shuffle back out of reach. Fawkes made a soft keening sound, breaking the ensuing silence. Snape gathered his robes and his dignity around himself and got to his feet.

“If you will excuse me, Headmaster, I feel very unwell. I need to brew myself a tranquillising potion and lie down for a while.”

He did, but not until he had smashed a number of bottles against the walls of the Potions prep room. Then, he taught the sixth year mixed Slytherin and Gryffindor practical and never had so many house points been deducted so fast from so few. Even the Slytherins didn't know what hit them.

oooOOOooo

“Severus,” Lupin began and Snape held up a hand, the one holding the table knife.

“Lupin, do not say a single word.”

“I was going to ask if you'd pass the horseradish sauce,” the werewolf muttered. Snape used the point of the knife to push the jar across the table. He picked at his bread roll, staring blankly at a bowl of mixed salad.

“Severus?” He realised that McGonagall had been speaking his name and turned his head towards her. His skull felt as if it weighed a ton. “Severus, what on earth is wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he said between his teeth, “apart from the fact that I appear to be gaining an assistant, one for whom Potions classes were a daily adventure into the realms of ignition, combustion and effervescence, and for whom a Potions Master was a beast to be poked with a metaphorical sharp stick upon every conceivable occasion.” He took a deep breath, about to mention in passing that he had not been warned, let alone consulted about the appointment, when a familiar voice remarked coolly, “Ah, you're talking about me, then.”

Snape's innards ratcheted the pain up another notch.

“Yes, Mr Potter, I am.”

There was a long pause.

“That's Professor Potter, I believe.”

Snape's exit from the Great Hall of Hogwarts was just about the best ever. He surged to his feet, thrust back his chair and took a savage delight in augmenting the charm that made his robes snap and billow in his wake. He stalked out, slamming the door behind himself, and stormed off towards the domain of the Slytherins. Once there, he slumped against a dungeon wall, pressing his heated cheek against the cool, damp stones and groaning as his belly clenched. He was going to be sick, this time. The bastards were conspiring against him, driving him out of the only home he had ever loved. His mortification bubbled inside him.

“Severus?” The whisper was soft and hesitant, as if the speaker hardly dared approach him. So, had he even terrified the werewolf at long last?

“Sod off and leave me alone.”

“No; you're ill.”

“I will live.” He pushed himself upright, but his head was bowed under the weight of his unhappiness and his hair shielded his face from view. His eyes were watering; he certainly did not want Lupin to think he was weeping. He rubbed the back of his wrist across his face. “I am sure I can find a potion to ease even this unprecedented level of humiliation. I shall probably base it on fire-whisky.”

“I've never intended you to be humiliated,” the voice said more strongly, “I'm not my father and I don't want to humiliate you.”

Not the werewolf, this was Potter. Snape clamped his hand over his mouth and breathed steadily through his nose. An arm came around his back, a strong and unwavering pressure. “Come on. You don't want the students seeing you like this.”

Potter steered him into his office and then shut and warded the door. Snape sank into his chair, just wanting it all to go away. Now Voldemort was destroyed, did he really have any reason to stay at Hogwarts? Snape placed his elbows on his desk and covered his face with his hands.

“What's this all about?” Potter asked. His voice was unnerving, very gentle and frighteningly strong. There was subtle compulsion in it. Snape had been pulled between two dominant wizards like a carcass fought over by wolves; and guess what – here was a third wizard with the power to control him. Walking back into his life. Unsettling his orderly existence, upsetting his digestion, tearing his heart to shreds. “How have I hurt you?”

“You came back.” Snape was horrified at the sound of his own voice, choked and needy. He bowed his head and clenched his fists in against the front of his tunic. He heard Potter's crisp new academic robes brush against the desk and then hands settled lightly on his own.

“Severus.” So soft, that voice, so familiar and yet never before had he heard it quite like this. “Severus, do you mean what I think you do?”

“I wish I knew.” Something like a hot wire wound tight inside him and he made a small sound of pain. Then Potter's arms were around him and Snape could smell him, a faint odour of clean, young male. Potter's hand flattened against him, rubbing soothing circles against his belly.

“Merlin, you're wound tight as a spring. I didn't realise how much I'd upset you; I'm so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Snape heard himself say the words, but it was, it was all Potter's fault for being himself, for surviving, for saving them all and most of all, for being so fucking beautiful. “Please go.”

“Ssh,” Potter whispered, “You don't really want me to, do you?”

“I don't want you to see me like this.” His voice hitched on the words like a jilted girl's but it felt good, just for a moment, to lean against that uncompromising strength. Potter had been a boy when he left Hogwarts and he had returned as a man. The strongest man Snape had ever met, damn him. Strong enough to possess all that power and walk away without using it. Potter's hand was still moving gently, easing the ache, softening the taut muscles.

“I want to see you as you are, Severus Snape, all of you.” His voice, as he spoke against Snape's hair, was almost inaudible. “Am I asking too much?”

“Yes.” But Snape was unable to push Harry away.

“Why? You implied that you want me, and I want you too.”

“You're too strong,” Snape whispered against Harry's chest. “I spent my life at the beck and call of two of the most powerful wizards in the world until you eclipsed them both and guess what, here I am, Severus damned Snape, back in the same old routine.”

“Is that what you think?” Harry asked. When had he evolved from Potter-the-brat into Harry-the-man? “That I want to control you? God, as if I could! Don't you understand? You're the only person I never did have any power over. Even Dumbledore never stood up to me like you did. You used to put the fear of God into me – well, the fear of Snape, anyway. You're a powerful wizard and I've always respected you, you're terrifyingly intelligent - except in one currently significant area - and I've come back because of you.”

This was all getting away from him. Snape shook his head, trying to shock his stunned brain into coherence.

“But I am far too cynical – ”

“That's what I like about you!”

“Too old –”

“Bollocks! Look at Albus and Minerva. In a hundred years time, the twenty-one years between us will be totally insignificant.”

“Too fucked up. I'm an emotional wreck, Harry. Look at me, just being around you sends me into a psychological meltdown.”

“I know what you mean,” the young man muttered. “Being around you drives me to distraction, Professor Tall-dark-and-brooding. Hey, you seem to be handling being cuddled pretty well, all things considered. Shall we try raising the stakes?”

Snape discovered that while he had been distracted, his sorry carcass had become way too relaxed under the skilful hands of the boy-who-was-massaging-him. He was unable to stand up, or even fight off Harry's sudden pounce. A mouth swooped down and captured Snape's lips. A kiss, that was all, just a simple kiss, oh, but it was so nice. So soft, those lips on his, a tongue that nudged gently for admission, the flavour of – was it strawberries and wine? Snape moaned and took another taste. Something very good, anyway. A hand was gently cradling the back of his head, fingers sliding through his potion-vapour-sleeked hair.

Snape's stomach was trying to turn somersaults inside him, making him dizzy, but the pain had eased considerably and he no longer felt sick. Just as well, because the hand was rubbing harder now, and moving down, sliding inside his robe and tunic, seeking bare skin, and he found his utterly disloyal belly arching into the contact.

“No!” Panting, wild-eyed, he tried to thrust Harry away and fought as blindly as a trapped animal. Harry immediately released him although one hand did remain resting on his shoulder.

“Why? What's wrong?”

“You've gone too far, Potter! I won't be able to get back!”

“But why should you want to go back?” The voice, so gentle, as if Harry truly wanted to know. Snape owed him that, an explanation for rejecting him so unexpectedly. He closed his eyes, so he did not have to watch Harry's expression change.

“It hurts too much. When it ends.”

“But why should this end, Severus?”

“It always does.” He pulled in a deep breath, guts churning once more. “It ended the night I left after we faked Albus' death, it ended for the second time when you came to face the Dark Lord and I thought – I thought that we could not possibly both survive. Then I lost you again when you walked away from Hogwarts. Three times is too much, I cannot do this again.”

There was a long silence, and then Harry said softly “Look at me, Severus.” Deep green eyes, pools to drown his soul. “I went the last time because I couldn't stay here and see you every day, wanting you but believing that you didn't want me. I came back to visit my friends, trying to avoid you – did you notice? Yes, I thought you would – and Remus told me that perhaps I did have a chance. That my presence disturbed you as much as you disturbed me. That your frustrated longing smelled like fire and smoke, just like mine. He advised me to try again, even after you told me to fuck off.”

Fire and smoke, then deep pools to submerge in. Snape could only stare, entranced.

“You came back for me?”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last fifteen minutes, yes.”

“But – but you are so beautiful.” How could he explain that Harry's masculine beauty – strong, vigorous, passionate and so powerful – could not possibly be for someone like him?

“And you may not be generally regarded as handsome, but you're the sexiest man I've ever met and I want to spend the next – oh, hundred years or so – exploring exactly how sensuous and sarcastic and witty and abrasive and loyal and courageous you really are.”

Harry's words sank into Snape's withered soul like rain into parched earth. Harry leaned to kiss the tip of Snape's admittedly substantial nose.

“But you're the Boy Who Lived,” Snape muttered.

“I'm the man who's had a crush on a Potions Master for the last seven years,” Harry corrected him. “Sappy, huh? How's your stomach?”

“Awful,” Snape snapped, wits once more about him. “Urgently needs compassionate attention.”

“Here?” Harry's hands moved down, gently rubbing and stroking at the smooth skin, and the little line of hairs that led inexorably downwards, towards Snape's trousers. Harry seemed to be unfastening buttons as he went by some sleight of hand, a subtle charm that Snape thought he ought to familiarise himself with, some day. His skin was quivering like the hide of a nervous horse and there were things happening in his underwear that would have been against school rules, had Harry still been his student. Harry's hand dived as if homing in on a snitch and Snape whimpered. “Naughty Professor Snape,” Harry sighed luxuriously, “I shall have to put you into my first-ever detention.”

Snape gave a startled chuckle and Harry unexpectedly plonked himself down onto his lap, winding one arm around Snape's neck. “Wow, I don't think I've ever heard you laugh like that before.”

“Foolish boy,” Snape growled. “How dare you think you can put ME into detention? What on earth would you make me do?”

“Polish my wand.” Harry's fingers skimmed lightly across flesh already aroused by his proximity and Snape shuddered. “I'll demonstrate the lesson by polishing yours first, shall I?”

“Prat!” Snape gave a completely involuntary pelvic lunge, almost unseating Harry, who wrapped his hand around the aching length of Snape's prick. “Oh Merlin…”

“Nope, wrong wizard, this one's Harry. I'll send Merlin around later. Although I doubt if he can do this…” Harry slid down from Snape's lap, dropped to his knees and pulled open Snape's robes. It happened so fast that Snape could only give a gasp of shocked appreciation, throw back his head and tremble as Harry's hot, wet, insistent and totally irresistible mouth closed around his cock. It had been far too long since anyone had willingly applied himself to bringing Snape to orgasm. He had become too accustomed to his own hands; he had forgotten that sex could be unpredictable and frightening, that it could swallow his soul and spit it back out into his body in an entirely new configuration. He came hard, long before he thought that he was ready, convulsing with the unexpected raw power of wanting and compulsion.

Then Harry taught him exactly how long Snape could hold on for if he had to. Over and over, he brought Snape to the edge and then slowed right down, until Snape begged him to please just let him come again. When he did, Harry sucked and swallowed it all, licked him gently clean and then tucked him back into his underpants. “Ah,” Harry said with an evil grin, “A puddle of molten Snape, I do declare. How's your stomach now?” He rubbed it gently with the heel of his hand.

“Guhhh…” Snape burbled, sprawled in his chair with his robes open, bones turning to rubber and muscles to warm syrup.

“Don't need any potions or anything?”

“Pepper-up,” Snape mumbled, “If I am expected to do anything after that…”

Harry kissed the hooked tip of his nose again, a touchingly affectionate gesture. “I think you still need looking after, don't you? I'd better take you to your chambers. Just in case you relapse.”

Maybe he used a levitation charm, or perhaps Auror training and amateur Quidditch had given Harry his elegantly understated muscularity. He gathered Snape up in his arms, marched across the office, shouldered the powerful wards aside – how the hell did he do that? – and carried him into his bedroom, depositing him on the bed in a tumble of black fabric and relaxed limbs.

He may not often bother to utilise them but Snape had been taught good manners. When Harry threw off his academic gown and crawled onto the bed to join him, Snape told himself that he was a wizard, damn it, not a flobberworm. He rolled the startled young man onto his back, pinned him down and proceeded to kiss him breathless, purely out of a sense of gratitude, of course. Before Harry had recovered from this sneak attack, Snape produced his wand and dredged up a long unused charm from the depths of his memory. He smirked down at the suddenly naked Boy Who Lived and ran a finger-nail down Harry's sternum.

“Got you, Potter.”

Harry frowned slightly and then his face relaxed and he whispered the same charm. Cool air swept across Snape's skin as his heavy robes fell away. Wandless. The brat! The gorgeous, green-eyed nude brat, splayed out on Snape's bed and grinning up at him. Snape lowered his torso onto the delectable body, skin sliding across skin, and he moaned at the silken beauty of the contact. He reached down and gently folded his fingers around Harry's erection.

“My turn,” Snape murmured. Something pooled molten in the base of his belly, something more powerful than lust. It was guiding his actions like an Imperius curse. He held up his hand and whispered “Accio!” and caught the little jar as it whizzed across the room. Trapped in the green enigma of Harry's eyes, he slowly applied a smooth, rich hand-lotion to Harry's cock, and then to his own opening. He felt loose and eager; he wanted Harry inside him in a way that he had never desired before.

“Are you sure?” Harry whispered but Snape leaned over and sucked away his words and his doubts into his own mouth and swallowed them. Harry groped for Snape's hand, uncurled his fingers from the jar and reached around behind Snape. He slowly inserted a finger, slicked with lotion, and Snape made a sound deep in his throat, a wordless plea for more, as the finger-tip touched a spot that sent wild heat surging through his viscera. Harry added another finger, then a third, and Snape wanted to writhe on them but he stilled his body and gently withdrew.

Then Snape lowered himself millimetre by slow millimetre onto Harry, settling down, feeling an unaccustomed pressure building inside himself, a feeling of fullness, of completeness and satiation. He sighed. Inside him, everything relaxed and reconfigured, as if his entire body wrapped itself around Harry's cock, kissed it, swallowed it and made it his own.

“Mine,” he murmured, bending over to place a kiss on Harry's lips.

“Yours,” Harry agreed, stroking his hands up and down Snape's sides, “And you're mine.”

Snape positioned his hands on either side of Harry and began to move, gasping, needing to milk every precious drop from him, wanting to suck him dry. Then Harry wrapped his arms around Snape and surged up, seizing him and throwing him down on his back. Snape gave a rather inelegant squawk, followed by a groan of bliss as the brat began to pound him into the feather mattress, hitting that incredibly sensitive spot every time. It must have been magic. When Harry came, Snape found himself arching into an astounding third orgasm, albeit from a fount wrung almost dry. He felt Harry's seed coating his insides, laving him in a warm, generous potion that soothed his heated guts and left him filled and desired, gravid with a million tiny possibilities. Anything might happen now. Snape's life had changed utterly around him. He stared up at his flushed and sated lover and watched as Harry reached to spread his fingers across the pale skin of Snape's abdomen, pressing lightly at the now pliant muscles. Snape placed his own hand on top, yet again feeling that odd quivering sensation.

“You'll probably hate this,” Harry whispered, “But I'm falling in love with you, Severus Snape.”

It was an epiphany of sorts. The hot coiled phenomenon inside Snape spread its wings and took flight.

“I've beaten you to it,” he sighed and nuzzled against the brat's muscular shoulder. “I've fallen already.”

oooOOOooo

Professor Severus Snape came into the hall for breakfast, looking as bleary-eyed and malevolent as ever. He slid into his usual seat, groped for the coffee pot and sloshed black coffee into a mug, raised it and swigged back a couple of mouthfuls. Then he stared around at his fellow staff members, his black eyes emotionless.

“Good morning, Severus,” Lupin said, because he was always polite and had been trying to make friends with the greasy git for years. Although Snape did not appear at all greasy today, his hair looked newly washed, soft and silky around his face.

“Good morning, Remus.” Well, that was better than the standard monosyllabic grunt.

“How are you, Severus?” Dumbledore enquired, blue eyes concerned.

“Very well, thank you, Headmaster. Is there any lime marmalade left?”

McGonagall silently passed him the jar. No-one seemed quite sure what to make of this new, articulate version of the morning Snape. A lithe, swiftly-moving figure appeared through the staff door at the side of the hall; everyone looked around apart from the Potions Master, who was intent upon spreading marmalade on his toast. A veritable chorus of “Good morning, Harry!” greeted the newest member of the Hogwarts staff as he sprang up the steps onto the dais.

“Morning, Headmaster, Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout, Professor Vector, Professor Flitwick…” he reeled off names as he passed them. He paused behind Snape's chair. “Good morning, Professor Snape.”

“Good morning, Potter.” Snape's voice was as chilly as one would expect. Harry leaned over the high back of the throne-like seat, so that his head was close to Snape's. Snape turned to look up at him. Harry moved in and touched his mouth to Snape's in a brief, chaste kiss, then withdrew and black eyes stared into green at a range of around six inches. No-one dared breathe, awaiting the inevitable explosion. “Detention, Potter,” Snape drawled, then his hand darted up, caught Harry's head, pulled it down and their mouths met again, in a very swift but deep and tongue-tangling snog.

Harry took the seat next to Snape's.

“Pass the coffee, please, Severus.”

Snape handed him the pot, picked up his own mug and drank, eyes closed in pleasure or pain, it was hard to tell which.

“Any idea,” Harry asked after the shocked silence had gone on for a while, “Where my red boxers are?”

“They are where you threw them,” Snape responded, reaching for another slice of toast. “On my bloody desk, I suspect, among the sixth year essays.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Snape snorted, then his black eyes opened wide and he glared at Lupin, who did a good impression of wolf-in-car-headlights-on-motorway.

“I owe you, Remus.”

“You're welcome,” Lupin mumbled. Then he grinned. “Any time. I hope your stomach is better?”

“Better?” Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow and purred, his voice all fire and smoke, “I believe that it is cured, thank you. I have never felt so well in my life.”

Professor Severus Snape knew that he was intelligent. Also haughty, evil-tempered, dyspeptic and hypercritical, but no one was perfect. Of his colleagues, Albus Dumbledore was brilliant but batty, Filius Flitwick well read and intellectual, Minerva McGonagall logical and a stickler for the rules, Remus Lupin cautious but quick on the uptake and Harry Potter was intuitive. Also sexy, infuriating, sexy, reckless, sexy, loyal and did he mention sexy? Snape tuned out Dumbledore's voice and watched Potter through narrowed eyes. The exasperating brat had grown up into a maddening young man. Large, expressive green eyes no longer hidden behind ugly spectacles, compact muscular physique, mop of unruly black hair now slightly tamed, boyish face matured into a handsome adult visage – oh yes, a very pretty picture indeed. Snape shifted slightly and was grateful for the voluminous nature of his academic robes. He hardly wanted his esteemed colleagues to know that he sat through the entire faculty meeting with a stiffy that could hammer nails, simply because he was opposite the boy-who-lived-to-drive-him-mad.

He was also jittery; a state of mind both familiar and unnerving. Twenty-six hours ago, he had gone into the Great Hall for dinner as usual; grumpy, vaguely depressed and resigned to his life of self-imposed celibacy. He had always assumed that if - by some twist of fate, alcohol or magic - he ever managed to charm young Potter into his bed; then the experience would put an end to his infatuation. To his total astonishment, they had spent last night doing the kind of naughty things that Snape had fantasised about after one too many malt whiskeys. Not quite like his daydreams, though. “I don't take it up the arse, Potter,” Snape snarled in his fantasies, but in reality, he had bottomed for the first time in his life. He had been rolled over, pounded into the mattress, sucked, nibbled and generally reduced to a moaning sticky mess. Then he had realised that he was falling in love. With Potter, his nemesis, the bane of his life. He really was going mad.

“Severus?” Dumbledore's voice was amused. Snape realised with a sinking heart that this was not the first time his name had been called.

“Yes, Headmaster?” He scowled; a staunch advocate of the theory that attack was the best form of defence. Dumbledore was as ever totally unfazed.

“I've put your name down, if that's alright with you; we're in need of a Slytherin. Pomona will be happy to fill you in on the details. I think we've covered everything, so that'll do us till next week, chaps, do have fun in the meantime.”

Professor Pomona Sprout, clearly aware that he had been out of it for the entire meeting, gave him a conspiratorial leer that filled him with dread, never mind details.

“My word, Severus,” Remus Lupin remarked, “I am surprised; I didn't think you'd be up for that kind of adventure. “

“Bastard,” Snape muttered, clenching his fists on the edge of the table. Lupin smiled, probably sympathetically, but Snape was in no mood to be sympathised with. He turned to Sprout, took a deep breath and said in a voice that could freeze molten lava, “What kind of foolish, dunderheaded plan have I unwittingly become embroiled in this time?”

“Only unwittingly because you were too busy lusting after Harry to pay attention,” she said. Sprout was a far more powerful witch than she looked, as Snape was well aware; one did not become head of a house at Hogwarts merely by having green fingers and a knack with mandrakes. He took a deep breath.

“Would you be kind enough to enlighten me?”

“The Easter field trip for seventh year NEWT students, in Snowdonia,” she said tersely. “We have two female chaperones, myself and Ceridwen Morgan,” she nodded at the new Muggle Studies teacher, “Albus has conscripted two males and you're one of them. Ceri's from Ravenclaw and he decided it was a good idea to have a staff member from each house.”

No. Oh no. Instead of a calming Easter break, researching in the peace of his dungeon, he was committed to accompanying a gang of over-excited adolescents on a jolly.

“And which Gryffindor was fortunate enough to pull the other winning ticket?” he asked in the tones that usually presaged massive loss of house points.

“Now Severus,” said the witch, opening her eyes wide in feigned innocence, “Albus is a kindly old soul.”

Snape snorted.

“Albus is a conniving old bugger, as we all know to our cost. He is not forcing me to share primitive accommodation with a werewolf at a bad time of the month, is he?”

She reached out and patted his shoulder, fully aware of how he recoiled from physical contact.

“I'm sure young Tonks would have something to say about that. Don't be silly, Severus, you'll be sharing a tent with Harry. Isn't that nice?”

Snape gritted his teeth. He had asked for it, really. Snogging Potter at the breakfast table was bound to result in dire consequences. Could life not give him just an occasional lucky break?

oooOOOooo

After a day of explosive practical lessons (he refused to admit even to himself that he was at fault for not paying enough attention to the brats) and a staff meeting in which he inadvertently let himself in for a week in the Welsh equivalent of Hades, Snape was in need of a drink. He stormed into his living room, collapsed onto the sofa, snarled “Accio fire-whisky!” and “Accio tumbler!” and switched off his higher brain functions for a while. Visions of Harry Potter crept into the void; memories of Harry spread out on his bed, naked and utterly debauched. Delectable. His hand crept down beneath his robes and rubbed lightly at his erection. Then his fingers stilled.

His fantasies had involved Harry for so long. They still revolved around Harry; except that now he had tasted the clean, salty musk of Harry's aroused cock. He knew that Harry's body and limbs were smooth, with just a sprinkling of fine hair on his chest, and a little trail leading down to the black thatch in his groin, and he had investigated the tufts of hair under his arms. He knew what Harry felt like, that slick skin moving against his own and Harry's gorgeous big cock stroking his prostate. He wanted to feel it again. His stomach gave a warning gurgle, the sort of gurgle that went away for a while when he doused it in alcohol and then came back a hundredfold later on, complete with raging indigestion. He put the tumbler aside and slowly, cautiously, got to his feet.

He tried not to think too closely about what he was doing. Severus Snape, Potions Master and Ex-Master Spy, had let himself act upon instinct in the past, with dire consequences. Curiosity had led him to a werewolf's den; a need for acceptance had resulted in the Dark Mark upon his arm. Now he was allowing himself to be pulled by the prick along a subterranean corridor, up a flight of stairs that emerged in the Gryffindor Tower, and to a heavy oak doorway. He raised a clenched fist and stopped dead. No. Not here, not now, this was too dangerous, he was risking too much. He lowered his hand, gasping, his innards clenched with alarm. What was he thinking? He was risking his shrivelled, closely guarded old heart on a reckless Gryffindor!

“Severus?”

If Harry's wards were anything like as sophisticated as his own, they had warned him minutes ago that someone stood on his doorstep. That, or Harry operated on blind instinct, which was all too likely. Snape stared into a pair of wide green eyes. “I was just thinking about you,” Harry said, “Please, come in.”

It would be churlish to refuse. Snape ignored the little voice telling him that “Churlish” could well be his middle name. Harry's private sitting room was much smaller than Snape's but it was airy, its wide window overlooking a quadrangle with a giant oak tree in the centre, faintly illuminated by the lights from the castle. A Gryffindor banner hung over the fireplace, where a log fire dispelled the early spring chill. The furniture was standard Hogwarts issue, clean but worn, mismatched and eccentric. Hedwig perched on the back of a sea captain's chair at the desk where Harry had been marking first-year Potions essays.

“Why does Dumbledore believe that I have need of an assistant?” Snape had never thought to ask before. He had been too immersed in the winter of his discontent at the time.

“He told me that he's worried about your health. That you're very stressed and Poppy Pomfrey thinks you're working up to stomach ulcers and God knows what else.” Harry took his seat at the desk and carefully cleaned his quill and capped the inkbottle. “I'm just helping out, taking some of the pressure off you and giving Remus the benefit of my technical expertise.” Snape snorted. Harry grinned. “Yeah, well, we all know my ‘expertise' consists of a mixture of dumb luck and hunches, don't we?”

“And raw power.”

Harry stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. In the privacy of his own rooms, he had shed his formal teaching robes in favour of Muggle jeans and sweater, giving Snape far too good a view of his neat, taut arse every time he moved.

“I'm still not convinced.”

Snape made a sharp, irritable gesture with one hand, cutting off the young man's objection.

“You are the most powerful wizard in the country, Potter, and maybe the world. Face up to it, otherwise someone may take advantage.”

“You and Dumbledore – “

“You are more powerful than I am.” Snape snapped. “Less focussed, less experienced, less highly trained, but you could curse me into oblivion even through my shields. You barged straight through the wards on my rooms last night, did you not realise? Dumbledore is able to do that, but only because he holds the wards to the entire castle.”

Harry stared, appearing rather pale.

“I didn't mean to.”

“I realise that, I am merely pointing out the reality of the situation.”

“And what is the reality of the situation, Professor Snape?” Harry's tone matched Snape's for businesslike sarcasm. “The war is over; I've a satisfying job teaching a subject in which I've rather too much practical experience. Most of my friends are alive and well, thank God, and the man I'm wildly attracted to, seems to resent the fact that I can get through his wards and appears to believe that I'm here under false pretences.”

Snape blinked.

“I did not mean to imply that. I suspect everything Dumbledore does on general principles.”

“Can't really blame you.” Harry sighed. “I did wonder why he was so keen on getting me back here, but I wasn't going to complain. Hogwarts is the only real home I have ever had, I love the place.” He lifted an eyebrow. “So do you, don't you?”

Snape shrugged but by the look on Harry's face, he might as well have nodded. “So,” Harry said, “What can I do for you, Professor, or was this a social call?” He smirked at Snape's carefully disguised embarrassment and relented. “I was going to come and see you when I'd marked this lot.” He waved at the rolls of parchment. “Hmm, where to find and how to use a bezoar. I wonder why I got to mark that particular topic?” He grinned at Snape's look of innocent enquiry. “Would you like a drink? I was about to break for tea.”

They sat one on either side of the fire; Snape with peppermint tea, now that he felt on better terms with his stomach, Harry sipping a mug of the house elves' special brew with milk and sugar.

“What were you distracted by when Dumbledore asked you to come on the field trip?” Harry asked. “Oh don't scowl at me, he caught me out too. I was remembering last night.” He stared directly into Snape's eyes, his pupils wide and dark. “Remembering what you look like, naked. That wasn't a one-off, was it?”

“No.”

“I want to do it again, very much.”

“Yes.”

“Is this encouragement, in a Snapeish kind of fashion?”

Snape sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“I am not used to this, Potter; it is entirely unfamiliar territory for me.” When he lowered his hand, he gasped. Harry had crossed the room in complete silence and was kneeling next to his chair, gazing resolutely up at his face. He reached up and took Snape's hands in his own, rubbing his thumbs lightly across the knuckles.

“Severus, have you never done this before?”

To his horror, Snape felt himself blush. He had not realised that he still had that capability.

“Not like – no, not like that. In the past, I have taken part in Death Eater rites, which involved a sexual element. As one of the Dark Lord's inner circle, it was necessary for me to… to penetrate others but I have not been penetrated before.” He had never felt so uncomfortable.

“I'm sorry,” Harry whispered, still gently massaging his hands, “You should have told me. I didn't realise that it was your first time; I should have been more careful.”

Snape was astounded.

“Great Merlin, Potter, I doubt if you could have made the experience any better.”

“Really?” Harry's face lit up. “It was mind-blowing, wasn't it? I've never felt anything like that before.” He reached up and lightly trailed his fingertips along the curve of Snape's jaw. “You're gorgeous.” He grinned at Snape's automatically scathing expression. “Not handsome but striking, elegant, sensuous. Your hands and your eyes are so beautiful and your voice is to die for. I bet you could make me come just by talking to me.” As he was speaking, he began to slowly climb up onto Snape's lap, gaze fixed on his mouth. “Go on, speak to me. Use that voice on me.”

“What do you wish me to say, Professor Potter?”

“Don't care. Put me in detention if you want. Just talk.”

“I could tell you what a sexy arse you have,” Snape suggested, reaching around to cup said arse with both hands. Harry wriggled. “How much I want you, how I've wanted you since you were in the sixth year. How much I want to spread you out on your bed and explore every inch of you.”

“Oh yes please!” Harry moaned.

“Want you,” Snape said. “All of you, all for me.”

Snape pulled Harry's hand down to his groin, and then groaned as the agile fingers curved to cup his genitals in an exquisitely tender clasp.

“You seem to have rather an outrageous effect upon me, Professor Snape. You could bottle your voice as a sex aid. Liquid gold. Molten chocolate.' Harry leaned to suck gently at the lobe of Snape's ear. “Do you eat chocolate, Severus?”

“Occasionally.”

“This is one of my more diabolical fantasies. Oh boy. Accio large bar of Honeydukes' finest dark chocolate. Do you know what I'm going to do with this? I'm going to warm it so that it just melts. And then I'm going to drizzle it all over you and I'm going to suck it off. God, I'm going to lick it from your gorgeous creamy porcelain skin, inch by delectable inch.”

“No you're not,” Snape said in his most dangerous voice. “You're going to melt half of it. I'm going to lick the other half off you.”

“Bedroom's this way. Quite how we explain chocolate stains to the house elves…”

“Who cares?” Snape growled, allowing Harry to pull him to his feet. He was so hard that he could barely walk.

oooOOOooo

Watching as Harry Potter ate chocolate off his prick was not quite what Snape had planned on doing with his evening, but he was not about to complain. Snape sprawled, hands fisted in the bedclothes as Harry hummed and licked and sucked him as if he was a choc-ice. The cool air smelled of cocoa and sex. Snape arched into Harry's obliging mouth and came so hard that he saw stars. Gold and silver stars, darting like fireflies above his head. He stared, entranced, gasping like a stranded fish.

“Harry…”

“Mm?”

“Look.”

Harry raised his head, blinking up at Snape with a dazed expression.

“Huh?”

Snape pointed, as well as he could when his muscles seemed to have turned to cooked pasta. The stars slowly winked out.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, “Saw them last night.”

“What the hell are they?”

Harry grinned.

“Cool, huh?”

“Potter, you don't simply ignore magical phenomena like this!”

Harry raised himself up onto one elbow and trailed a finger in the remnants of the chocolate that streaked Snape's pale skin.

“You do if you know that they're harmless.”

“What are they?” Snape growled. He hated not knowing things; ignorance made him feel vulnerable. Harry sighed and sucked his finger; slowly withdrawing it and making Snape's prick twitch at the sight. He glared his returning erection into submission. Harry sat up.

“Severus, how much do you know about sex magic?”

“Too bloody much.” He had no need to control his libido now, he felt himself deflate as the memories crowded in, black as ravens. Harry gently took one of his clenched fists and held it.

“Of course, tactless question to ask of an ex-Death Eater, but there's a world of difference between ritual rape and magical bonding. What I'm talking about is the bond between two people whose magic fits together.” He gave a rather shy grin. “I spent half the day in the library, looking this up, and an hour before the staff meeting with my head in the fire, chatting to Hermione about it. I wanted to make sure, before I said anything to you, Severus Snape. Our magic has bonded.”

Snape stared at him. Even though he was lying flat on his back, he felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.

“What?”

“I know. Scary stuff.”

“You discussed me with Granger?”

“She's Mrs Weasley now, and no, I didn't mention you by name. She doesn't know I'm seeing anyone. I often talk to ‘Mione about loads of different things, especially in the last couple of months. I'm suddenly teaching for my living and she's bored stiff, waiting for the next little Weasley to arrive.”

“Still getting her to do your research for you, Potter?”

“Yeah, why not? She's brilliant at research and I'm crap. She told me all about magical bonding. Do you know anything about it?”

“It is not a subject that I have ever seen a need to investigate,” Snape said frostily.

“Nor me,” the young man admitted cheerfully. “Never thought it could happen, I always assumed that it was for people like Arthur and Molly, or my parents.”

“Heterosexuals,” Snape snapped.

“Exactly. Although ‘Mione said that it can occur between same-sex couples and that's one of the reasons why wizards are more tolerant of gay couples than Muggles are.” Harry gazed at Snape, as if completely undeterred by the Potions Master's ferocious scowl. “So, I think that for now, we take this slowly, and don't say anything to anyone else. See how it goes, how we get along together. Don't you agree?”

It was a little embarrassing to realise that the brat recognised his apprehension for what it was.

“I told you, this is virgin territory for me.”

“Not any more, it isn't.” Harry sighed blissfully and began mapping Snape's nipples with his tongue. “Mm. I'm determined to totally ravish you in the nicest possible way. You taste wonderful. Spices and bitter chocolate.”

Snape felt himself beginning to melt again despite his irritation.

“Potter, concentrate for a minute, will you?”

Harry sighed again.

“Yes, Severus? Oh, and do you think you could possibly call me ‘Harry'? Just while we're in bed together, as a favour to me? And I was concentrating, very hard.”

“If, as you say, our magic has bonded, then I would prefer it if we did not tell Albus. He would be unbearably … twinkly. He would feed us sweets until I felt sick.”

“I've had this feeling that there's something going on,” Harry muttered, propping himself on his elbows, frowning, so abruptly serious that he was a little frightening. “And I don't think it's just Albus and everyone's favourite werewolf trying to pair us off.”

“Is this your famous intuition?”

“Yes. Will you promise me something?”

“Not without knowing what I'm promising.”

“Typical Slytherin. OK. Promise me, that if anything seems wrong, if you're in pain or anything, that you'll tell me?”

“Only if you promise me the same.”

“We Gryffindors don't like to admit to pain because we're recklessly brave. Slytherins hate to admit to weakness in case anyone uses it against them.”

Snape reluctantly smirked in agreement.

“Will you agree?” Harry asked.

“Yes, if you do.”

“Very well, Harry.”

“Can I go back to licking you now?”

“If you must.” Snape said and resigned himself to seeing stars again.

oooOOOooo

“Professor Snape?” Ceridwen Morgan was twenty-six years old, tall and blond, and she made her academic robes look as if they had been designed for her in Paris. Snape turned to face her, subtly encouraging his own robes to swirl.

“Yes, Professor Morgan?” Aloof, polite, with only the tiniest hint of irony in the way he pronounced the title that she appeared far too young to merit. She looked at him as though she had just noticed how tall he was, and gazed thoughtfully into his dark eyes.

“Can we have a chat about the Easter field trip? Since we're all here.” She indicated Sprout, sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and a herbology journal. She raised an eyebrow as Harry snored faintly from the armchair in the corner of the staff-room.

“The younger generation,” Snape sneered, perfectly aware that Harry had had very little sleep last night. Neither had Snape, but after years of spreading himself thin between potions research, teaching and spying, he was used to sleeplessness. He strode across the staff room, leaned down and rasped, “Potter, detention!” in his ear. Harry's wand was in his hand before Snape could blink.

“Git,” Harry remarked, sheathing the wand.

“Constant vigilance, Potter,” Snape smirked. “Wake up; Professor Morgan wants a word.”

“Sure,” Harry bounced to his feet, “Hi, Ceri.”

“Good evening, Harry,” Morgan's voice was a smoky purr. “I thought we could have a briefing about the field trip. Pomona?”

“Ready when you are, dear girl.” Sprout folded her journal.

“We'll be camping, Muggle-style, at a camp site in Beddgelert forest,” Morgan explained. “I thought we could visit Caernarfon castle for a history lesson, Pomona has plans for plant study days on the coast and the mountains, and we'll do general Muggle activities like hiking, shopping, cooking and eating out. I didn't know if you had any ideas about potions, Professor Snape?”

Snape folded his arms.

“Since we can hardly brew potions in the middle of a Muggle camping site,” he said coldly, “I do not see the point. It is too early in the year for insects or fungi. There are plant materials which we could collect and preserve for future use, but Professor Sprout will cover those, no doubt. I was under the impression that Potter and I were simply tagging along to make up the numbers.”

“I can see this is going to be a barrel of laughs,” Sprout said under her breath. Then she smiled. “Well, at least our discipline problems are solved, aren't they?”

“I'm sure that no one ever dares to defy Professor Snape,” Morgan remarked sweetly.

Snape raised an eyebrow and then scowled as Harry sniggered.

“I did,” he admitted, “On a number of occasions.”

“You're special, Harry,” Morgan murmured. Snape was relieved to note that she quailed beneath his Glare of Lingering Dismemberment.

“I'm looking forward to it,” Harry said, “It'll be fun. How long before we go, five weeks?”

Snape tried not to think about that.

oooOOOooo

Five weeks passed rather quickly. Snape did not know where the time went – well, that was not strictly true. Since he had begun what he told himself was a fling with Harry Potter, his evenings, weekends and rather too many lunch breaks vanished in a blur of sex. Languid, exploring-each-other-for-hours sensuality, hurried bent-across-the-desk shagging, meeting for a quick snog behind the statue of Urban the Utterly Fatuous on the fourth floor, rolling on the hearthrug in front of the fire – Snape was very glad that Harry helped him mark assignments and oversee detentions. It was also fortunate that Harry was assisting Lupin for half of the time, giving Snape a break. He was unable to spend more than an hour in a room with the brat without wanting to get pounded through the nearest flat surface. Or do some pounding of his own. Whatever.

His Muggle clothing felt awkward and unfamiliar as Snape climbed the stairs from the dungeon. His black jeans were a little too tight around the waist and he felt naked without his flowing robes. He decided to attempt a softening charm on his new walking boots. He slung a leather jacket over one shoulder and hoisted his bag (contents shrunk down to a convenient size; he was damned if he was going entirely Muggle for a whole week).

He realised that the little crowd of people had fallen silent and he glared, as three professors and twenty students stared back at him. Morgan, Harry and the students wore jeans with garments apparently called fleeces and hoodies, although Sprout sported a hairy tweed jacket almost worthy of Hagrid.

“Is there a problem?” he enquired in his best freeze-your-bits-off tone. Harry grinned.

“We hadn't realised that you had such long legs, Professor Snape,” he murmured. Snape looked down, at Harry's snug jeans and fitted denim jacket, and tried not to drool. Sprout coughed pointedly and they followed her out of the castle.

They Portkeyed to a point in Wales where Morgan had arranged for a friend to meet them with a mini-bus and camping gear. The Welsh wizard spent some time explaining the intricacies of the vehicle and the tents; while Harry and Morgan listened, Sprout gossiped with the Hufflepuff students and Snape got bored. It appeared that Morgan could drive. Snape had some experience of Muggle transport – his father had been a Muggle after all – and he had come armed with anti-nausea potions. He waited smugly for Sprout's reaction to the hour-long drive along winding mountain roads, but the old witch had done this before and had a cast-iron stomach anyway. Three students required potions and to his utter chagrin, so did Snape. He huddled in his seat, reminding himself that he was one of the principal Potions Masters in Britain and his potions worked, damn it. A dose of anti-nausea number three and sheer bloody-mindedness were all that stood between him and dishonour. The lurching and swaying stopped at last and he breathed in through his mouth, trying to ignore the diesel fumes and wondering if he dared risk a charm to dissipate them.

“Severus?” Harry's voice was gentle. “Are you in any fit state to stand up?”

“I'm fine, Potter,” said through gritted teeth.

“Sure, you're usually pale green and clammy. Why didn't you tell us that you get motion sickness?”

“I don't,” Snape snarled, then gulped and screwed his eyes tight shut.

“So I see. You just stay here while we get the tents up, then you can lie down for an hour.”

Morgan was almost as aggravating as Hermione Granger-Weasley. There was a knack to putting up tents and Morgan clearly had it. She went around assisting with tension poles and guy-ropes and tent-pegs and yards of billowing nylon, and within a short time, Snape found himself standing in the centre of a gathering of brightly coloured domes like huge fungal growths. There were two for male students, two for females, a smaller one for Sprout and Morgan and one for himself and Harry. They were, thank Merlin, hired from wizards. When Snape ducked inside, he found himself in a comfortably furnished bed-sitting room. He lowered himself onto a bed, rolled over and buried his head in the pillows.

He woke feeling vaguely headachy and out of sorts. His dungeon was filled with an eerie blue glow and some blasted bird was yelling its head off in the rafters. He sat up, blinked and remembered that he was supposed to be supervising a field trip. Damn. He wandered out, and found the air filled with fragrant smoke. He was unsure if what he felt was hunger or nausea. Sprout waved a chicken leg at him and grinned.

“Severus, this is excellent! Ceri tells me it's called a barbecue. Come and have a burger, or those pork and leek sausages are very good.”

Harry and Morgan were huddled over a fire in a metal container, muttering and turning pieces of meat with forks. The students sat around with coats and blankets around their shoulders against the evening chill, drinking out of cans and laughing as they ate. “Is that stuff alcoholic?” Snape asked suspiciously.

“It's cola, Professor,” Carlin Stokes, one of his Slytherin prefects, informed him, grinning. “Professor Potter got it for us. Would you like some?”

He took the proffered beverage and sipped warily. The bubbles went up his nose, making him splutter. The food was unusual and strongly flavoured; highly seasoned chicken joints, sausages with fried onions, minced beef patties slathered in peppery tomato sauce. Hunger took him by surprise and he tried everything.

oooOOOooo

Snape decided that he hated camping. The wind roared and when rain began during the night, great fat drops fell from the trees onto the stretched roof of the tent with a noise like fingertips on a drum. Snape had heartburn and his stomach, full of over-spiced meat, was a smouldering furnace. He crawled out of bed, un-shrank his potions stock and began searching for stomach-ache remedies.

“Severus?” Harry murmured drowsily. “You okay?”

“Indigestion. Go to sleep.”

“Thought your stomach was better nowadays.”

“It was, until it encountered a Muggle barbecue,” Snape muttered. He hiccuped queasily. Unless he found that potion in the next few minutes…. somewhere he had a collapsible cauldron for emergency use.

“You're not brewing are you?”

“Not brewing,” Snape groaned, “Vomiting.”

He felt Harry's hands, taking the cauldron, assembling it, holding back the snarled weight of his hair, then supporting him as he heaved. He leaned back against the strong body and heard Harry whispering a series of clean-up and banishing charms.

“Suppose it was a bit too much for you, after motion sickness as well,” Harry said. “Better?”

“No.”

“Finished throwing up?”

“Yes.”

“Come and lie down.” Potter's deft hands helped him back to the bed, plumped his pillow, and tucked the covers around him. Then he disappeared, only to return and force Snape to sit up again. “Here you are, this is the right one, isn't it?”

Snape squinted at the symbols on the vial and gratefully tossed back the mint-flavoured potion, feeling its cooling balm sooth his insides. Then he huddled back into bed, only to find a warm body snuggling against his back. Potter's hand snaked around him, to gently caress his aching belly, and he fell asleep feeling oddly cherished.

oooOOOooo

The shower and toilet block was overrun by Muggle children, whose parents had no idea that Snape was a wizard with a twitchy wand finger and an overwhelming desire to turn them all into stag beetles. He felt totally out of his element in the garish light and the noise. He had heard of electricity but he was damned if he was going to believe in it.

He limited his breakfast to tea and toast, pandering to his still-fragile stomach when it rebelled at the aroma of Sprout's lethal coffee.

“Professors Potter and Morgan are seemingly indestructible,” Sprout proclaimed, after peering cautiously past the screen of Snape's still-damp hair, “I'm tolerant, but be warned, Professor Snape is under no circumstances a morning person. You can still lose house points if you annoy him. By the way, if I have any further cause to Obliviate Muggles, after last night's display of wart-and-acne hexes, you will lose house points in proportion to the severity of the infringement. I don't care how aggravating the Muggle child might be. Anything to add, anyone?”

“Today, we're going to Bangor,” Morgan said. “We'll visit a Muggle bank and withdraw money then we'll hit Tesco this afternoon and buy food for the next few days. Please remember that Muggles aren't deaf or stupid, so be tactful.”

“I shall go shopping for books and clothes,” Harry remarked, “If anyone wants to come with me, they can. Please keep your wands hidden, but not in the back pockets of your jeans, as I was warned the first time I met a bunch of Aurors.” At the puzzled looks, he bared his teeth in a grin. “Unless you wish to set fire to your buttocks and force Professor Snape to apply healing salves? I thought not.”

Snape took an anti-nausea potion before setting foot in the vehicle, so all he had to contend with was a day surrounded by overwrought teens, far too many Muggles and a boyfriend who seemed intent on making up for an entire childhood without pocket money. Even Sprout was disgustingly cheerful. When they finally returned to the campsite, Snape had a headache. He took himself off for a walk in the forest while the students attempted to cook dinner. On camping gas burners this time, but he refused to believe in those either.

Snape had never been one to admire nature in the wild, but the ferny banks and moss-draped trees had the merit of not requiring supervision. He sat down on a boulder, allowing his long fingers to unclench, and leaned his head back against an oak.

“You hate this, don't you?” The voice was gentle, easing in between the sounds of wind and running water.

“This is not my idea of a holiday, Potter.”

“If it's making you ill, you should Apparate back.”

“Perhaps Albus is right, I have allowed myself to become more stressed than I realised. I thought that the end of the war would mean that I could relax.”

“Maybe you've forgotten how?” Hands lightly settled on his shoulders and began to knead the taut muscles. “I thought I was helping.”

“You are,” he admitted. “Oh yes, just there…”

Warm breath gusted across his neck, and lips skimmed the side of his throat. Snape tipped his head to one side, sighing, as Harry sucked lightly at the tender skin.

“I'd better be careful, you're not wearing your high collars,” Harry murmured, his voice vibrating against Snape's flesh. “Don't want to mark you. What would the students think?”

“Let them think what the hell they like,” Snape sighed, “They are no doubt screwing like rabbits; it will not do them any harm to find out that their Professors are human too…oh.”

“Oh?” Harry asked wickedly, sliding a hand down to the front of Snape's jeans. They were suddenly very tight indeed.

“If you touch me there again, Professor Potter, you will have to finish what you started.”

“With pleasure, Professor Snape.” Harry dropped to his knees and reverently drew down the zip. Snape's erection bounced free into the fresh mountain air. “I was getting hungry anyway.”

Snape collapsed back onto the moss, whimpering as hot lips closed around his cock.

“Harry…oh gods, yes…”

Harry chuckled, vibrating down Snape's entire length as he took him in deep. Then without removing his mouth, he raised his wand and put up a silencing charm and a do-not-notice-me charm around their little corner of forest, and set to work.

oooOOOooo

Carlin Stokes and her best friend, Moira Hardwicke, sat between Snape and Harry, amid the Slytherins and Gryffindors. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were chattering quietly with Sprout and Morgan at the other end of the long table. The restaurant would have been half empty but for the Hogwarts party. Snape was amused to notice that the two girls were flirting with Harry – subtly, they were Slytherins after all – but the attraction was there. Harry was only six years older than they were. Snape felt ancient. He looked over at Sprout, twice his age, growing plump and contented in her niche, and thought that even she made him feel old.

“Professor?” Carlin's voice penetrated the morass of his thoughts. He reached for his wineglass.

“Yes, Miss Stokes?”

“Do you think that I could teach Potions, Professor Snape?”

Snape gave her question the benefit of consideration.

“Teach by all means, but Potions, no.” He noticed that Harry blinked at the brusque words. “You have skill and knowledge but I do not believe that you have the commitment to Potions. I suggest that you consider Charms or Ttransfigurations.”

Carlin nodded.

“That's what Professor Flitwick suggested. I just thought I'd ask your opinion, too.” Typical Slytherin, ask around and compare responses before going with the one you like best.

“Have you spoken to Professor McGonagall?”

“Not yet, but I shall.” She glanced at Harry, and Snape noted a glitter of mischief in her eye. “Professor Potter, did you expect to find yourself teaching Potions?”

Harry chuckled.

“Good grief, no! I used to drive him mad.” He gestured at Snape, who glowered. “You may notice that I don't teach the NEWT classes. I'm not brilliant at making potions but I'm very good at using them to advantage.”

“So you and Professor Snape make a well-matched team?” Moira asked, her youthful voice so utterly innocent that Sprout spluttered into her cider. Snape was far too Slytherin to react.

“Professor Snape is the theorist, I'm more hands-on,” Harry said placidly, sipping his wine.

“Professor Potter neglects to mention that his true talents lie elsewhere,” Snape remarked. “Although he has a penchant for trouble; he's more of a ‘dive in, ask questions later' type. Capable of blowing brains out of ears.”

“I assume that you're referring to Dark Lords, Professor?” Harry asked, suppressing his laughter with difficulty. Snape glanced aside at the two students, who were trying not to grin.

Snape languidly poured the last of the Sancerre into his glass.

“I sincerely hope that you've never had your hands upon any Dark Lords, Potter. Those talented hands are reserved for my exclusive use.” He paused, looked into three pairs of startled eyes, and drawled, “Preparing my potion ingredients, naturally.”

It was at that moment, while he was enjoying their mildly scandalised amusement, that Snape felt something stab his arm. It could have been a wasp sting, although the season was too early and the weather too chilly for wasps. Maybe a queen hornet, crawling out of hibernation and looking for a nesting site. He winced and rubbed the fabric of his sleeve hard against the skin. Morgan attracted Harry's attention and they started talking about Muggle television. The waitress came around with an armful of dessert menus and Snape made his way to the gents while everyone was distracted.

He pushed up his sleeve and stared at the skin of his forearm. Bile rose up in his throat and he shut his eyes, lips moving soundlessly in a litany of denial. Pain blazed along the convoluted lines of the black tattoo, biting into his flesh, clawing him, ripping him with all the memories that he had thought buried deep. Snape reserved sufficient presence of mind to shut himself in one of the cubicles and lean over the toilet before throwing up, and then he clamped down upon a desire to pass out and escape into oblivion. He splashed himself with cold water at the washbasin, schooled his face into the old, emotionless mask and walked out into the restaurant.

Snape saw green eyes assessing him and narrowing in concern, and he gave the tiniest shake of his head. After a moment of alarm, Harry's Slytherin side must have kicked in and recognised that Snape needed him to wait until they were alone before giving an explanation. Harry dissembled brilliantly, laughing and joking with the students. Snapeish silence and one-word responses were par for the course and accepted without comment, thank Merlin, because for all his experience as a spy, Snape could not have feigned conviviality to save his life.

Snape went straight into their tent and curled up on the bed, instinctively making himself as small a target as he could. He felt Harry's hand on his shoulder.

“Tell me?”

Snape rolled back his sleeve, and then threw his right arm across his eyes, so that he did not have to see Harry's face. He heard Harry's breath come out in a long hiss. He felt fingers trace the pattern of the filthy mark, then felt hands on him, lifting him, holding him close against a muscular chest.

“I cannot do it again,” Snape's voice was a jagged whisper.

“I know. You can't spy this time, he knows you betrayed him.”

“But he's dead.” Denial was a childish reaction that horrified him even as he spoke.

“No, love.” Harry spoke into the side of Snape's neck, whispering into his hair. “No, he isn't dead; we haven't got that far yet.”

“That's why Dumbledore wants you at Hogwarts.”

“Yes.”

“You didn't tell me!”

“I didn't know,” Harry murmured. “I hoped it wasn't true, all we had to go on was my intuition. The fact that Dumbledore and I are still alive, that I felt the absence of… closure, I suppose.” He fell silent. Snape realised that he was huddled in Harry's arms, and Sprout and Morgan were gaping at them from the doorway of the tent. Harry's grip tightened around Snape. “Severus is ill,” he said levelly, “I'm going to Portkey to Hogwarts with him. I can ask a couple of staff to Apparate back and take our places, I'm sure Professors Vector, Sinistra or Lupin wouldn't mind as it's an emergency.”

“I'm not surprised,” Sprout said gruffly, “You've looked like death warmed up all week, Snape. What's wrong?”

“We'll explain later.” Harry released Snape, who curled up again, embarrassment added to his bone-deep weariness. His arm ached as if a troll had pummelled it. He wondered if he could remain a Potions Master with only one arm; amputation being preferable to the punishment that Voldemort could inflict upon a traitor. He heard Harry reassure the two witches and send them to supervise the students, then Harry moved around, shrinking and packing away their belongings. It occurred to Snape that the boy-who-had-yet-again-failed-to-kill-the-Dark-Lord should have been the one in a soggy heap of misery, while he, mature experienced Master Spy, ought to have taken charge.

“Ready?” Harry asked, taking Snape under the arm and guiding him to his feet. “I've got the emergency Portkey here somewhere - ah.” Then the gut-wrenching disorientation yanked the breath out of Snape's body.

oooOOOooo

Snape felt someone slide an arm behind his head, and the edge of a glass nudged against his lip. He sipped cold water and watched the Headmaster's office swim into view, complete with Dumbledore himself, wrapped in a paisley-patterned dressing gown that made Snape's eyes run. Harry helped him to a vacant chair by the fire, and he realised that McGonagall, in a long tartan nightdress and crocheted shawl, was staring at them and clutching a china mug.

“My dear boys,” Dumbledore exclaimed, “What in Merlin's name has happened?”

“Voldemort.” Harry stated. McGonagall gasped and dropped her cocoa. Dumbledore came around the table, eyes fixed on Harry, while McGonagall muttered a charm to clear up the spilled drink.

“Were you attacked?” the old Headmaster demanded, “Are the others safe?”

“No, we weren't; and yes, they're fine. Severus, your arm…?”

Numbly, Snape rolled back his sleeve. He closed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the understanding and sympathy in Dumbledore's face.

“So, you were right, Harry.” McGonagall's voice was business-like. “What are you going to do now?”

“Fight him,” Harry stated with equal precision.

“For Severus?” Dumbledore asked softly.

“I'll never allow that fucking snake to hurt him again.”

“How? Voldemort can reach the mark through Hogwarts' wards.”

“Amputate,” Snape snapped. “Or at least, peel off the skin.” Silence met his suggestion and he opened his eyes. “What are you staring at? It would disconnect the mark from the Dark Lord's control.”

“Severus,” Harry came to kneel before Snape, placing a hand on each knee, gazing up into his eyes. “I know how you've hated being under the control of more powerful wizards, but will you allow me to take over the mark from Voldemort?”

“What are you blathering about, Potter?” Always, he resorted to anger when he was afraid. He hated that trait in his nature, but Harry seemed undaunted.

“I can take over control of the Dark Mark,” Harry repeated calmly.

“How, Harry?” McGonagall asked. “You'll need to forge a strong connection with Severus to do that, and I doubt if you could break it afterwards.”

“The connection is already there,” Snape confessed in a low growl.

“And I, for one, wouldn't want to break it again,” Harry was smiling; green eyes alight with something warm and very understanding. “Bill Weasley gave me a crash course in curse-breaking a couple of years ago and from the things Hermione told me about magical bonding, I think I have a handle on it now. Will you let me try?”

“Do as you wish, Potter.” Snape let his head fall back. “I am unable to comprehend this.” This, with a fluid gesture of one hand, encompassed himself, Harry, the circumstances and the ugly glyph on his arm.

“How do you feel?” Dumbledore asked gently.

“It feels like –” he rubbed at his arm, “ – something slimy, with claws, clinging to my skin. It nauseates me.”

“I can't remove it, Severus; it's too deep inside you. I can only change the bond with Voldemort into one with someone else. It doesn't have to be with me.”

“Of course it has to be you, you foolish brat!” How could Harry grin at him when he was snarling like this? “Will you just do it?”

“It isn't quite that easy, Severus,” Harry said, as if explaining something to a scared child, “It requires some more research, a carefully planned ritual and a potion. I'll speak to ‘Mione first thing and get the recipe for you, so that you can get on with the clever part while I investigate the brute force and ignorance bits. Meanwhile, I'd like Poppy to give you a mild sleeping draught.”

“In a cup of cocoa, good idea!” Dumbledore beamed, although he had lost his sparkle, and his gaze as it met McGonagall's, was sombre. “A warm cup of cocoa is often the answer, I find. Chocolate chip cookie, anyone?”

oooOOOooo

Hermione Granger-Weasley beckoned with her wand to a heavy book on the top shelf of the restricted section. It quivered and grumbled before reluctantly launching itself down into Harry's waiting arms. He spluttered at the cloud of dust and placed the still-twitching tome on the desk.

“This isn't a nice book,” he commented as it spat silverfish at him. Hermione eased herself into a chair and sighed.

“I know, but it'll tell us more about dark bonds than any other book I've ever read. Agreed, Remus?”

The werewolf nodded; reaching to stroke the book's stained cover. It rumbled menacingly. Snape took the chair next to Hermione's.

“Have you had any breakfast, Severus?” Harry's question sounded perfectly innocent.

“Mm.” Not quite a lie, just a hum.

“And why not?”

Because the first thing he did, when he woke up and felt the slime-and-thorns sensation on his arm, was lean over the side of the bed and empty what little remained inside his stomach onto the rug.

“Because…” Remus Lupin allowed his words to trail away, and stared at Snape as if seeing him for the first time. Then the werewolf glanced aside at the heavily pregnant young witch, who was watching with an intent expression, and their eyes met with a sudden flare of mutual comprehension.

Realisation swept through Snape; it was akin to being drenched in icy water. He felt as if he had been sucker-punched, winded, left reeling for the second time in twelve hours. With the most terrific effort, he forced his expression into one of alert composure.

“Shall we continue, Mrs Weasley?”

“Professor Snape,” she said in a clipped voice, “There's something you're not telling us.”

His control was slipping. He could feel himself trembling all over.

“Nothing of any grave significance.”

“On the contrary,” Lupin just had to put in his two-sickles'-worth, didn't he? “It'll mean you have to adjust the potion, which means Harry must amend the ritual.”

“I have no idea what you are yelping about, Lupin.” He had to keep fighting, he was Slytherin and he was damned for sure, but he could not give in.

“You'd better tell Harry,” Hermione pointed out, leaning back and folding her hands on top of the imminent Weasley offspring. Snape stared at the round shape of her abdomen, pushing out her voluminous robes. Oh Merlin… he felt decidedly faint but at least he now knew why.

“Tell me what?” Harry demanded. Hermione sighed.

“Harry, we were both raised by Muggles but don't you ever read? How long have you and Professor Snape been in a relationship?”

Harry had the grace to look a little uncomfortable.

“Sorry, ‘Mione, I should have told you and Ron about us.”

“Ten weeks and four days,” Snape snapped and raised his eyebrows at Harry's surprise.

“As if I hadn't realised who you were talking about when you started asking about magical bonding,” Hermione sighed, “Harry, you are transparent, sometimes, so how do you manage to be so surprisingly dense?”

“As I always affirmed.”

“Stop snarking, Severus,” Lupin said, “You should be explaining to Harry, we shouldn't be doing it.” He leaned in and sniffed twice, delicately, at the side of Snape's neck. Snape jerked away. The werewolf looked at him with calm understanding. “Ten weeks, yup, sounds about right.”

“Tell me what?” Harry insisted again, exasperated, staring back and forth between his friends and his lover. Snape gave in – he seemed to be doing that far too often lately.

“When two powerful wizards bond,” he chose his words carefully, “making love can result in a magical conception.” He waited, watching as Harry's eyes went wide and dark. Harry surprised him then. He did not stammer, ask inane questions, or deny the evidence. He reached to take Snape's hand and asked quietly

“What do you intend to do?”

Harry was not only asking him to choose, but also indicating that he would stand by Snape whatever he decided.

For a few moments, Snape allowed himself to digest all the implications of that choice. He could terminate his condition – he could not yet bring himself to use a more precise description – and go on as they were. Fight the Dark Lord, shag Harry Potter and teach Potions, right. Good choice, safe choice, nothing changes. And yet…

Even being a wizard, he was rather old for this, certainly for a first time; he could never risk doing it again. He did not like brats, he had always maintained that they were nothing other than a necessary evil but there was one inside him now, and it was Harry's brat, their future together. He was a wizard, wasn't he? He closed his eyes and whispered the analytical charm he used when he tested experimental potions on himself, directing it downwards into his viscera. He read the magical signature displayed on the insides of his eyelids and sighed.

“I shall get very fat,” he said, resignedly, “Eventually I will have a ferocious belly-ache and produce a daughter with black hair and dark eyes, and if she is lucky, with your nose.” Then he was knocked backwards into a stack of library books as a hot, eager mouth fastened over his own. Distantly he heard Madam Pince's hiss of outrage, Lupin's amusement and Hermione's exasperated cry of “Oh Harry, for heaven's sake!” as if the brat had neglected to complete his homework, rather than had the gall to impregnate his former Potions professor.

oooOOOooo

“Wombat saliva, check,” Harry recited, “Powdered purple sage, crushed fresh ginger, two unicorn tail hairs, one dram of squid ink, a teaspoon of ground snowflake obsidian, six drops of marsh wight venom, check.” He handed the ingredients one by one to Snape, who variously sprinkled, dropped, stirred or tossed them into the research-grade titanium-alloy cauldron. The Potions Master turned to check the recipe in the black book. The book grunted at him and he tapped it sharply with his wand. “Lupin, are you ready?”

The DADA professor held out his hand and screwed up his eyes as Snape removed a steel needle from its packaging. “I merely require three drops of werewolf blood,” Snape remarked, “I am not about to cut off your arm.” He jabbed sharply at the side of Lupin's thumb, supported his hand over the cauldron and counted the drops of blood, then pressed a piece of clean lint to the little puncture. “Thank you for your contribution and do let me know if you require further medical assistance.”

“Ha ha,” Lupin said, leaning over the still-growling grimoire. “It says vampire blood, here, I'm not a vampire.”

Snape sighed his “Merlin preserve me from dunderheads” sigh.

“Yes, Lupin, vampire's blood is required if one wishes to sever all magical bonds. A werewolf is of the same class of dark creature, but the severing nature of the blood is less. I wish to loosen the Dark Lord's hold upon my arm; I do not intend to lose my own magic or my bond with Harry. May we proceed? Harry, please remove a single splinter of black gallows wood from that blue glass jar, using the forceps, and drop it into the centre of the cauldron.”

“Isn't that dangerous?” Hermione enquired dubiously.

“It is if you are pregnant,” Snape told her, carefully stirring the potion with a copper rod, widdershins, five times. “So please remain where you are, Mrs Weasley. Black gallows wood is indeed a vital ingredient in Thunderclap's remedy, which is a potion that will reliably abort a magically maintained pregnancy. I am using a minimal amount in order to augment the effect of the wombat saliva.”

“Risky,” Hermione opined and Snape took in a deep breath and let it out again through his nose, the overall effect resembling a tall, lean and rather aristocratic dragon restraining its temper with difficulty.

“Am I, or am I not, a Potions Master? Am I, or am I not, attempting to make up a probably proscribed variant of a highly dangerous potion? For which I would appreciate quiet cooperation rather than the current level of sniping and carping.”

“Sorry, Professor Snape.”

“Thank you. Lupin, please pass the double-distilled apple brandy and a pinch of powdered zephyr's wing.”

“That's moon-moth wing dust, Remus,” Harry said hastily, taking the jar from the werewolf. “The zephyr is in the second jar along.”

“What would the moon-moth dust do?” Lupin asked.

“Fail to protect Severus from the full effects of the marsh wight venom,” Harry said darkly, “Which would result in a very poorly Potions professor with green warty skin, red horns and sciatica.”

“Ten points to Gryffindor for remembering your seventh year Potions,” Snape murmured, “And ten points from Gryffindor for Lupin almost poisoning me. Will you just piss off, the lot of you?”

Harry lightly touched the back of Snape's hand.

“Are you sure you can do the rest alone?”

“Potter, GO, damn it!”

oooOOOooo

Snape left his seventh-year NEWT class preparing their ingredients and went to check that the potion was simmering gently. He added a touch of colloidal silver to stabilise the mixture, turned down the heat slightly and gave the cauldron a stir with a hawthorn twig. Another three days should do it. It was the most complex potion he had made in years; delicately loosening the magic binding the Dark Mark while protecting the foetus. In the privacy of the prep room, he slid a hand inside his robes. Was he imagining that slight rounding, to what had always been a flat, firm belly? He still did not quite believe that there was anything so unlikely inside him. True, he felt rather bloated and uncomfortable, not to mention nauseous, but that could just be tension. He massaged his abdomen and allowed himself to wonder what he was going to feel and look like in a few months. He must have a confidential chat with the youngest Mrs Weasley.

The sound of voices from the classroom brought him back to reality. He took in a deep sniff of the lavender haze that rose from the cauldron, turned and swept back to his class, ready to roar if the wretched adolescents were gossiping instead of working at their anti-doxy-venom potions.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on a hard surface and an echoing, fuzzy noise was resolving itself into voices.

“Did he hit his head?” That was Carlin Stokes, sounding quite calm and business-like.

“Don't think so,” one of the Gryffindor boys, Malcolm Anderson, said, “He just kind of folded up in a heap.”

“Loosen his collar,” Moira Hardwicke instructed, and he felt fingers working on the buttons at his throat. If he remembered rightly; she was assisting in the infirmary and had dropped her Divination class in favour of advanced first-aid lessons from Madam Pomfrey.

“Blimey,” Anderson muttered, “Looks like vampires have been visiting the dungeons…”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Carlin hissed, “He'll hex you if he hears you making personal comments. Moira, try that general diagnostic charm you've been practising, see if he's coming round yet. The rest of you had better go back to your potions, we'll be in trouble if anything burns or blows up. Professor Lupin needs that anti-venom for next week's course on doxies.”

Dead right, Snape thought, and tried to gather enough energy to open his eyes. Pomfrey reckoned that the Hardwicke girl would make a fine mediwitch one day. He heard her muttering and realised, belatedly, that he ought to stop her.

“Oh. My. God,” she moaned, as he felt the tingle of her more-than-adequate charm skim from his head to his toes.

Too bloody late, Snape, you are in trouble.

“What's wrong?” Carlin snapped, genuinely anxious. “Is it an emergency? Do we need to fetch Madam Pomfrey?”

“He's alright.” Moira sounded distant and vague, as if stunned by what she had discovered – as well she might be.

“Merlin's balls, how bad is it?”

“One, he'll be fine, two, he's conscious, and three, I think he's about to kill me.”

Snape arranged his features into a force ten, full strength Death Eater glare and opened his eyes. He almost deducted a hundred points, realised that they would be removed from his own house and clenched his jaw.

“Give me a hand up,” he said in The Voice, “And if you say one word about this, I will turn you into a small luminous arthropod.”

“I won't say anything, Professor Snape,” the girl whispered, as she and Carlin helped him to his feet. The rest of the class had returned to their cauldrons and were eavesdropping so hard that Snape could almost hear their ears creak.

His robe and shirt dangled loose around his throat and he knew that the entire NEWT class had seen Potter's love-bites on his skin. Hogwarts, the most efficient rumour-mill in Britain, would have a field day. Flirting with the Boy Who Lived at the breakfast table was amusing – fancy Harry Potter falling for the Greasy Git! – But once the Prophet got hold of this – oh Merlin! His stomach lurched and he clutched involuntarily at the front of his robe.

“Sir!” Moira eased him into his seat at the front of the class. “Sir, shall I fetch Madam Pomfrey?”

“No,” he said coldly, “Return to your place and complete your assignment. Then instruct the rest of the Slytherin prefects to call a house meeting after dinner in the common room.” He glared until she dropped her gaze and removed the infuriatingly concerned expression from her face.

oooOOOooo

He barged into the deputy head's office, ignoring a cluster of first-year Gryffindors who cowered away from his looming figure.

“Professor McGonagall, I insist upon speaking with you and the Headmaster, immediately.”

She nodded and folded her hands on her desk.

“Very well, Professor Snape, I'll meet you in Professor Dumbledore's office in ten minutes.”

He stormed off and snarled, “Toffee-fucking-apples!” at the gargoyle, who decided that prudence beat accuracy hands down where Snape and passwords were concerned.

Dumbledore took one look at him, realised that Snape was teetering on the edge of detonation and conjured up a large mug of tea. Snape collapsed into a chair, wrapped his thin fingers around the mug and stared into Dumbledore's fireplace.

“Do you want to talk about it, dear boy?” the Headmaster asked gently.

“When Minerva arrives.”

Dumbledore nodded and sipped at his own tea, then looked up with a smile as McGonagall's light, quick tread sounded outside the door. Once she had accepted a cup and settled herself, Snape straightened his spine into a semblance of his usual arrogant posture.

“Minerva, you are the expert on the staff rulebook,” he began and she nodded.

“I completely revised and updated it, two years ago.”

“What are the regulations concerning pregnant faculty members?”

Neither she nor Dumbledore quite disguised their surprise. Good, he had got here before the rumours; Hardwicke must have kept her word. And he had thought she was a typical Slytherin!

“Staff are urged to speak to Poppy, as soon as they believe that they could be expecting,” McGonagall said briskly. “In order that she can assess the risks they face in their particular field. We would consider assigning an assistant if the staff member required help. The length of maternity leave entitlement depends upon the length of service accrued.”

“If the faculty member is unmarried?”

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“The original rules were archaic and quite unworkable,” he stated. “Minerva and I removed all reference to the marital status of the staff member. Naturally, if the liaison took place between a member of the faculty and a student, the appropriate regulations would be enforced. If pregnancy resulted from a charm, curse or potion illegally or inadvertently applied, then I would use my discretion to ensure that all parties were treated fairly. Severus, may I ask a personal question?”

“My magic has bonded with Harry's. No charm, hex or potion was involved that I know of.”

“So is Harry…” McGonagall's voice trailed away. Of course everyone would assume that he had taken advantage of poor little Potter; Snape was the nasty dungeon monster, after all. No doubt they imagined the dear boy as a submissive bottom and him the bullying dom. Bastards, jumping to conclusions!

“Potter and I will become parents in just over six months.” He scowled. “No rape or coercion took place.”

“Of course not, Severus,” Dumbledore soothed. “I'm sure that no-one would suggest such a dreadful thing.”

McGonagall frowned.

“Harry might not have realised conception was possible, but you should have taken precautions. Really, you're old enough to know what can happen when two powerful wizards um….”

“Shag?” he suggested nastily.

“I was going to say ‘bond.'”

“Never in a million years did I suspect that Potter's feelings for me were such that our powers would bond,” Snape muttered. “It happened the very first time we slept together.”

“Acting like hormonally-challenged teenagers,” McGonagall sniffed. “Really, you were asking for trouble.”

“Minerva, my dear, I always believed that you and Severus were friends, deep down.”

“We are,” the deputy head admitted with considerable reluctance, “But putting lives at unnecessary risk like this – “

“I have been putting my own life at risk for the last twenty-six bloody years!” Once the leash on Snape's temper snapped, he really went to town. “And precious little thanks I got for it! The first time I take something for me, for the fucking greasy Potions Master, something that I waited for and wanted for eight interminable years, you dare to accuse me of taking unnecessary risks? Because you believe that any risk to your precious golden boy is one too many but I'm expendable – “

“Severus Snape!”

Dumbledore's voice of command compelled him to stop. His temples throbbed in time to his heartbeat, loud in the ensuing silence. Snape rubbed his eyes and mumbled “Sorry,” hoping that he sounded like he meant it.

“Alright, my boy, deep breaths, that's the ticket. Minerva?”

“Yes, yes,” the witch said, clearly controlling her desire to snap, “I apologise. I'm sure that you regret being impulsive, Severus, but we have spent years trying to look after Harry – “

“It isn't Harry who needs caring for now,” Dumbledore said gently, “Harry is perfectly capable of looking after himself, which is fortunate, since we'll all be more worried about our Potions professor. Won't we?” He patted Snape's hand. “Have you been to see Poppy?”

He felt grim satisfaction at McGonagall's sharp intake of breath.

“I have been postponing that particular entertainment, Albus.”

“I urge you to visit the infirmary at your first opportunity, my boy. I've been meaning to speak to her about you. Now that I know why you've been looking so peaky, I am even more concerned for your state of health.”

“I need to inform the rest of the staff, and I've arranged a house meeting to tell my Slytherins after dinner.”

“Are you sure this is wise?”

“Damage limitation. Lupin knew from the changes in my scent and Moira Hardwicke performed a diagnostic charm on me today.”

“Why on earth did she do that?” McGonagall demanded.

“I passed out during my seventh year practical,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Staff room,” Dumbledore stated, “Dinner, Slytherin meeting, infirmary and bed, even if I have to get Harry to tie you down – and no funny business if he does, young Severus!”

“No,” Snape said with a steely determination to equal the Headmaster's. “I have a vital potion to brew, if you recall,” and twitched the sleeve on his left arm.

“Shit.”

That was a first. He had not realised that McGonagall even knew the word.

oooOOOooo

He strode into the staff room in a mood of wildly inappropriate and malicious anticipation, Dumbledore and McGonagall at his heels. He drew himself up to his imposing height, robes swishing – as if he required anything further to gain everyone's attention – and stated, “I have an announcement to make. I am aware that I have an unreliable temper; it is therefore only fair that I warn my colleagues that for the next six months, it will be on a hair-trigger.” He saw Harry out of the corner of his eye, quietly getting to his feet. A hand grasped his firmly, and Harry remarked “What Severus is saying, in his inimitable fashion, is that we have formed a wizard's bond, and he's going to have our baby, so for Merlin's sake, don't let him overhear anyone saying he's getting podgy.” He pushed the stuttering Potions professor against the wall, kissed him, and added “And watch out for the hissy fits.”

“I do not do hissy – mph!”

“Of course you do, Severus, they're your trademark,” Sprout said.

“Harry, is this appropriate?” McGonagall enquired doubtfully.

“Nope,” Harry said around Snape's mouth, “But it sure puts a stop to the sarcasm.”

Snape, with his back to the staff-room wall and the Hero of the Wizarding World plastered up against his front, sighed and went with the flow.

oooOOOooo

He had a very fraught half hour with the Slytherins. The younger members of his house did not understand how a wizard could get pregnant and the older students were all too willing to provide highly colourful, misleading and/or vulgar explanations. Snape knew that there was a good reason for delegating sex education to Pomfrey; by the time he left the common room, he was in a state of high agitation. He slammed the door of his living room behind him, warded it, and snarled “Accio fire-whisky!” A hand snaked out and caught the bottle in midair, and Harry Potter strolled across the room, tossing it from hand to hand as if it was a snitch. Snape drew his wand.

“If you think that you have the right to control everything that I ingest from now on, just because – “

“Severus.” Harry smoothed the back of his fingers down the side of Snape's cheek as if gentling a highly strung unicorn stallion. “Nothing of the kind. I don't think it would be such a good idea for you to meet my family hiccupping and reeking of booze, that's all.”

“Your what?”

“We've got to go and see my family. They'll read it in the paper and they'll be so upset that we didn't tell them.”

“Your family.” As far as he knew, Potter had never communicated with those wretched Muggles since his seventh year at school.

“My honorary family, my adopted relatives.”

“The Weasleys,” Snape groaned. He clutched his stomach. “I'm expecting an honorary Weasley grandchild. Oh, holy fuck!”

“Yup, got it in one.” Harry grinned like a maniac. “Ron and ‘Mione promised me they wouldn't tell, so we'll have to go over to the Burrow and spill the beans. I've already Flooed to let them know that we're arriving and that we have some news for them. They're all Apparating in to meet us. Come on, let's get it over with.”

Snape was a Slytherin, so why did he feel that every other wizard with any power to speak of was manipulating him? He stepped out of the Floo in the kitchen of the Burrow, shaking ash from his robes and fastening a good solid glare into place. He watched with cynical amusement as Harry was smothered in female Weasleys and Weasleys-in-law. Hermione Granger-Weasley, bulging at the seams (try not to think about it, Snape) lumbered across the kitchen, and surprised Snape by coming to him first.

“Professor Snape, how are you?” Her brown eyes were concerned. “Is the potion ready yet?”

“Not quite,” he admitted quietly, “Dumbledore is keeping that bit of news under his hat. Our other secret is out, however – the personal one.”

“I imagined that you'd not let on until the arrival,” she said with mild amusement, “I always thought that academic robes could hide a multitude of sins.”

“Given a choice, Mrs Weasley; however I am very prone to being sick or passing out at the most inopportune moments. Is it this bad for the entire nine months?”

“I think it's a little worse for wizards than for witches,” she said judiciously, “The hormones are so complicated and you're not designed for it, are you? I feel as if I've got a hippogriff in here, but you're a lot bigger than I am so it should be easier for you to carry.”

“Harry! Mwah, dah-ling, how the devil are you?” One of the twins bellowed, seizing Harry in a hug.

“Harry-poohs! Delightful to see you!”

“And I love you too, you pair of idiots!” Harry extricated himself from the billowing mass of their clashing cerise and vermillion robes.

“Mrs Weasley,” Snape began and Hermione looked up at him attentively.

“Why don't you call me Hermione, Professor?”

“You never asked me,” he said rather awkwardly.

“Will you, please?”

He inclined his head.

“Then you must call me Severus.”

“Thank you.” She seemed to realise that he shared his given name with very few apart from his professional colleagues. Her cheek dimpled. “Has anyone ever dared to call you ‘Sev'?”

“Yes,” he said mildly, “But sadly never regained the appropriate mouth-parts to attempt it more than the once.”

She giggled. Ron Weasley, sidling around the twins, raised his ginger eyebrows at her and nodded a greeting to Snape.

“Professor.”

“Severus,” Snape corrected him, suppressing a sigh. “If you please.”

Ron had less success than his wife in disguising his shock. Hermione was remonstrating with him when Molly Weasley's voice rose above the general hubbub that was the Burrow's ambient noise.

“Harry, dear, we're always delighted to see you, but Arthur said you had something particular to tell us.” Harry must have replied in the affirmative because one of the twins yelled for quiet. Snape looked around, at Bill with Fleur and their two young children, at Percy with Penelope, Ginny and her boyfriend Neville Longbottom (surely he was not going to be related to Longbottom?) the twins, Charlie, Ron and Hermione, Arthur and Molly. He schooled himself into the stoicism required to face their reactions to Harry's news.

“Weasleys,” Harry said into the expectant hush, “I need your help.” Snape recognised that look on his face. Harry was flying by the seat of his pants again, working by instinct. Sometimes the boy reminded him of Dumbledore at his finest. “I need you to keep what I'm going to tell you confidential, for the time being.” He drew in a breath. “Voldemort's on his way back.” Ignoring the uproar that greeted his statement, Harry turned to Snape and held out a hand. Snape reluctantly left his place in the shadows at the back of the room. Once he could make himself heard, Harry continued in a steady, unemotional voice. “So far, we have had only one sign, but a very bad one.” He gently pushed back Snape's sleeve to uncover the Dark Mark.

“What about your scar, Harry?” Hermione enquired, and Snape felt a stab of remorse that he had not thought to ask. Harry shook his head.

“Nothing. There's only Severus' mark, and we're planning a ritual that will break the connection and turn it from Voldemort to me; because Severus and I have bonded.” He grasped Snape's hand and faced the massed Weasleys. “This is where I need your help. The papers are bound to get hold of it because Hogwarts is rife with rumours. You're my family and I need – no, WE need you.” He moved closer to Snape, sliding his arm behind his waist. Snape glanced aside, looking down into the green eyes, and saw something that he had never expected to see; a deep, powerful emotion compounded of admiration and passion and tenderness. Snape found himself prepared to face down every single Weasley for Harry's sake, for a moment he felt powerful enough to confront the Dark Lord alone. He raised his head high, wondering how he could feel both very proud and yet humbled to have this young wizard's love. “If I have to face Voldemort again, I'll need you to take care of Severus for me,” Harry said, and his words stabbed deep into Snape's heart, even as he understood and unwillingly accepted Harry's decision. “He's expecting our daughter.”

oooOOOooo

Snape realised that he did not truly know the Weasleys. They were Gryffindors, the lot of them, so he had assumed that they would regard him, the archetypal Slytherin, as the enemy.

“They'll guard you with their lives,” Hermione explained, sitting down opposite him at the kitchen table. Molly was handing out hot drinks and plates of home-made gingersnaps, which attempted to nip people's noses to prevent themselves being eaten. “And that isn't an idle boast.” She nodded to where Bill was holding his youngest son on his lap, sitting next to Fleur. “Bill's one of the best curse-breakers in the country and Fleur was a tri-wizard champion. Charlie and his partner, Gustav, have a pair of trained attack-dragons who allow themselves to be Apparated to where they're needed. Ron, Harry and I are qualified hit-squad aurors. The twins turned their talents to producing useful inventions for the Ministry during the war; they never go anywhere without pockets filled with weapons.”

“They always were akin to a force of nature,” Snape muttered, sipping hot chocolate. The beverage was sprinkled with cinnamon, and tasted of warmth, comfort and affection. He had not realised that such small domestic phenomena had been missing from his life.

“Arthur gained a lot of influence after the Ministry was reorganised, he's said to be in line for the job of Minister when old Scrimgeour retires. Ginny's a powerful young witch and Neville's already a very well-respected research wizard in herbology.” Hermione smiled fondly. “I've never dared tell my parents what a very dangerous family I've married into.”

“Ha,” exclaimed a voice behind her, “Too right, young Hermione. And guess what, Gred?” Fred and George slid in one on either side of Snape.

“What, Forge?”

“D'you think we might have acquired –”

“The most wicked, highly qualified –”

“Potions consultant –”

“Ever?”

“If he doesn't hex us into next week for even suggesting it, that is.”

“What about it, Professor?”

Snape narrowed his eyes and looked down his impressive nose at George.

“Why should I wish to assist a pair of infuriating menaces who made my life a misery for six years?”

“Because we're sexy?” George hinted, eyes wide and blameless.

“And we're alarmingly intelligent?” Fred suggested.

“And amusing,”

“And loyal to a fault.”

“And we can give you a catalogue of all the products we have on sale, so that you'll recognise them when you confiscate them.”

“But only because you're family now and we look out for family.”

“And we rather like you,”

“In an odd, twisted kind of way.”

“And,” Fred added, eyeing Snape thoughtfully, “We'd pay an hourly rate higher than Hogwarts'.”

Snape snorted and took a gingersnap from the plate. It pinched his thumb as he bit into it.

“I will consider it.”

The twins shook hands behind him.

“Slytherin,” George said with satisfaction. “Knew it. Though we'd better be careful not to overwork him or we'll have Harry onto us.”

Both twins shuddered. Snape raised an eyebrow and Fred winced.

“Harry knows some truly horrible hexes. Makes Ginny's bat-bogey hex look friendly.”

“And you're not afraid of me,” Snape remarked, wondering if he had slipped into a parallel universe while he had been distracted.

“You can't take points off us,”

“Or put us into detention.”

“And we've always thought that you're not as evil as you like people to think you are.”

“Sort of attractive, really.”

“Mm. Very sexy voice.”

“Do you mind?” Harry elbowed Fred aside and took his place. Fred immediately went around Snape and perched on the edge of his twin's seat. “Keep your paws off,” Harry said mildly, “Severus is mine and mine alone. I don't share.”

“Ooh, Mr Forceful,” Fred purred.

“Oh yeah, starting to see what Professor Cool sees in you, Harry.”

“Aw, piss off!” Harry snagged a pair of gingersnaps and with lightening-quick reflexes, attached one to each of the twins' noses. They yelped and collapsed backwards, giggling and swiping at the biting cookies. Snape allowed himself a chilly smirk and Harry grinned. “Are you alright, Severus? Were they annoying you?”

“Attempting to employ me.”

“Don't encourage them,” Harry warned, “They're like stray cats, you'd never get rid of them.”

“I am relying on Hermione to point out the pit-falls of becoming an honorary Weasley.”

“A Weasley-in-law, in my case.” Hermione said, watching the twins rolling around on the floor in pursuit of errant gingersnaps, while encouraging Bill and Fleur's four-year-old, Marcel, to join in. Ron stepped over the bodies and hugged his wife.

“Can't wait until you've got your own little Weasley, I can tell,” he murmured into her bushy hair. She sniggered.

“A bit late to back out now, isn't it?”

“When's the due date?” Harry asked. Hermione pulled a face and patted her stomach.

“Another two weeks and you should be a godfather,” she told him. “As your best friends, we fully recognise our obligation to ensure that you have plenty of practise at changing nappies, feeding, burping and bathing babies before you have your own.”

“Great!” Harry enthused. Snape blanched and made a mental note to speak to the Hogwarts house elves as soon as possible about their baby-minding proclivities.

oooOOOooo

Anyone who had not spent half an hour lying flat on his back, naked, on a stone slab in the lowest dungeon of a castle, surrounded by his work colleagues, while his employer painted runes on his body in spider's blood and enchanters' nightshade juice, had never known true humiliation. Snape resisted the desire to ask “Do I look pregnant in this?”

“Albus, put this in his navel,” Flitwick squeaked. Dumbledore placed something warm in Snape's belly button. He glanced down. Protective amulet. Well, if Filius Flitwick supplied it, it was worth having. Heat spread out through his lower abdomen and he recognised a charm to enhance the spells already woven around the baby.

“Has anyone brought the potion?” Dumbledore waved his brush, splattering juice liberally around everyone within range.

“Harry has it, Albus,” McGonagall said.

“Splendid. Well, I've finished. Are we all here? Remus, Harry, Pomona? Almost midnight, girls and boys, so let's make a start.”

Harry slid a hand behind Snape's neck, raising his head and tilting a crystal goblet to his mouth. Snape stared up into green eyes, in which anxiety hovered a very long way back, carefully hidden but not quite deep enough to avoid detection by a skilled Legilimens. Snape squinted past his nose at the potion. It was one of the most dramatic he had ever brewed; grey and roiling, like a tiny storm-cloud contained in the clear goblet, complete with tiny golden sparks of lightening. He parted his lips. He could smell rain. Not water, but the flavour in the air before a sudden cloudburst. Then cold liquid spilled over his tongue, bringing the taste when you suck a cut finger, and burned things and liquorice and earth. The sparks on his tongue were like lemon juice and metal. Then it was inside him, leaving an after-taste of all the many ingredients; bitter and dusty. He had trained himself over the years and he did not gag, but it was a close thing. His stomach was shocked as the potion hit, cold as ice, draining the heat from his body except for the pool of warmth where his tiny daughter squirmed, secure in her protected cosy home. No, it was his magic that was washed free, not his body heat. He gasped.

“Easy, Severus,” Dumbledore said. The words boomed, echoed in his head. He could feel the runes, heavy weights on his chest and shoulders, belly and thighs. They were the only ties preventing his magic from flying off in all directions. At least the maddening old wizard knew his spell-binding runes.

Harry began to chant, harsh hissing words in Parseltongue, and pain keen as an adder's bite lanced through Snape's arm. He forced himself to lie still. Then he felt Voldemort's rage.

The Dark Lord had not touched Harry's scar or even the remaining Death Eaters at large; he had seized the mark on Snape's arm in order to feed first on the traitor's magic. Cast out of his body by the killing curse, the Dark Lord had latched onto Snape in the way that he had caught Quirrell all those years ago. The Dark Mark had given him a way in and he was gripping tight, sensing Harry's attempts to shake him off. Tight, tighter, digging into his flesh. Snape screamed as his skin smouldered under the tattoo; Harry's power and Voldemort's warring in his arm. He felt his magic being sucked into the hungry maw of Voldemort's soul and he struggled, but his power was loose, washing around like water sloshing in a bucket, he could not keep a grip on anything.

He felt Harry seize whatever was attached to the Dark Mark and pull, speaking words of compulsion and binding in the language of Salazar Slytherin, the language of the snake thrashing in his arm, the tongue of Voldemort's chosen shape. Magic poured into Snape but the runes contained charms as strong as castle walls, preventing the power from escaping. Dumbledore and Harry had to know what they were doing. Snape heard someone whimpering and knew that the pathetic sounds emanated from his own mouth. A hand squeezed his shoulder in support and reassurance.

“Hold on, Severus,” a voice murmured close to his ear. “Harry's almost completed the rite.” That was McGonagall.

“Severus?” Harry leaned over him, green eyes wide and anxious. “Severus, Voldemort is clinging to your mark. He's been floating around loose, looking for Death Eaters to attach himself to, and he found you. I'm going to remove his connection to you replacing it with my own, then we're going to bind him and contain him. The only way we can catch him is by generating elemental magic. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” he gasped, because he could hardly bear the burning and the pressure in the frail flesh of his body. “Do it!”

The three great generators of elemental magic were sex and birth and death, beloved of dark wizards since before the dawn of recorded history. He felt Harry's hands on his skin, stroking him, soothing him a little, then Harry's chest and belly were on him, aligning with his body. Snape reached to embrace him, his breath sobbing in his throat. “Do it, use me.”

“Ssh,” Harry whispered, gentling him, tracing patterns on his skin that burned like fire, “Remus, we need Loki's flagon.”

“Here, Harry.” The werewolf's voice was a distant rumble to Snape, who was having trouble holding on to full consciousness.

“Wands ready,” Harry said, “I'm going to disconnect him from Severus, then use the power generated to reel him in and I need you all to bind him in the flask because we won't be any condition to do it. Ready?”

“Go, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I have opened the wards to admit him. Good luck to us all, my dear boys.”

Then Harry was moving on him, and Snape's body was out of his control. Despite the fact that he felt stuffed to the gills with magic, he opened to take Harry; as if he needed one final piece to complete himself and he knew by instinct what was missing. He felt himself breached, pressure rising in his groin, his erection threatening to send a fountain of uncontrolled magic into the air with his seed until Harry grasped his balls and held back his climax until they could come together, in a surge of power that swamped Snape's veins with fire. He screamed. His arm tore open and something vast and powerful burst out of him. He heard voices chanting the words of an ancient binding spell. He heard a voice, deeper than the rest, overwhelming the spell with a curse, one with death in it, yet also an exultant note of triumph. He felt darkness crashing in.

oooOOOooo

“Try to swallow it, dear.” Snape obediently forced down the potion. He identified it as one of his own; a vitamin, mineral and nutrient supplement. A room slowly came into focus, with three faces peering down at him. “And this one,” the voice urged, and he sniffed, recognised a general healing potion and swallowed it. A hand lowered his head back onto soft pillows. He stared at the beams on the ceiling. This was not the infirmary. What the bloody hell was going on?

“What the bloody hell is going on?” It seemed a sensible question to ask.

“Yep, this is definitely Professor Severus Snape, back with us,” Ron Weasley pronounced.

“Don't annoy him, Ronald,” his wife said fondly. “How are you?”

He flicked a quick look at her still-distended middle. He could not have been unconscious for many days, then.

“I feel,” he stated thoughtfully, “Like something an ogre chewed then spat out and stomped on.”

“Would you like a pain-killing potion?”

“If it is one of mine, yes.”

The hand raised his head again and Molly Weasley held the vial to his lips. He sighed, and felt the soothing balm kick in, easing the headache, the stinging in his left arm and the general dull throb that ran through all his muscles and bones. “I am at the Burrow, I take it?”

“Yes, dear,” Molly said, and he suspected that she was going to be sparing with information, which worried him.

“Did we fail?” He tried to examine his left arm but it was encased in bandages.

“No,” Hermione told him gently, “The rite succeeded beyond expectations. Voldemort is trapped in what Remus tells me is called Loki's flagon, for ten thousand cycles of the moon. The Ministry is trying to decide what to do with him. Your arm is scorched where the bond tore out of it, but Poppy says that it shouldn't scar.”

“Why am I here?” He heard Molly draw in a breath but he held Hermione's gaze. He realised that he trusted this young witch almost as fully as he trusted Harry.

“We thought you'd be safer here than at Hogwarts. There are Death Eaters around, they felt Voldemort's struggles through their Marks and we're afraid they're out to get you if they can.”

“Situation normal there, then. Why is Hogwarts so unsafe?”

“Dumbledore took the wards down to allow He Who Must Not Be Named in, so he could be captured,” Ron said. “Harry's helping McGonagall, Flitwick and Sprout to rebuild them. Harry said that he's Slytherin enough to take your place in the ritual.”

Snape shut his eyes. So Harry was safe and Lupin, and the heads of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. So that left only…

“Albus is dead.” A huge grief poised above him, like an avalanche awaiting the small vibration that would set it roaring down the mountainside. He felt Hermione grasp his hand.

“Yes,” the young witch admitted in a shaky whisper. “I'm afraid he is. He – he followed Voldemort in a soul-bind. So he can never come back.”

“Trapped with Voldemort in Loki's flagon?” Snape demanded, appalled.

“No!” The warm hand squeezed his fingers. “No, it isn't quite as awful as that. The Headmaster's death generated enough power to force Voldemort into the flask and bind him there, and then he let go. He – he had time to say goodbye to Professor McGonagall and Harry.” She dissolved into weeping and Snape breathed in, slowly, levelly. He heard Ron making comforting noises. “He gave Harry a message for you. He said to tell you that you were like a son to him,” Hermione choked out, somewhat muffled in Ron's shoulder, “And that you and Harry must always remember that you're worthy of one another.”

Molly started clucking something about Hermione not allowing herself to get distressed.

“Bloody timing's wrong,” the young witch burst out, “They could have used the birth magic! I told Harry to wait!”

Snape opened his eyes, feeling a hundred years old.

“Mrs Weas - Hermione,” he said, reaching for her hand, “It was Albus' time. He was only holding on for this. He wanted his death to achieve the end of the Dark Lord, he did not wish to dwindle into senility and slip away. He planned it all. The scheming old bugger,” he added in a dangerously unsteady voice.

The rotund witch flung her arms around his neck, crying wildly. Feeling awkward, embarrassed and oddly flattered, he made hushing sounds and rubbed her back. He could feel something hard jerking against his hip and realised with a little frisson, that it was the baby Weasley kicking him. He made himself think about that rather than about Albus, forcing his grief away outside his heart until such time that he could bring himself to confront it.

“Sorry,” Ron mouthed at him, shrugging and blushing bright pink.

“Now, now, dear,” Molly murmured, “You're hurting the professor and it isn't good for either of you to get all upset, is it?” She glanced sharply at Snape, as if she believed that he was incapable of getting upset about anything. Snape felt something tremble precariously inside him. Ron reached out, his long arms encompassing both women.

“Come on, Mum, take ‘Mione downstairs for a cup of tea, I'm sure Professor Snape needs to rest.” He chivvied them both out and then turned back to Snape. “They can manage without Harry for a while at Hogwarts,” he said gently, “Would you like me to Floo over and fetch him?”

Snape nodded, unable to trust his voice. Ron placed a large hand on Snape's shoulder, squeezed firmly and went out. For the first time, Snape wondered if by marrying Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger had known perfectly well what she was doing – now that young Weasley had finally grown up.

oooOOOooo

He felt Harry come into the room even though the combined healing and pain-killing potions had left him in a lethargic daze. Harry's affection and concern were like warmth on his face, and he turned towards the young wizard as blindly as a flower following the sun.

“Severus?” Harry whispered, and Snape stretched out a thin hand and sighed as Harry's strong fingers closed around it. “You scared me,” Harry told him in a voice that shook a little, “I thought I'd lost you.”

“Too big and ugly to lose. I am still here and so is Bryony.” He felt the bed dip as Harry sat down on the edge.

“Bryony?” Harry whispered, trying the word out. “Is that her name?” He lightly placed his free hand on the quilt over Snape's belly. “Bryony. Anything to do with the fact that one of Albus Dumbledore's names was Brian?”

“One could hardly inflict Alba on the poor child, and since his other names were Percival and Wulfric, I suggest that Brianna or Bryony would be appropriate.”

“I like Bryony very much,” Harry murmured. “What about Severa for her middle name?”

“Absolutely not, I forbid it. Bryony Harriet.”

“And I forbid Harriet. I'd prefer Lily, if you could tolerate it.” Harry sounded as if he expected Snape to throw a tantrum.

“I did not dislike your mother,” Snape admitted after a pause. “Bryony Lily Potter.”

“Snape.”

“Oh very well, Bryony Lily Potter-Snape.”

“There, that wasn't so hard, was it?” Snape turned his head away and Harry reached to place a hand on his cheek and firmly turn it back. “Severus, don't try to hide from me.”

“I can't… ” Snape tried to take steady breaths and control his voice, “He won't be there.”

“I know,” Harry murmured. “But it'll still be Hogwarts.”

“Without him.” Snape's voice cracked.

Harry slid down onto the bed and carefully wrapped his arms around Snape.

“I don't need cuddling, Potter!” Snape had rarely hated himself as much as he did at that moment.

“I do,” Harry said simply, and Snape moaned and buried his face in the curve of Harry's neck, and grief crashed down onto him in a great wave. He would have drowned in it, had he not had that strong, solid body to hold onto.

He did not stop weeping for a long time, and then only because he was physically exhausted. He was lying on his side, his nose blocked, throat aching and eyes swollen and sore, while Harry rhythmically massaged little circles on his shoulders and back. He realised that Harry was speaking to him, but at least the brat was not crass enough to think that words could ease the terrible wound that Dumbledore's death had gouged in his heart.

“Severus? Come on, up you get.”

“Leabe me alode,” he mumbled, but Harry would not be deflected.

“I know, love, but you need to get up. Come on.”

By dint of persistence and a levitation charm, Harry got him into the next room, which turned out to be an eccentric bathroom. The pipe-work looked like something put together by a drunken house elf with a blow-torch but the tub, a vast old enamelled thing on clawed feet, was full of hot water and foamy white bubbles. Harry helped him in and then set about peeling the bandages from his arm.

“Should you be doing that?” Snape asked tiredly.

“What? Oh, Poppy said they should come off today.”

Snape shut his eyes, allowing himself to sink down until the water lapped at his chin. He could smell some kind of herbal soap, and his own feverish sweat rising in a miasma from his damp hair. Harry made a small sound of surprise and Snape risked a look at his forearm.

Where the Dark Mark had been, the flesh was pink and fresh-looking, with a brightly coloured tattoo of a green and silver-grey serpent, lying in a coiled heap. It had black eyes and was so finely drawn that it appeared three-dimensional. Harry let his fingertips run across it and Snape shivered at the touch on the new, sensitive skin. At least it was not an embarrassing Gryffindor lion, or ‘Property of Harry Potter' in garish text inside a scroll, or, Merlin forbid, a heart.

Harry moved around and then his fingers buried themselves in Snape's hair, and he smelled a sharp, not unpleasant lemony scent from the Weasleys' shampoo. He would have simply soaked himself to a raisin if left alone, but Harry washed and rinsed his hair with brisk efficiency, then lifted him up to a sitting position. Snape felt Harry's hands suddenly tighten on his ribs, then resume soaping him, moving gently over his torso.

“Well, Severus,” Harry murmured against his ear, “Now I'm beginning to believe in Bryony.”

Snape had been vaguely aware of increasing discomfort over the last weeks, of a feeling of fullness low in his pelvis, but he had been too out of it in the last few days to realise that the sensation had changed. Something had shifted in him; his organs had a found a new configuration in which they were no longer squashed. His daughter had popped outwards and he sported a firm little paunch.

“You were all straight lines and flat planes and angles, and all of a sudden, you're round. I'm not going to be able to keep my hands off your tummy,” Harry whispered, “I hope you don't mind.”

Snape's astonishment cut through the haze of exhausted misery.

“You want me like this?”

“Of course I do!” Harry's eyes went wide and startled. “What on Earth made you think I wouldn't want you? I love you, and I want our daughter very much, and there's something incredibly erotic about the idea that I put her here.” He rubbed the convex shape of Snape's belly. “She won't show under your robes yet, but I'll know she's there.” He placed a swift kiss on Snape's forehead. “Come on; let's get you out of here before you shrivel up.”

Snape's brain felt unhinged, with too many conflicting emotions out of control. He let Harry help him up and wrap him in a huge, threadbare towel in Gryffindor red and gold.

Someone knocked on the door while Harry was performing a drying charm on Snape's hair.

“Harry?” The voice was Ron's. “Professor McGonagall's on her way, she'd like a word, and today's paper's just arrived.”

“Bad?” Harry called out.

“You bet, mate.”

“Bugger,” Harry muttered. “Okay, I'll be down in a minute.” He held out a black dressing gown. Snape eyed it dubiously.

“Is that mine?” When Harry nodded, he sighed. “Been through my wards again, Potter?”

“Yep,” Harry agreed, unabashed. “I do hold the wards for Hogwarts now.”

“You hold the wards?”

“And Minerva. There always has to be at least two holders and it made sense for me to be one, temporarily, while there's no official head or deputy head. Do you want to see her yet?”

“Why should I not?” Snape tied the belt around his middle and yanked it tight, then winced and loosened it again.

“Because you've only just regained full consciousness after three days of fever?”

“I am a Potions Master,” Snape declared. “And my healing potions are perfectly effective, thank you, Potter.”

oooOOOooo

Minerva McGonagall stepped out of the fireplace, nodded to Harry, and then saw Snape and her eyes narrowed.

“Severus? How are you?”

“Back to normal,” he lied. “And you, Minerva?” She made a slight movement of one hand, as if to reach out to him, but to his relief she changed her mind and turned the gesture into the flicking of soot from her sleeve.

“I've just come from an emergency meeting of the school governors,” she said. She glanced at the Weasley twins, who were trying to look as if they could not hear the conversation, and Harry coughed to attract their attention.

“Fred, George?” He jerked his head and they shrugged cheerfully and followed him out of the kitchen.

“They've offered me the position of Headmistress of Hogwarts and I have accepted.”

“Good.”

McGonagall managed a faint smile.

“Don't feel that you have to make this decision in a hurry, Severus, but I would like you to be my deputy.”

“A pregnant, unwed Slytherin and ex-Death Eater?” Snape said incredulously, “Minerva, are you out of your tiny mind?”

“I want the best person for the job.” Her voice was cool and unemotional. “You're that person. Think about it, discuss it with Harry. Naturally if you accept, I shall take your family commitments into account. Harry will teach all your lower classes, I shall ask Professors Flitwick and Sprout to take on additional duties – with suitable remuneration, naturally! – and request Professor Sinistra to act as assistant head of Slytherin. I'd rather have you as my deputy, part-time, than anyone else full-time.”

“I'm flattered,” Snape said, to give himself a breathing space.

“Don't be. I'm being pragmatic. The funeral is tomorrow, have they told you?”

He shook his head.

“Will you give the eulogy, Minerva?”

“No,” she said softly, “I don't think I could.” She took a deep breath. “Filius will lead the service, with Arthur Weasley, and Harry has offered to speak.”

“I shall be there,” he told her, after they had shared a moment of silence.

“Please don't feel that you have to attend, I know how difficult it'll be for you –”

“How could I not come?” His sharp tone made her flinch, and he realised how she hid her loss and grief beneath her precise efficiency.

“It won't be pleasant, Severus. Have you – I suppose that you haven't read the papers?”

“I have only just woken up.”

“The press have not been kind,” and now she did lay her hand on his shoulder for a moment “neither to you nor to Harry.”

“I have weathered condemnation before.”

“I know, but you shouldn't have to.” She pursed her lips. “I must get back to Hogwarts; you can imagine the chaos…”

“I should come with you.”

“Don't you dare, Severus Snape, until Poppy says so. You stay here!” She glowered at him. “Or I'll have Harry Stupefy you.”

“Now that is a threat. Very well, Minerva, I shall see you tomorrow.”

She leaned in, brushed her dry lips across his cheek in a sudden and surprising kiss, and stepped back into the fireplace, stating “Headmistress's office, Hogwarts” as she threw down a handful of Floo powder. Snape turned and walked out of the kitchen, deep in thought.

oooOOOooo

“Voldemort – Vanquished At Last!” screamed the headline in the Daily Prophet in flashing red letters, above a photograph of a grimly triumphant Scrimgeour, brandishing Loki's flagon high in the air

“Bastard,” Fred said, but without heat, and Snape realised that the Weasleys had had three days to get over their anger at the Minister claiming all the kudos for himself. Snape picked up the next paper from the pile on the dining table.

“Dumbledore Dead in Secret Rite at Hogwarts School!

We may never know the truth of what happened that night, writes Rita Skeeter, special investigator, but what we can say is that Dark Magic was invoked and the Headmaster was at the centre of an orgy of destruction in which he lost his own life. Speculation is rife, but it appears that the man whom He Who Must Not Be Named feared above all, was not as pure and noble as he wished to appear - ”

Snape threw the offending article aside with a snarl and snatched up today's edition.

“Harry Potter's Secret!

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been rocked to its foundations by revelations that The Boy Who Lived is involved in a gay relationship with Severus Snape, his former teacher. Neither was available for comment and it appears that they have gone into hiding together, but according to sources close to the pair, Snape is expecting the young hero's love-child. Readers will remember that Snape, a Death Eater and follower of He Who Must Not Be Named was cleared of his past crimes only on the word of Albus Dumbledore, late Headmaster of Hogwarts, who was himself not above the use of Dark Magic on occasion and who must be now regarded as an unreliable – “

“Fuck!” Snape hurled the paper across the room. The pages scattered in a tangle of black on white which shredded in the storm of his unspoken rage, floating down to land like snowflakes on the rug.

“My word,” Molly said.

“Wicked hex,” remarked George.

“Would you like a calming draught, Severus?” Hermione enquired cautiously.

Snape looked around at the assembled Weasleys, and saw only concern on their faces.

“Don't even look at Witch Weekly,” Harry warned. “It'll do your blood pressure no good at all.”

“Professor McGonagall can't keep the press away from Dumbledore's funeral,” Arthur said, “much as she'd like to; so they'll be after you both like hornets at a picnic. Then there's the Minister…” He sighed. “Sorry, but he's going to make life very hard for you. He's scared.”

“Of?” Snape snapped.

“You. Both of you. He's well aware that you put Voldemort into a bottle and that kind of power, outside his control, frightens him. Apart from anything else, he's scared that Harry might enter politics.”

Harry snorted. “You're kidding? All I want to do is be a decent teacher and live quietly with my new family.”

“But that isn't what he'd do, and he can't imagine why you won't take what power you can.”

“Maybe he'll realise, after I sink into obscurity at Hogwarts.”

“Let's just worry about tomorrow,” Ron said, frowning. “Get through that first.”

“No probs,” Charlie spoke up from his position on the sofa. “If we can't fend off a few reporters, we're losing our collective grip. Right, Gred and Forge?”

“Too right, big bro,” George smirked. “Let me get close enough to Rita Skeeter and she'll develop an urgent personal problem that will require her full attention for hours.”

Hermione, who had her own reasons for hating the journalist, gave a soft snort of amusement.

“You be careful you don't get caught.”

“We're always careful and rarely caught.”

“I recollect catching you in wrongdoing, rather too regularly,” Snape remarked and the twins looked at him in a manner that made him wonder who was appraising whom.

“Professor, we gave you a sporting chance.”

“We always rather liked you, you see.”

“Which is why, tomorrow, we'll be appointing ourselves your bodyguards.”

“Who's a lucky professor?”

oooOOOooo

A calming draught got Snape through the ceremony on the lawns outside Hogwarts. He allowed the words of the tributes to wash over him, the potion transmuting his fierce grief into a softer melancholy. He watched McGonagall, dry-eyed and proud, standing before the bier of the man whom she had loved for more than fifty years. He listened to Harry's quiet and heart-felt speech, Arthur's more polished presentation and Flitwick's final words, before a charm engulfed Dumbledore's corpse in flames.

Snape had not taken his place among the staff, remaining near the back of the crowd, surrounded by Weasleys. They had timed their arrival so that they took their places just before the service began, avoiding everyone, but once the crowd left their seats to straggle back to the school, Snape could not escape being noticed. However, the crowd of powerful redheads simply refused to part around him for anyone they deemed unsuitable. They filtered out the press and the idly curious, allowing only his colleagues to approach him. Flitwick, Sprout, Hooch, Vector, Sinistra and Hagrid expressed their relief at seeing him back at Hogwarts. He tried to accept their well-wishes gracefully, but was absurdly grateful when Harry rejoined him. As they moved towards the castle, Snape realised that the Slytherins had all grouped together in a self-protective enclave at the back of the audience. He wondered if anyone had thought to speak to them about the Headmaster's death.

“I shall catch up with you later,” he said to Harry, and indicated the Slytherins. Harry beckoned to Carlin and Moira, and when the two prefects approached, he said gravely “Stupefy anyone who upsets him, okay?” Then he called the Weasleys and strode off, for all the world like a black-and-white collie herding large, red-haired cattle. Snape was immediately surrounded by his little snakes.

“How are you, sir?”

“When will you be coming back, Professor?”

“Tomorrow,” he told them, choosing to ignore Poppy's advice to take the week off. “I am well, thank you, Hargreaves. Has anyone been looking after you?”

“Professor Potter, sir.”

“And Professor Sinistra.”

“And Professor McGonagall came to see us, and she explained what had happened to you and to Professor Dumbledore.”

“We missed you, sir.”

“You haven't been neglected in my absence,” he pointed out.

“That doesn't mean that we don't miss you, Professor,” Carlin said. “After all, you're still our Head of House.” There was the slightest hint of a question in her voice.

“Yes, I am Head of Slytherin and always shall be so.”

“We weren't sure if you might be leaving, sir.”

“Why should I?” He sensed their discomfort. “While I may in the near future be obliged to take time away from my duties, I have no intention of leaving Hogwarts.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Or are you referring to the rumours in the newspapers? I assure you, I shall not be hounded out by a pack of baying ignoramuses who cast aspersions upon my morals or my past mistakes, from the safe anonymity of the sensationalist press.”

“Does that mean we're allowed to hex the next reporter lurking around the school gates?” One of the third years asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately not, Miss Hooper. The reputation of Slytherin House cannot withstand too many unprovoked attacks upon anyone, however much they deserve to be turned blue and spherical.”

“Ah, so you heard about that, sir,” Moira said.

“Professor Potter did inform me that a member of the press had to be treated for multiple hexes after an encounter with a group of Slytherins behind Greenhouse One,” Snape remarked. “For which, I believe, Professor Potter deducted fifty house points for inappropriate use of transfigurations.”

“He did give us twenty points back for apprehending a trespasser,” a fifth year remarked.

“And twenty for loyalty to our Head of House.”

“And ten for self control because she only got hexed three times and there were seven of us.”

“He neglected to inform me of that.” Snape tried not to show his amusement, but by the way they grinned at him, he failed. “You had better take your places in the hall for the meal,” he instructed and watched as the black-gowned figures hurried off up the hill, a flock of crows against the green grass. He followed more slowly, emotionally drained and physically aching, and was thus the last person to enter the hall.

Extra tables had been conjured to accommodate the guests. The Minister and his entourage glared at Snape, he could feel the weight of their condemnation on his head and he unconsciously squared his shoulders. Harry had urged him to wear his satin-trimmed velvet dress robes and he was glad now, because the heavy black fabric disguised his expanded middle. As he passed the guests' table, he heard a voice, just audible above the general coughing, shuffling and subdued conversation.

“Death Eater pervert,” the man sneered, “Was probably shagging Potter since he was a kid…”

Snape could see McGonagall watching him anxiously from her place on the staff table, and for her sake, he did not make a scene, but he could feel the heat of anger and humiliation on his cheeks. He ignored the muffled sniggers and tried to recapture his old arrogance as he swept down the length of the hall. Then he caught movement out of the corner of one eye, and what he saw made him slow down. As he came level with the Slytherin table, his snakes rose to their feet. They did not speak, and from the glowing expressions on the faces of two of his prefects, he realised who had orchestrated this display of solidarity. He acknowledged their gesture with a regal inclination of his head. A wave of murmurs swept the room, then as he turned to continue to the staff dais, he saw McGonagall place her hands on the table and start to rise. Harry, Lupin, Sprout, Flitwick, Hooch, Pomfrey and Hagrid got to their feet with her, and the rest of the staff followed within a heartbeat.

Snape stared, his emotions in turmoil. He dearly wanted to run to the security of his dungeon, and yet a part of him had always desired fair acknowledgement for what he had done, and craved the respect of his peers. The Minister was staring, red-faced and open-mouthed with shock. To flee would be to play into the man's hands. Now the flamboyant Gryffindors were acting upon the example set by their Head of House. The Hufflepuffs would always follow the majority; the Ravenclaws were evaluating the situation and obviously deciding that it was appropriate to stand with their fellows, and he could see the mass of ginger-haired Weasleys at the other guests' table, surging to their feet. Some of the Aurors – Shacklebolt, Tonks, even Moody – were defying the Minister and standing. It was eerily quiet now, as if everyone realised that applause was inappropriate. The silent tribute seemed more poignant and somehow more genuine than voiced adulation.

Snape gathered the remnants of his self control and he bowed his head to the rest of the school and to the guests, before walking with all the dignity he possessed to the head table. McGonagall looked as if she was holding back tears and Harry's eyes were brimming. As he faced them, Snape came to a sudden and inexplicable decision, and once again, he acted without considering the long-term implications. He walked up the steps onto the dais, so that he faced his fellow professors across the table, paused and lowered his head yet again, opposite the headmistress. Then he took the five strides needed to come face to face with an obviously emotional Harry Potter. Keeping his gaze fixed upon Harry's, Snape spread one long-fingered hand flat on the front of his robe, over his belly, and dropped gracefully onto one knee. He heard the susurration as many people drew in startled breaths, and then the silence as they waited in tense expectation of further revelations. He did not intend to disappoint them.

“Harry James Potter,” Snape said, knowing that his voice in its deepest register would carry throughout the hall, even though he did not raise it above conversational level. “I give myself to you. Body and mind, heart and soul, in this life and the next - I am yours.”

He had used the words of the traditional soul-binding from the wizards' marriage ceremony, believing that Harry would not realise the full implications, but the young man would certainly understand that a powerful wizard, and one of the few living Potions Masters, was pledging himself to him in public. Moreover, Snape had committed himself without any assurance of a reciprocal promise. The Minister would be spitting fire.

Harry, Quidditch-fit and with an excellent sense of balance, took a step backwards as if startled, then vaulted the table, landing lightly next to Snape. He grasped Snape's wrists and gently pulled him to his feet, staring into his eyes.

“Severus Snape,” he said, then with a wicked glint added “ – Master of Potions, Order of Merlin First Class - I humbly accept the gifts of your body, mind, heart and soul and in return I give myself to you, in entirety, until the end of our days and beyond.”

So he had taken note when he attended various Weasley weddings. Snape was impressed, even if he had not got the phrasing quite right. Harry stood on tiptoe to press his lips briefly to Snape's in a kiss that was restrained enough not to offend anyone – except no doubt the apoplectic Minister of Magic.

Before anyone else made a sound, Minerva McGonagall said clearly: “Albus would have given his loving blessing to you both. Allow me to offer mine.”

The Slytherins began cheering first.

oooOOOooo

Snape flicked his wand at the blackboard.

“Here are the ingredients. As you are aware, care must be taken with the medusa's tears and under no circumstances should you add them before stabilising the potion with either the minimum of pomegranate juice or, if the mix has already turned green, a single drop of…” he took in a breath to snarl, aware that the brats' attention was elsewhere, then he saw the tiny owl. It was careering around the lighting sconces. “For Merlin's sake!” He Accio'd the little creature and it zoomed into his outstretched hand, where it perched on his thumb, twittering madly. There was a scrap of parchment rolled around its leg; he used a charm to remove it rather than damage the tiny limb. The owl shook itself and cheeped as Snape unrolled the message.

“It's a boy, Michael Harold Weasley. Hermione says it was worth it. Not what she said two hours ago, mind, I'm lucky to be still entire, if you get my drift. Note to Harry – mate, it is VITAL that you take Severus' wand away when he goes into labour. Please visit ASAP (at the Burrow for foreseeable future). Ron.”

Snape tore a strip from a scroll on his desk and scribbled on it.

“Congratulations to all concerned. I am proficient at wandless hexes. Suggest you buy protective underwear for Harry's next birthday present. Will visit after work. S. Snape.” He attached it carefully to the owl and threw the little bird into the air. It whizzed around his head a couple of times, making the fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins giggle, before taking off out of the dungeon. He scowled at his class.

“Kindly refrain from making childish noises and begin preparing the ingredients for the base. Under no circumstances will you start this brew until I return.”

He swept along the subterranean corridor to his office, where Harry was sitting at the desk, eating an apple and grading second year essays. Harry looked up and the immediate, undisguised pleasure on his face made something flutter inside Snape.

“Hi, is it lunch-time already?”

“Bottomless pit,” Snape grumbled, because it would not do to get soppy while he had his most unruly class poised to prepare a notoriously unstable potion. “Here.” He held out the message. Harry read it and whooped, leaping up and punching the air.

“Yay! Brilliant! We must go and see them!”

“I have replied, informing Weasley that we will visit after work.”

“Terrific. I'll chat up Pomona and see if she's got any flowers that don't bite.” Harry chuckled, retrieved his quill from where it had fallen and charmed away the ink blot from the rug. “Fancy Ron being a dad and me being a god-father.”

The jiggling was still going on inside Snape, and he slid both hands inside his robe, with a little thrill of realisation.

“Severus? Severus, what's wrong?”

Snape came back to reality, to find Harry facing him, holding his shoulders, his expression urgent with concern. He shook his head, seized Harry's wrist and drew his hand inside the folds of his robe, pressing the palm hard against the warm skin of his belly. The small movement came again and Harry's eyes widened. “Is that her?” he breathed, “Bryony?”

Snape raised his eyebrows, not deigning to reply. Harry made a small passionate sound and flung his arms around Snape; which was how one of the fourth-years found them, coming to tell Snape that some idiot had tried to start the potion and had already blown a hole in a pewter cauldron, the work-bench and the dungeon wall.

oooOOOooo

Snape politely declined the opportunity to embrace his partner's godson and let Harry get on with the cuddling and cooing. Ron, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding Hermione's hand, took a deep breath.

“I've resigned.” He shook his head sharply. “Taking all those risks, not knowing if I'll come home in one piece, going to work thinking about whether I'd see my wife and son again – being an Auror's no life for a family man.”

“Good on you, mate,” Harry said softly. “D'you want me to ask Hooch if she needs an assistant?”

“Could do. Not a very clever time to find myself without an income, is it?” He sighed. “We've given up the lease on the flat. Mum and Dad have said we can stay here for as long as we like but I need to find a job and get somewhere of our own.”

“That was when I said I'd look for a part time job. I thought Molly would go all old-fashioned and tell me my place was in the home, but I suspect she wants to baby-sit,” Hermione remarked, grinning at her mother in law, who tutted then grinned back.

Snape cleared his throat.

“I am aware that my temperament is not entirely suited to the role of schoolmaster.” He glared until the three idiot Gryffindors stopped exchanging smirks. “However, teaching at Hogwarts has allowed me the time and facilities to carry out a modicum of research.”

“Just a modicum,” Hermione said innocently, “Like over forty published papers and the Wolfsbane potion? Oh, and voted president of the British Society for Applied Potions Research last year?”

Snape ignored the looks of surprise on the Weasley faces.

“Albus Dumbledore was aware how much my research meant to me and allowed me to utilise the Hogwarts facilities. Minerva McGonagall, on the other hand, has a rather different attitude.”

He hid his smile. Everyone apart from Harry looked indignant.

“She isn't going to stop you, is she?” Ron demanded. “I mean, after all the difference your work has made to Remus?”

“The headmistress has made me her deputy and I still have responsibilities for my house and my NEWT students, and a few who are studying more advanced potions. Minerva has therefore granted me permission to take on an apprentice.”

“Aren't I good enough for you, Severus?” Harry asked with a mock pout.

“You're an assistant professor, I'm talking about a research apprentice. This person will assist in the production of complex potions such as the Wolfsbane and will also aid me in the most advanced research. The post is part-time, hours to suit us both. I have a new project which I hope will be of interest to any suitably qualified applicant – who would require an Outstanding NEWT in potions and at least an ‘E' in their other subjects.” He laced his long fingers together, staring at the ceiling. “One cannot cure a werewolf of its condition. I have perfected the Wolfsbane as far as it goes, but I wish to approach the werewolf problem from an entirely new angle. Last year, I spent a week at a Muggle wolf sanctuary, studying wolves. They are highly intelligent creatures, with a strong social structure and very good communication skills. The Wolfsbane attempts to prevent the werewolf from going towards the lupine form, keeping human thought processes intact and slowing the change to make it less painful. I want to look at pushing the werewolf towards the pure wolf. I hope eventually to produce a potion which will allow the change to wolf form to become as easy as the change which an animagus undergoes. The werewolf will have no choice of form under the full moon, of course, but will be a wolf, an intelligent, sociable creature, not a ravening half-and-half monster with the worst traits of both human and wolf.” He glanced around through slit eyes. “Naturally, the applicant would need to be able to work well with me, and I with them. The position would lead to a qualification, upon the presentation of a thesis upon a piece of independent research, verified by myself.”

“The qualification being…?” Hermione asked softly. Her eyes were bright, lips parted in excitement.

“Master of Potions.” He lifted one black eyebrow at her. “Are you interested?”

“The position could almost have been designed for ‘Mione,” Ron said, looking down at his wife.

“It was.” Harry told them and grinned at Snape's scowl.

“Oh, God,” Hermione looked as if she was about to cry. “Oh, yes!”

Snape held out an elegant hand and she shook it eagerly.

“The position is yours, Hermione; let me know when you are ready to take it up.”

At this point, a thunder of feet upon the stairs announced the arrival of the twins and Ginny, eager to make the acquaintance of their newest nephew. Ron stood up to let Ginny hug Hermione and take his place, and jerked his head at Harry. Harry handed the baby over to Molly and moved aside with Ron. Snape, who did not have much of a conscience left, utilised a clever little spy's charm that allowed him to make out their words among the babble.

“Cheers mate, she needed something like that, she'd go mad stuck at home being a housewife. She would have lost it long before now if you hadn't had her doing your research for you!”

“She needs mental stimulation,” Harry agreed, “But don't thank me, thank Severus.”

“The Greasy Git actually thought of it?”

“The Greasy Git,” Harry said, emphasising the nickname, “thinks that the Insufferable Know-It-All shouldn't waste that brain. He told McGonagall that this was his price for becoming deputy head.”

Ron glanced at Snape, who tried to appear innocent. The look probably did not suit him.

“We'll have to watch that pair.” He sniggered.

“Yeah, right. Like Severus isn't totally gay and totally mine, and Hermione isn't mad about you. Don't worry, Ron, they'll be good for each other. Neither you nor I can offer them the rarefied intellectual conversations that they need to stay sane. Plus it helps you out, the pay isn't bad and if you need to live at Hogwarts for a while, you can.”

“Never thought of that! Would it embarrass him if I thanked him?”

“Probably. Go ahead.”

Snape accepted Weasley's thanks with equanimity, simply to prove Harry wrong.

oooOOOooo

Snape used a fingertip to turn the page of the musty old Potions book which was propped against his belly.

“Professor Potter, I suggest that you finish grading those papers tonight; they are required for tomorrow.”

Harry sighed and his quill resumed its scratching.

“I just like looking at you.”

“I am aware of that; your eyes have been boring holes in me for the last ten minutes. I cannot imagine what is so fascinating about my shirt, however.”

“It's what's under your shirt.” Harry put the quill into its stand and got up from the desk. He was still wearing his academic robes, and he had learned gliding from the master of the ominous prowl himself. He stalked across the room and settled himself beside Snape on the sofa, gently moved the book aside and began to work the tiny pearl buttons out of their holes.

“You have marking to do, Professor Potter.”

“Hmm-mm.” Harry had exposed the hemisphere of Snape's abdomen and ran his hands across the tight skin. “I can't believe how fast she's growing.”

“I am trying not to think about it.”

“Why?” Harry grinned as Bryony pushed against his fingers and he pressed back.

“I look absurd,” Snape said, attempting to retrieve his place in his book. “I resemble a snake who has accidentally swallowed a large pumpkin.”

Harry bent down to press his mouth against Snape's navel, stroking it with the tip of his tongue. He could feel Bryony's languid flexing against his lips and he began licking and kissing a path downwards. He heard Snape's breath hitch.

“In your robes, you just look a bit tubby, is all.” Snape was wearing trousers with a stretchy waistband, low on his hips because he could not bear any restriction around his swollen middle. Harry eased the buttons undone and nuzzled underneath Bryony, to where Snape's cock was unfurling in reaction to his ministrations. “Remus is right, you do smell different. Just as nice, though.” He delicately licked at the tip, light sweeping touches that had Snape shifting his hips in tiny, diffident thrusts, as if he was unwilling to admit to being aroused. Harry teased and nibbled for a while, until he sensed that Snape was tiring of the game, when he leaned down and sucked in as much of the shaft as he could, and began to establish a rhythm. He lightly rolled Snape's furry balls in one hand, and with the other massaged the round belly, feeling Bryony react to Snape's arousal, kicking and thrusting under the skin. Snape moaned, clutching Harry's hair tightly between his fingers, arching his back as much as he could, and came into Harry's throat with a deep groan.

“Our daughter is getting depraved before she's even born,” Harry remarked. “I hope she doesn't remember all this wonderful love-making once she arrives.”

“Potter, what are you doing to me?” It appeared to be a rhetorical question, as Snape melted into the cushions and gazed at Harry with dazed black eyes.

“What no one has ever done to you before. I'm spoiling you rotten, Severus Snape.” He waved a hand to expand the sofa and snuggled down next to Snape, so that his erection pressed against Snape's thigh. Snape smiled and reached down, doing a five-finger exercise on the front of Harry's robes, then reaching in through the folds of fabric. His hand met silken skin and a damp nudging tip.

“No underwear? Professor Potter, you wanton little slut!”

“Yup,” Harry agreed happily, “I want you to take it easy. I'd hate you to exert yourself, having to rip my clothes off me.” He stretched up to softly kiss Snape's mouth. “Love you.”

“Likewise,” Snape murmured, then seeing the amused forbearance in Harry's expression, and understanding, he elaborated. “I love you too, Harry Potter.”

“Wow,” Harry breathed, and tears welled in his eyes. “Severus, are you truly happy?”

Snape gave his reply all the careful deliberation that it deserved.

“Strange as it seems, and against all my better judgement, I find that I am. Even this –” he prodded his distended belly, then gave it an apologetic little rub as Bryony kicked him in response, “– Is something that I anticipate with unexpected pleasure.”

“God,” Harry sniffed, “All those years you treated me like shit and not once did you make me blubber and now look at me!”

“The golden boy of the Wizarding world reduced to a sobbing heap by evil deputy headmaster, I can see the headlines already.” Snape used one finger to wipe below Harry's eyes, then he fastened their mouths together in a long, slow, languid kiss. The essays never did get marked.

oooOOOooo

“Well, would you credit it?” The drawling voice made Snape's head jerk up and he stared at the blond young man lounging in the doorway of his office. Draco Malfoy gave a proficient little smirk. “I leave the country for a year and everything goes to pot.”

“Malfoy!” Harry leaped to his feet and to Snape's utter incomprehension, seized the other man. They shook hands as if they were old friends. Snape stared from one to the other.

“I know that I am getting old, and my rampaging hormones have rotted my brain, but could you kindly supply an explanation?”

Malfoy sauntered into the room, gazing around at the familiar jars and bottles of unpleasant slimy things.

“I've been in America. Fascinating country.” His smirk widened. “They loved me, the combination of the looks and the accent knocked them dead. You should try it.”

Harry conjured up a tea tray.

“Sit down, Malfoy. You heard that we finally offed the old snake for good?”

“Oh yes, that made the headlines. Well done and all that.” Malfoy faked a little yawn. “Sorry to hear about the Headmaster though, I'll miss him. Mad old coot.”

Snape kneaded the front of his robes in an attempt to settle Bryony, who was reacting to his heightened emotions by pummelling him in the ribs.

“Excuse me for butting in,” he said, trying not to sound too irascible, “But don't you two hate each other?”

“Oh we did,” Harry said cheerfully, “And then we grew up. Malfoy was my chief spy among the Death Eaters while I was an Auror.”

“Your chief … you never told me!”

Harry gazed at him for a moment and for some reason, Snape suddenly remembered that this was one of the most powerful wizards in the world.

“I never betrayed any of my spies to anyone. Besides, we weren't exactly on speaking terms at the time, were we? Then he left the country and it didn't matter.”

Snape saw sudden comprehension dawn on young Malfoy's face. The blond eyebrows rose high in unfeigned amazement, the cool grey gaze skimmed over the bulge that no robes could disguise.

“Severus Snape, I am astonished.”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. He placed a hand on Snape's front, rubbing gently. “Are you alright?”

“I am not that fragile, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry murmured. “But I worry about you.”

Snape got to his feet, refusing Harry's help in a fit of pique.

“How is your mother, Draco?”

“Still the same.” Malfoy settled himself gracefully on the sofa. “She's in a private clinic. Too many goes of the Cruciatus, I'm afraid. But I should be asking the questions; clearly I'm out of the loop. I never dreamed you two…” he swept a hand in a courtly gesture, taking in Harry, Snape and more specifically, Snape's state of advanced pregnancy.

“This is our daughter Bryony,” Harry said, pouring tea and handing Malfoy a cup.

“Cool,” Malfoy drawled. “When do I get to meet her?”

“Any time soon.” Harry glanced at Snape, a questioning look in his eyes. “If all goes to plan. Poor Severus is reaching the end of his tether.”

“Severus feels as if he is about to burst,” Snape muttered. “If you would excuse me?”

“She head-butting your bladder again?” Harry asked. Snape merely nodded. He did not want sympathy; he wanted someone to take this monster out of him right now. “She was due six days ago,” Harry explained as Snape walked, or rather, waddled, to the bathroom.

He had never dreamed that it would be like this. His body was no longer his own; his bladder was squashed, his stomach and intestines squeezed so that he could hardly eat without appalling indigestion, his ankles were swollen and his emotions wildly out of control. Then two weeks ago, his body had undergone a magical transformation; a painful procedure which left him with a sensitive, squidgy and embarrassingly feminine aperture behind his scrotum. Harry found this birth canal quite as fascinating as his enormous, squirming belly. It had made for some interesting mild sex, even if Snape was forced into a position of total passive submission by his anatomy. He could not wait to regain his former lithe and masculine shape.

The fact that the entire bloody school was waiting in a state of high excitement for him to pop made it all far worse.

Once he had reduced the internal pressure a fraction, he paused to listen. The current shining light of the Malfoy family was explaining how he had set up a business in America that was going to make him rich on two continents instead of just one. Snape could not face tea, biscuits or that particular conversation. He quietly stepped out of the door into the Slytherin dungeons. He wanted sunlight and fresh air. Well he was pregnant, damn it, apparently that made people crave the strangest things.

He had not realised that the weather was so sultry; the dungeons had their own climate, always cool and dim even on the hottest days. A mass of dark cloud hung on the horizon. Snape breathed in as deeply as he could, smelling newly mown grass, hot stone and a weedy odour from the lake. A gaggle of first-year Hufflepuffs soared overhead, Hooch calling out instructions as they banked gracelessly over the castle. He leaned his shoulders against the wall. His back ached fiercely and muscles tightened tentatively all over his abdomen, as muted and ominous as the distant thunder.

“Severus?” The voice was low; he almost missed it under the tumult of his thoughts.

“Lupin.”

“Would you rather I left you alone?”

“It depends upon what you want.”

“Just seeing if you're okay, really.”

“In case it escaped your notice, I am an adult wizard, standing next to Hogwarts castle and fully capable of yelling for help if necessary.”

“I know. I just wondered if you wanted anyone to talk to. Sorry. I'll leave you to your contemplation.”

Snape held up a hand, a wordless instruction to remain.

“At full moon, do you ever wonder if you will come out of it alive at the other end?” It was an intensely personal question, but Lupin gazed kindly at him.

“I used to wonder every time. Since you perfected the Wolfsbane, I've become a lot more confident of my survival.”

“There is no Wolfsbane for this.”

“No,” Lupin agreed, “But there is Poppy Pomfrey and a specialist from St Mungo's on standby.”

Snape swallowed

“I have prepared three months' worth of Wolfsbane for you, which is as long as it will last in a frozen state. Harry has the name of a proficient apothecary who is capable of making up the potion to an acceptable standard.”

“You sound as if you intend leaving,” Lupin said after a long pause.

“You know perfectly well what I mean. I do not intend leaving; I intend surviving but that may be out of my hands.”

“I thought you'd want to be with Harry right now.” Was that a note of mild censure?

“I shall be with Harry for many hours. I wanted a few minutes with… with Hogwarts. With daylight.” He swept out one hand. “Trees. Grass. Even small Hufflepuffs on brooms. Ordinary things. Colleagues.”

“Come up to the staff room, it's almost tea time.”

Snape nodded, took a last look at the sweeping view of the lake and turned to accompany the werewolf. Lupin walked protectively at Snape's side, matching his slow pace as they ascended the wide, shallow, main stairway. When a sharp clenching pain seized him, Lupin's hand slid reassuringly under his arm and steadied him until it receded

“I have no doubt that I reek of fear, for which I apologise.”

“You don't, actually.”

“Kind of you, but not quite believable.”

“Should I contact Harry? He'll wonder where you are.”

“He knows,” Snape said, and was surprised to realise that it was true. “He even…he even knows that it has begun and that I am safe with you,” he let out his breath. “He understands.”

They went quietly into the staff room, where Sprout's coffee percolator gurgled and teapots steamed in readiness for the influx of professors. In they came, robes flapping. Hooch was pink in the face and harassed after her battle to teach Hufflepuffs the rudiments of flying. The Headmistress strode in, preferring the crowd to her lonely office when she paused for tea.

“Merlin save me from bureaucrats,” she snapped, “And their double-damned forms in triplicate! Oh, pumpkin and cinnamon scones, thanks, Pomona."

“Have you seen the paper? That Scrimgeour needs a good boot up the arse this time…”

“Filius! Thanks for sorting out that jungle in the Arithmancy classroom! Cheers, I owe you one. If I get my hands on whoever's responsible, I'm going to hex the little prat into the next century. A bloody gibbon hit me on the head with a coconut!”

“It was a jolly good piece of charm-work, though…”

“Hello Professor Snape; we haven't seen you up here for ages. How are you?”

He nodded to Ceri Morgan, folding his hands inside his sleeves so that he could cuddle his aching belly without anyone noticing.

“I am, as you see, still acting as an incubator.”

“Aren't you overdue?” The wretched woman asked, all blue eyes and concern.

“Quite possibly,” he said, as if bored with the subject.

“Tea, Severus?” Sprout enquired and he accepted, took a couple of sips and realised that if he tried to swallow anything else, it was going to come back.

“I am not about to explode, Lupin,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth to the hovering werewolf.

“Could have fooled me. Sit down, at least.”

Could his heightened senses tell that Snape was starting to feel unwell?

“I think it's anxiety,” Lupin said soothingly as he helped Snape to a chair at the table. “Just sit quietly for a while and have your tea.”

Which helped, in fact, and when Poppy Pomfrey arrived and asked about an experimental potion she wished to order from St Mungo's, he was able to have a perfectly sensible conversation. The bell rang for the next lesson and the staff bustled, slouched, strode, floated or scuttled out according to nature and preference.

“Don't you have a class to attend to, Lupin?”

“Oh, they'll be fine.” He waved a hand airily. “Mixed seventh year tutorial. Want to come with me?”

Snape opened his mouth and what came out was affirmative. He wondered what hormones he was on, sometimes.

He had abandoned even his seventh years over the last three weeks, partly because Harry seemed to have overcome the ineptitude of his student days and wanted to try his hand at NEWT-level teaching. If they didn't know enough by now, they never would, so he had permitted Harry to help them revise. When he followed Lupin into the DADA classroom, he was quite touched by the warmth with which everyone, including the Gryffindors, greeted him. He must have been going soft. Too late to rectify that now. Too late for anything really, apart from a sentimental thought about seeing his favourite students one last time, which he ruthlessly quashed. For two hours. By which time the pains were coming at five minute intervals and were making him clamp his teeth on his lower lip in an attempt to remain still and silent. When he opened his eyes, to see Moira, Carlin, Lupin and Harry watching him anxiously, he realised that they were witches and wizards, for Merlin's sake, and it did not take a skilled Legilimens to see that he was in considerable distress.

“Very well,” he snapped, allowing Harry to help him to his feet. He straightened his back – giving him hell – and held his head high.

“Good luck, sir,” Carlin said softly and he graciously acknowledged them all, and leaned on Harry as they walked out of the room.

“When did the waters break?” Harry asked conversationally as they made their way up to the infirmary.

“Before Malfoy arrived.”

“And you say I don't tell you things?”

“Why sit around worrying when this could take many hours? What have you done with the first years?”

“Oh they're quaking in their little shoes, poor babies. They have a reading assignment and I nabbed a couple of passing ghosts to supervise them.”

“Which ones?”

“Screaming Shirley from the west wing attic and the baron.”

“My will is in my desk, in the lower left hand drawer, in the locked document box. The password for the box is ‘Smaragd'.”

“Severus,” Harry said, softly, taking him by the shoulders, “My love, you are not going to die.”

Severus Snape, dungeon monster, former double agent, deputy headmaster, pressed his face into Harry's shoulder to stifle the sob that bubbled up through his throat. Harry rubbed his back, made soothing sounds and guided him to where Poppy Pomfrey stood waiting, in a state of exasperation at her most anxiety-inducing patient.

Bryony Lily Potter-Snape was the cause of a great deal of agonised groaning, threats to castrate Harry Potter and more than a few wandless hexes. Fortunately even in the middle of a very difficult labour, Severus Snape had enough self-control to direct the hexes at the ceiling rather than at his anxious partner. He exploded a large area of plaster and seriously charred some very old oak beams. Bryony was born in the middle of a violent thunderstorm.

“That's a weight off my mind,” McGonagall remarked as a shocked and furious little witch wailed her indignation all the way down the corridor.

“An even bigger weight off Severus's, I imagine,” Flitwick squeaked with a quiver of sympathy.

“Is he alright?” Lupin demanded as Harry stuck his tousled head out of the infirmary.

“Just about.” Harry rasped a thumb across his chin, seeming surprised to find it unshaven. “Poor love, he's exhausted and lost quite a lot of blood; Poppy's dosing him up on replenishing potions. I can't believe how big she is.”

He turned away, spoke to Pomfrey and then turned back to them with a bundle in his arms. The staff cooed and clucked in the traditional manner, and Bryony smacked her lips and whimpered in continued astonishment at the air and the brightness of the world outside her parent.

“Potter?” a familiar voice demanded, “What have you done with our daughter?”

“He's alright,” Lupin agreed, nodding his head. “Do you know, I think she has your nose, Harry?”

“But Severus's dramatic cheekbones,” Hooch predicted.

“Black hair, Severus's eyes, she's going to be trouble, this one.”

“Her parents are the two most powerful wizards in the country, of course she is,” the headmistress said with satisfaction.

“Harry Potter, will you return that baby at once!”

“He's only had her ten minutes and he's fretting already,” Harry remarked. “Who was it who insisted he didn't like brats? Excuse me, I think I'd better take her back before he throws a conniption. Come and see them both when he's had a rest and she's had a bottle.”

“Can't wait,” Sprout said with a grin. “God, I just love it. Severus Snape, a mummy!”

“Pomona Sprout! If I hear you say that word again I shall spray shrivelling potions into every single bloody greenhouse you possess!”

Heads nodded and significant looks were exchanged.

“Hissy fit,” six voices sighed in unison.

Harry Potter, proud father, rejoined his partner and placed their daughter in his arms. Snape peeled back the shawl so that he could see the perfection of tiny fingers, the pink, squashy and somehow flawless face with its snub nose and dark, dark eyes. Harry's child, honorary Weasley, James' and Lily's grandchild, snuffled up at him.

“Who shall we ask to be her godparents?” Harry touched her little hand and smiled as the fingers closed reflexively around his thumb. “And how many is she allowed?”

“In the Wizarding world, usually two of each sex. Who have you in mind?”

“Ron and Hermione.”

Snape nodded, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. Despite his own very powerful potions, he still felt as if he had been hit by multiple bludgers to the guts.

“I should like to ask Minerva.”

“Absolutely. And the other wizard?”

Snape took in a deep breath.

“Remus Lupin.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, “Thank you so very much, for always being there for me and for everything. Sorry, I'm getting all slushy.”

“Slush right ahead,” Snape told him, “Luckily I'm just a snarky bastard and a greasy old git.”

“Yeah, right,” Harry said and softly kissed away the tear that was rolling from the corner of a black eye. “Of course you are.”