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Disclaimer: Hers. Not mine. Sob.
Warnings: Slash. Excessive drinking. Non-con (sort of, non-violent).
Feedback: yes please! at lant_ana@yahoo.co.uk
Beta: Vash_the_dork
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm
Challenge: 103. Snape is drunk, has lost someone very dear to him. Harry tries to comfort. (Kira)

HOW SEVERUS SNAPE BECAME A TEETOTALLER

When Tonks, in the full glory of Goth Muggle clothes and her hair a dazzling yellow, came to fetch him at the Dursleys after only two weeks, Harry didn't know how to feel. Sure, he was happy he could leave Privet Drive for the remainder of the holidays, but he had his doubts staying at Grimmauld Place would lift his spirits much.

He had to admit the Headmaster did have a point though. He had stayed just long enough so the protection would work, but the rest of his holidays would be much better spent at the Phoenix headquarters; where he could finish his holiday assignments undisturbed and tuition could be provided in the classes he most needed. Things weren't going well in the Magical Community, and he needed to get as ready as he could, as fast as he could. Moping around in a Muggle house, forbidden to do anything magic was not the way to get that result.

And so it was that he, if not eagerly, at least willingly, packed up and left for the Black family house.

Tonks didn't tell him much, only that he wouldn't be living alone, others would be there. They'd teach him duelling, DADA, occlumency - and, with that particular item mentioned, Harry knew his holidays just had gotten worse than ever.

Snape. Snape would be staying there. Snape would be teaching him.

He'd spend the remainder of his holidays with his most hated teacher. He'd be lucky if the both of them made it alive and more or less sane until the start of next school year. He didn't complain about it though, he knew it wouldn't make a difference anyway. Since when had anybody taken into account anything he said?

He entered the dreary house as if it were his execution place. As expected, the forbidding presence of his Potions teacher loomed just inside, sneer firmly in place. His welcome, if you could call it that, was as cold and cutting as expected. Insults about his shoddy appearance, insinuations of how he probably had planned lazing away entire months while he was needed so badly, and a curt order to get his luggage upstairs in any room he preferred and be back downstairs in time for dinner - and properly dressed, thank you. He hurried away, dragging his trunk upstairs, to get out of the baleful stare pointed at him.

He hurried to stow away the contents of his truck and get dressed into his school clothes. They fitted somewhat better than Dudley's cast-offs, and were the only things he had that Snape would deem suitable for a wizard. He'd have to get new ones, though; these were getting rather short and narrow on him.


Harry had believed himself to be hungry before Tonks had taken him to the Black house, and vaguely he could still feel the hunger pangs. But now, sitting at the kitchen table with his most hated teacher, listening to his subtle insults, he had difficulties emptying his plate, never mind taking seconds. He forced the food down as fast as he could, mumbled something that could be, with an effort and some goodwill, taken as an expression of gratitude, and fled back to his room.

At least, that had been the plan, but Snape decided otherwise. The moment he rose, he told him not to hurry so much, and to wait until he had finished eating, he would like to inform Harry about his schedule for the following weeks. He seethed, but obeyed, reminding himself firmly that being polite definitely was the best solution - fewer occasions for sarcasm that way, which was a very good thing indeed.

The schedule was somewhat less of a good thing, in Harry's opinion. Breakfast at seven, followed by two hours of tutoring in Occlumency and two hours of Potions. Lunch, and some free time until two in which he was supposed to do his summer assignments. Another two hours of Occlumency, and three hours of DADA and duelling. He would be free for the rest of the day, except for the dinner at seven sharp. Snape told him in no uncertain terms that he would spend this "free" time reading, catching up on his assignments (again!) and reviewing what he had learned during the day. At ten, he was to retire to his room, clear his mind, and sleep for the rest of the night. No mention was made of relaxing, or weekends, writing or meeting his friends, but Snape did mention he expected lots of gratitude on Harry's part for his willingness at sacrificing his well-deserved holidays to teach him what he needed to know.

Harry nodded at regular intervals, murmured a "yes, professor" or "no, professor" at seemingly appropriate places, accepted a neatly written scroll with a list of books he was "advised" to read, and went to his room. He'd show Snape his good will, he'd obey all his idiotic rules as exactly as he could, only hoping it would be enough to soften the Potions Master's attitude.

The very next day, at his very first Duelling session, he tore his robes. He couldn't really help it, even Snape realised that. He had outgrown his robes so badly, that at the first energetic movement, the seams at his shoulders tore, and he was left with two loose sleeves sliding over his wrists. Snape called him an idiot for wearing too tight robes, and sent him to his room, to fetch looser-fitting ones. He told him that he had no other robes, only these old school uniforms, and his Muggle clothes.

Snape chose not to believe him, and demanded to see for himself. He strode straight to the wardrobe in Harry's room, and threw the doors wide open. The sneer on his face disappeared instantly, when he, instead of the vast display of robes he had been expecting, he discovered the bare minimum of school robes, one set of completely outgrown green dress robes, and some severely worn, oversized Muggle... rags.

For a moment he believed Harry had pranked him somehow, hidden his real clothes in his trunk, or in another room, but the boy was clearly embarrassed about his wardrobe. He slammed the doors shut, irritated at the disturbance of his carefully planned schedule. They had been following it less than a day, and already he'd have to give up its soothing regularity and take an unplanned outing to Diagon Alley to get the brat dressed in acceptable clothing.

Even worse, they couldn't possibly do so today. If he were to hold up his double role, nobody could see him accompanying Potter anyplace else than to Riddle Manor. This meant he would have to warn Dumbledore; and Dumbledore would have to warn others; who then had to contact him to arrange a date to take Potter on his shopping trip - and all of that time, they couldn't continue studying as planned.

He ordered the brat to get into some of those Muggle rags, and stay in his room to study whatever he needed to catch up on the most until new clothes could be arranged. His meals would be sent to him, he had no desire to see him other than to teach him. He strode away, thinking what he could say to Dumbledore that would convince him this was top priority, and someone should come fetch Potter, ideally about an hour ago.

Albus' attention never wavered throughout the Potion Master's rant about Potter's unacceptable wardrobe, his consequent need of new clothes, and how inconvenient it all was to interrupt his schedule. He demanded that someone should be sent over to take the brat shopping as soon as possible.

At this, Dumbledore's beaming countenance altered. He made profuse excuses, but made it clear that nobody was available for the moment. Indeed, every able-bodied member of the Order was drowned by his workload as it was, and would be for the next three weeks at least. Snape protested vehemently, it simply was impossible to continue teaching Potter anything serious dressed in what he had now, and a three-week break was not advisable.

Snape's heart skipped a few beats as he noticed that the Headmaster's twinkle was doubling. He just knew he wouldn't like what he had to say - and he also knew he would have to accept it.

Polyjuice. While it was true Professor Snape and the Boy-Who-Lived could not be seen together, there was no reason why his good old friend Remus Lupin could not take his best friend's godson shopping for an afternoon. With the new, stronger formula of Polyjuice they would have four hours, ample time to buy the boy adequate clothes, he happily announced, neglecting Snape's furious scowl. He'd get the necessary potion, and a bit of Remus' hair, immediately, so if Severus would be so kind to keep the connection open, he'd be back in a moment.

The trip was a nightmare. Severus wore his oldest robes in his disguise as Lupin, and though they were shabby enough to make him uncomfortable, they still were far better than the werewolf ever had worn. The clothes weren't the worst part of it, though. Remus' face simply wasn't made for sneering, and most people seemed to disdain him. Others were - shudder - nice to him, offering their condolences at his recent loss, or complementing him on his kindness in taking Potter shopping.

Madam Malkin was making eyes at him, he was sure of it. She made it rather clear to "dear Remus" that he really needed someone to take care of him, and he only had to say the word, and she'd invite him for a "private fitting of some quite nice robes" she could be persuaded to let go at exceptionally low prices. He refused to think what exactly such a private fitting would entail, and how she could be persuaded, and felt almost pity for the penniless werewolf. Almost.

Luckily, the brat came to his rescue. Potter, in a whisper that surely couldn't be heard two miles away, explained to the older woman that it was "too early", his almost-godfather was still "deeply shaken, and often cried about his loss". Snape bit on his lip, hard, to swallow a snort, and tried to look appropriately mournful. The seamstress did keep fawning over him after that, but didn't propose anymore. Rarely had he been as happy as the moment he could walk out of that shop.

Potter insisted on "thanking" him for his patience and cooperation by buying him ice cream. Severus didn't particularly like the stuff, but accepted anyway. He had to stay in character, after all, and Lupin would not be Lupin without spoiling the brat at every occasion. Had the decision been his, he would rather have had a nice old single malt, but, he reminded himself once again, Lupin would never take a child in such unwholesome places as pubs.

They made it back to Grimmauld Place long before the Polyjuice wore off.

The days after that disastrous trip went by in a blur. Harry was kept busy; in fact he came close to exhaustion by the time a week had passed.

And then, somehow, he seemed to adapt. Occlumency came easier to him now, and Snape was having difficulties at beating him in the Duelling sessions. Hell, even his assignments seemed quite simple lately, and the dreaded books Snape had assigned him turned out to be quite interesting.

Not longer hampered by overtiredness, he became more alert to his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that someone clearly had found a way to silence Mrs. Black's portrait. Kreacher seemed to have vanished too. Another house elf, wearing a tea towel with the Hogwarts emblem, busied himself in the kitchen.

And Snape was acting a bit off, too. Harry couldn't pinpoint the difference exactly, but the man didn't behave as usual. By moments, he almost seemed human: the sneer appeared to be plastered on, and the insults were, while still every bit as inventive as before, less vitriolic. It was almost as if Snape couldn't be bothered to hold up the front anymore, as if his mind was somewhere else at times.

More worrying was, in Harry's opinion, that the Potions Master had begun drinking. When he came to send him to his room at night, there often was a distinct odour of booze around the man - and his breath... even worse. He didn't drink as much as to be legless, but there was a certain slur to his speech, a certain swagger in his usual stalk that spoke of more than one snifter emptied.

Two nights after his birthday, Harry was having difficulty falling asleep. Midnight came and went, and still he was staring at the ceiling. Hoping Snape was not having the same amount of insomnia, but was peacefully sleeping, and therefore unable to catch him at his nightly walk, he decided a mug of camomile tea would help him getting at least some sleep. He'd just sneak to the kitchen, quietly drink his tea, and get back, without anyone being the wiser - he hoped.

He bemoaned his bad luck, as he discovered a familiar, black silhouette in the kitchen. Why did it always have to happen to him? The first time he broke his curfew, and Snape had to be there. Now he would not get his desired, soothing tea to help him sleep, but instead he'd get an earful of Snape's finest insults. He had serious doubts that would help a lot with his insomnia. He'd return to his room, thirsty and raging, to face another sleepless night - and tomorrow, Snape would hand him out another example of cruelty disguised as discipline.

Snape was making and admirable effort at his standard glare at his entry, but the effort was totally wasted when he hiccupped, loudly and indiscreet. At closer inspection, one could also notice that the Potion Master's proud posture was spoiled by a slight swaying, and the glare had more than a hint of cross-eyedness.

Snape was plastered. As unlikely as it seemed, it was the only conclusion Harry could come to. Snape seemed to realize he had been less than successful in hiding his condition, and staggered back into the chair he had abandoned at his pupil's approach. With a florid gesture, and another loud hiccup, he invited him in.

Harry hesitated to enter - who knew what Snape, and a drunken Snape at that, could do? But he did seem rather mellow, and it seemed very unlikely that Snape would want to be remembered about this embarrassing situation once he was sober. Quickly, he went about to make his tea, trying not to give the inebriated man too much attention.

He stood, waiting for the kettle to boil, and pretended a fascination with the darkened kitchen window.

"He would have been thirty-seven today, Potter. Did you know that?"

It took a moment for Harry to realise Snape had spoken - and even longer to understand what he was saying. Who would have been thirty-seven? And why would that be a reason for the Potion Master to drink himself into a stupor?

"The plans we had, Potter. Such lovely, elaborate plans. There's an Italian restaurant we would have gone to, the same one we went to on our first date. I would have eaten tortellini carbonara; and he would have taken the spaghetti ai vongole. We would have shared a bottle of Italian white wine, and we would share our desserts, just like that first time. But not now, he is dead, dead, and I'm left alone. I shan't be going to our restaurant ever again. Who would fight over that last spoonful of zabaglione with me now?"

Snape's voice, though lightly slurred, had been under tight control at the beginning of his story, but by the time he pronounced that last "now", he was fairly howling.

"Alone, Potter, he left me alone, and he won't be escaping this time. I won't stand frozen again at the unexpected sound of his voice, or shudder at his kisses." He gulped down another glass of Scotch, and finally broke down sobbing.

The kettle was boiling furiously, but Harry couldn't care less. "...Won't escape this time..." Could it be? Impossible, they hated each other; they had hated each other since forever. No way could he believe that Snape, greasy Snape, Snivellus Snape sat here in the kitchen of the Black House, bawling his eyes out over his deceased godfather. The lover he was mourning had obviously been one of his Death Eater friends, perhaps one of those who died at the Ministry, or one who was now locked in Azkaban.

Snape was still crying desperately, his head on his folded arms. Broken sentences interrupted his sobbing.

Woodenly, Harry put out the fire beneath the kettle. He had lost his appetite for tea. Snape's uncharacteristic behaviour worried him. Did the man lose his mind, or was his more human side finally showing through?

Two sides of his mind were battling what he should do, how he should respond to the drunk, crying man. There were two roads he could take from here; the decision was his alone.

His anger insisted that he'd make his tea anyway, and leave the kitchen, cup in hand, after insulting and hurting the man that had done the same to him so many times. It would be easy, too easy perhaps. He heard himself, the malice of his voice as he told Snape that he had only himself to blame, that it was all his fault. His fault, for not teaching Harry Occlumency the way he was supposed to; his fault for not retaining Sirius, his fault for letting him go after him, and starting the whole debacle at the Ministry.

It would feel so good; he would revel in his power to make this hateful man squirm. Snape would hurt even more, he'd probably drink himself completely stupid, but it wouldn't take away his pain. He'd get up with a huge hangover, still in pain, and those angry words of Harry resonating in his brain. Perhaps he'd be hurt enough to get really, really desperate, perhaps desperate enough to make it possible for Harry to drive him totally insane. He'd have to give up teaching, and be replaced by someone else, someone nicer and fairer.

Perhaps he'd kill himself, and Harry would be able to say that he had caused that. He would have destroyed the greasy git. The entire House of Gryffindor would cheer him; they'd engrave his name on the walls of the common room.

And he would be a killer. A cold-hearted, cold-blooded, scheming killer. Oh, the blame for other deaths had been laid at his feet, but if he was honest to himself, there wasn't much he could have done to prevent them. This would be different. This would be premeditated murder.

He shuddered, and refused to walk down that road. He knew that, in the end, his guilt wouldn't be lessened by another death, and it just wasn't true anyway. Lying to himself, putting the blame somewhere else and acting as if it were the truth, and punishing and hurting the scapegoat were wrong, very wrong. Somehow, he could sense true darkness lying ahead if he followed that road.

The other road was less easy, less obvious. There would be no public recognition for what he would have to do, and even Snape himself would not appreciate it, most likely. He'd only see it as another weakness, another idiocy he could be torturing him about.

And yet, it was undoubtedly the right thing to do. There was nothing else he could do, not if he wanted to be able to look into the mirror afterwards, and like what he saw.

And so, he abandoned cup, herbs and kettle alike, and carefully, silently walked over to the mourning man. He put his hand on the dirty, greasy hair, and hesitated the shortest of moment before caressing it. It felt odd, acting like that to his most hated teacher. Odd, but very right at the same time, as if it was something that should have happened a long time ago. Snape didn't seem to mind either - but perhaps the booze had something to do with that. He certainly wouldn't accept solace from a despicable Potter if he were sober, Harry thought.

Clearly, Snape was too far-gone to care that the comfort he was receiving, was given by Potter. His sobbing calmed down somewhat, and he seemed to like Harry's touch. In fact, he was leaning into it, searching more of it.

Fascinated by that small sign of acceptance, he risked a more personal touch. He stopped petting the, if he were honest, quite unpleasant hair, and started stroking the still heaving back, in strong, soothing circles. This seemed far more efficient, after only a minute or so of gently rubbing, Snape's desperate sobbing diminished, and he calmed down.

Harry was surprised at how good it felt, to make someone feel better like that. No matter that he usually couldn't stand the man, no matter that he was soused, the simple fact that his touch had stopped another human being from hurting elated him. So, he kept stroking the Potion Master's back, rejoicing in the touch, even though the crying fit had passed.


Snape was breathing slowly, quietly now, and Harry started thinking he might have fallen asleep. A soft snore confirmed his suspicions. He considered what he could do next. Should he let him be, and sleep off his debauch? Sensible, and the easiest thing to do, but he shuddered to think about how the Potions Master would feel in the morning; and how his behaviour would be when severely hung over.

No, there was only one solution: he had to get the man into a bed, by preference his own, but if he didn't discover just where he slept, any other bed would have to do. Snape wouldn't like it, and he probably could expect another earful of insults instead of a proper thank you, but it couldn't be any worse than suffering through the man's hangover-induced foul temper.

Snape was heavy. Even partly conscious and cooperating, Harry found it difficult to support the tall, muscular man. He managed to drag him up one flight of stairs, and into the nearest bedroom. It would have to be good enough; he was shaking on his legs as it was already.

The room was dark, and slightly dusty. No lit torches here, and he had no wand with him to cast a Lumos. They'd have to manage by the diffuse light spilling in from the hall. Holding Snape's arm firmly wrapped around his shoulders, he stumbled into the direction he vaguely saw the outline of a bed.

Snape had been silent all the way from the kitchen to the bed, but now he started talking. Harry was taking of the Potion Master's boots and outer clothes, to make his rest as comfortable as possible, when Snape spoke again.

"He must be very, very drunk indeed," Harry mused. "Now he's thinking I am his lover!" Snape was cooing words of endearment, while his hands were all over Harry. He giggled - giggled! - and told his supposed paramour that he was very kinky indeed. "Now really, darling, that Glamour is incredible; but aren't those glasses a little over the top? I swear, you already look just like him, you even feel like I think he would feel. Just get rid of the glasses, and come and kiss me."

Another of those alarming giggles, and Harry was dragged away from the thirty-second button he was undoing on the Potion Master's robes. Long, pale fingers snagged away the offending glasses, and Harry was getting a whisky-flavoured kiss.

A very, very nice kiss. Hot, with lots of tongue, and sprinkled with little moans. Harry had never kissed, or been kissed like that. He liked it, a lot, and found he had no problem rationalizing it: Snape was drunk; Snape was much stronger than him, and clearly very much in need of a bit of comfort. He drew back briefly, to get a much needed lungful of oxygen, and dove back in, cooperating eagerly. "After all," he pondered, "by tomorrow he'll have forgotten all that happened, and even if he doesn't, it will be worth the consequences - what a kiss..."

Severus Snape was happy. In his alcohol-befuddled brain, his lover was no longer absent, no longer dead, but living, breathing, and in his arms. The dear man even had indulged in one of his all-time favourite fantasies. He had applied an elaborate Glamour, making him look like Harry Potter, and was acting so convincingly that it was almost as if he really was making out with his student.

He removed the very accurate glasses, and stopped the shy hands opening his robes. He kissed his love, enjoying the way he even imitated the boy's inexperience. So sweet, so precious. He fumbled to find his wand, and stopped the very enjoyable kiss to gasp out the spell that would get rid of their clothes.

Ahhh... such an inventive lover he had! Such an exquisite Glamour! He even tasted different, there was a hint of apple and innocence on his tongue, not at all like he usually tasted. It was almost as if he really, truly was holding and kissing the Potter boy.

He had lusted for the youngster for some time now, although he never would have done anything about it. But his darling had known something was on his mind, he had made him confess, and now he gave him this precious gift.

Severus let his hands wander about the slim, firm body in his arms, trying to not fall into familiar patterns of touch, but aiming to find new ways to make his love gasp and moan. He managed his intent quite well, as the erection pressing into his thigh indicated. His fingers curling around the hard flesh, and Severus almost cried out in surprise at discovering how different than usual it felt. Uncut, a bit longer, and quite a bit thicker, another fantasy of him fulfilled. Not that he had to complain about his love's size, but he always had liked generously endowed men. He had no way of knowing how truthfully Potter's genitals were copied, his big-hearted lover had most likely exaggerated somewhat to pleasure him even more.

He moaned happily, and pulled his perfectly disguised lover down on the bed with him. He landed with his left elbow right on his wand, which saved him a load of groping around in the half-dark room. He grabbed it, and spelled himself ready for his lover, open and slick, and hungry for the throbbing cock his lover had waiting for him.

His clever, clever lover, who acted all shy and uncertain now, pretending to be innocent and inexperienced, and yet unable to hide his arousal and need. Severus treated him gently, as if the fantasy were true, as if he really was bedding a virgin. He led him to lie flat on his back, and straddled him. He grasped the now weeping erection, and guided it to his waiting hole, whimpering with want.

As the unfamiliar thickness breached him, he wailed out his mixed feelings. It hurt a bit, but felt so good, and he started riding his lover hard and fast, almost desperate. Somehow, he felt as if this would be the last time, as if he had lost his lover forever, which was absurd. Who else would know him so well, who else would make him squeal in lust? He slammed down, chasing away those undesired thoughts, leaving only room in his mind for himself, his lover, and their sharing of bodies.

Potter's face was beautiful, with his lover's fire shining in his eyes, the boyish features screwed tight in desire, panting in lust. The lithe body underneath him bucked once, twice, the pants muted to screams, as his lover climaxed inside his needing body.

Severus shuddered, enjoying every moment of it, every little movement his lover made. He clenched down on the waning erection, not wanting to lose it so soon, he hadn't come yet after all. Despite his best efforts, it slipped away from him, and he was left empty and unfulfilled.

He rolled away, fell back beside his lover, and started touching himself, eyes shut and remembering how good it felt, just moments ago.

Closing his eyes was a mistake. He fell back into his alcoholic haze, hand falling away from his forgotten erection, and drifted off into sleep.

Harry couldn't believe what had happened. It wasn't as if he had any complaints about what had happened, he had loved every minute, every touch of it. He only regretted that what had not happened. He would have loved to feel the older man's erection inside of him, too. The way Snape had carried on, once Harry had been inside of him, had seemed so intense. The man's face had been transformed by his delight, and for a moment he almost had been beautiful.

Harry wanted that. He wanted to see the dour, forbidding face soften in pleasure, wanted to hear that spiteful voice moan and cry out, and he wanted that lovely, pale body naked in his arms again. He doubted he could get Snape to get roaring drunk again anytime soon - but blackmail would work just as well, he imagined. The oh so proper Potions Master would not like it if these past hours would get known, he felt sure. Dumbledore would have a fit, for starters, and what Voldemort would do...

No, he was quite confident he could get Snape into his bed again. He pulled the blankets over them, and went to sleep.

Tomorrow he would make his demands.

He could hardly wait.