FIC: "Occam's Razor", Chapter Seven


Chapter Seven

"Draco?" Harry asked as they held each other, the moonlight streaming in from the window. He watched, then smiled as Draco used a finger to lift his own eyelid.

"What? Aren't you tired?" Draco asked as he opened both eyes. "God, you should be."

"More sore than tired," Harry admitted.

"We'll have to work on that, then," Draco murmured, running a finger along the curve of Harry's shoulder, making Harry shiver.

Draco's eyes started to drift shut, then opened suddenly. "You were about to say…?"

"Oh, yeah, got distracted," Harry accused. "I was wondering…what made you change?" He watched as the dreaminess left the gray eyes as they slowly refocused.

"You've changed too," Draco pointed out.

"I know, but not as much as you have. So, what was it?" he persisted, using a hand to twirl a lock of blond hair.

Draco sighed and rolled to his back, and stared up at the ceiling. "I almost ended up dead, more than once. You might've got used to that experience, but it was an eye-opener for me. Especially the last time."

"So…it scared you," Harry said.

Turning his head to look at Harry, Draco admitted, "Yeah, it did."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Draco rolled to his side again to face him. "In that position, a man has two choices, I think: become a coward and be afraid of everything, or start over. Make the most of the time he has left." He reached out for Harry and pulled him closer. "So that's what I'm doing."

"That’s a good thing, then," Harry murmured, shifting a bit so that their legs were tangled together.

They slept that way until just after dawn. Harry awakened, then gently extricated himself to sit in the chair by the window, watching as the sun rose above the horizon.

He thought about what they'd discussed after returning from Spinner's End. He wasn't looking forward to the confrontation to come, much as he wanted to know the truth, once and for all. Draco'd pointed out that there still might be another explanation, but Harry didn't think that likely at all.

Snape had made a Horcrux. It boggled his mind when he allowed himself to think the words, even after he and Draco'd talked about the possibility. There was still the chance that Snape had made the potions for someone else—he himself had pointed out just yesterday afternoon that he was a potions master. But Harry couldn't imagine Snape brewing those for anyone. And the evidence of what they'd found at St. James was especially damning.

He remembered the horror he'd felt when Dumbledore had first detailed for him what a Horcrux was and how it was made. It was, as the textbook declared on its cover, the darkest art, magic performed in the quest for immortality, a magic so dark that it required the caster to commit murder.

He wondered, too, about what Snape had told him concerning his so-called 'back-up' plan. Remus had been involved somehow, but for the life of him, Harry couldn't believe that Remus would've had anything at all to do with magic as dark as this. There weren't many things that he was dead certain about, but this was one of them.

Draco stirred in his sleep; Harry looked to the bed, then smiled as he listened to the man snore. Whatever was to come, he was glad that he wasn't in it alone.

oooOOOooo

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the sideboard as they poured their tea, Draco asked quietly, "Ready?"

Harry nodded. "As I'll ever be."

"Remember, whatever happens, it's for his own good. He might be angry…."

Harry harrumphed. "Snape angry? You jest," he muttered as they turned toward the settee.

They took their time over tea, even reading the Sunday headlines to Snape, who once again seemed to be his usual self. Harry felt a fleeting regret, that they were about to provoke him, then remembered Draco's words. No, it was best to get this out in the open, whether or not there would be a resolution.

Oddly, it was Snape himself who gave them the opening, and when he did, Harry stared at him, thinking that Snape wasn't this stupid, surely.

"So, how did the two of you find Spinner's End?" he asked nonchalantly, pushing his chair to the front of the portrait, then carefully straightening his coat before he sat.

Draco and Harry exchanged a glance of surprise. Harry said cautiously, "Muggle, as you said. And quiet, especially the cemetery."

Snape used a finger to lift a strand of hair from his face. "Ah, not surprising, as its occupants are dead."

"Severus," Draco paused, then said solemnly, "we know what you did."

Snape looked suddenly weary. "You do, do you?"

"You killed Birnum, late in the summer, just before you became headmaster. You'd already made the potions, had everything in place. His death made your Horcrux."

Harry pointed to the textbook between them. "You weren't just interested in Voldemort's. You marked the pages for yourself—how to make one…."

"And how to bring a person back, once he's dead…if he has a Horcrux," Draco finished for him.

"We haven't figured out what you chose for the actual Horcrux, but that's not important anyway. But your familiar…" Harry glanced at Draco, who gave him a nod of encouragement. "Your familiar is where your spirit is."

Snape's eyes widened, but he kept his tongue.

"It makes perfect sense. You didn't have it sixth-year, but when you returned in September, it was always with you. You wanted to make certain that you'd have it close, a willing host in the event that you were killed," Draco said, fixing Snape with a firm look.

"Which is what you did. I don't remember seeing it in the Shrieking Shack, but I'd wager it was there," Harry told him, surprised that Snape hadn't even raised a hand in objection.

"The question, of course, is why, Severus," Draco continued, after Harry'd finished. "Knowing what I do of you…what motivated you, I think, had something to do with Harry," he posited.

"The trunk, sir. Everything in it was selected for a reason. It's clear that the contents of the phials were meant for the…the ritual to bring you back. I was witness to one of those, you remember, although the one in the book is a bit different. But with what we found at St. James'…." Harry paused, hoping that Snape would give in and provide the missing details, but he remained silent, looking from Harry to Draco as they spoke in turn.

"The phials," Draco mused, "bone of the father, unknowingly given. You collected that at some point from St. James. As for the flesh of a servant and blood of an enemy, it appears that Wormtail provided both of those, didn't he? I don't know how you pulled it off, one given willingly, the other forcibly taken, but I'm certain I'm right."

"So, why, Severus?" Harry almost pleaded. "I'm sure you had a reason, a plan set in place, but something's not right…who would help you, if were you killed, and why in the world would you sink to such a level?" Harry knew the disappointment was clear in his voice.

Snape had leant forward and placed his head in his hands; Harry's words, however, seemed to decide him that it was time to speak. Looking up, he spoke to Harry, as if Draco weren't in the room at all.

'You remember I told you I had a contingency plan?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. When Harry nodded, he continued, "I underestimated your…tenacity, it seems. The phials," he emphasized the word, "never contained memories. They contain precisely what Draco proposed."

Harry's mind reeled, as he played back their conversation of weeks before, of how Remus would've received a letter, of how Snape would've instructed him to…. Harry gasped out loud, his mouth dropping open, his eyes wild. "Remus…he was your back- up plan…."

Snape nodded, his eyes glittering. "That part was the truth. Where the actual plan diverges from what you so willingly concluded, was in what my instructions to Lupin contained."

Outraged, Harry said, stunned, "You lied to me!"

"I did not!" Snape shot back. "I let your mind go where it decided to go. If you'll recall that conversation, you'll find that I never corroborated that the phials contained memories, only that Lupin would do what I asked. In this case, perform a relatively simple ritual, according to my precise instructions," he said intently, glaring at Harry.

"No! That's not what you…." Harry trailed off, as he became distracted, his mind groping for the details of that discussion. Snape had said that what Harry and Remus would've needed to know wouldn't have necessarily been the same thing. He remembered that it'd been himself who'd made the assertion that they were memories, but Snape…Snape hadn't agreed…or disagreed, come to think of it. But still…Snape had let him believe…had let him persist in that misapprehension. His thoughts were cut short by the sound of Snape's voice.

"Humor me for a moment, Harry. If I'd done as you believed…left the memories for Lupin. What would he've done? Hmmm?"

Harry sat mutely, shaking his head. He glanced to the side at Draco, who was sitting, staring raptly at Snape.

"I'll tell you what he would've done. He would've done anything in his power to change what had to occur! He would've consulted with the Order, pulled out every book he could find, designed cockamamie schemes. He would've done anything but tell you the truth!" He lowered his voice. "He would've tried to find a way out for you. I knew Lupin well, you remember. And he didn't have it in him to do what needed to be done. So, I took what precautions I could to protect myself, and my mission. In the event of my death, he would've followed my instructions to bring me back, because I knew I was the only one who could be trusted to convince you of what you had to do."

His voice softened. "What Draco said is true. Making the Horcrux had everything to do with you, and nothing at all to do with a desire to save myself. You'll appreciate, I'm sure, that I'd never been overly attached to life, as it was."

Horrible as it was to consider, the reasoning part of Harry's mind had to admire what Snape had done. The rest of him, still in shock, had some objections. "Remus would've never done it…the ritual," he said softly. "He wouldn't have. I know you think differently, but it's dark magic; he wouldn't have approved, and he just…." He shook his head.

Snape stood and leant as far forward as the painting would allow him. "He would've, believe me, I know."

"I don't think so," Harry still disagreed. "He would've—"

"He would've done anything to protect you! Anything to keep you alive! Consider that, Harry. You know it's the truth, and with what I laid out for him in the letter, counting on his knowledge of…my character…. He would've. There aren't many things of which I'm certain, but this is one of them."

"So, he'd've brought you back," Harry was startled by Draco's voice, "and then you would've gone on with business as usual."

Snape's shoulders slumped slightly, but he seemed relieved to have the question to answer. "Yes, in a nutshell. It was always my mission, and making the Horcrux is evidence of how willing I was to see it to the end. For personal reasons, of which Harry is well aware, along with no small desire on my part to see justice finally prevail, so far as the Dark Lord was concerned."

The minutes ticked by, the room utterly silent. Snape sat again, staring straight ahead, and for a brief flash, Harry almost thought that the portrait had lost its animate host.

"Sir, what of the Horcrux?"

Snape shook his head. "It's inconsequential what it is. I did have a plan for its destruction, but it doesn't matter now."

"And the bat…." Draco said. "That's where the rest of your soul is," he said, almost to himself.

Snape smiled grimly. "Bat served its purpose, so I'll thank you to let it be. As I've told Harry, I grew rather fond of it."

Harry sat up with a start, his heart pounding. 'Wait…wait…" He held out a hand to Draco, and pointed the other at Snape. "Wait…if this is true…it's true, I know, I believe you. Then…then…" He looked wildly from Snape to Draco. "We could…couldn't we? Everything's here. All we need to do is…."

"Harry, let it go. For all our sakes, especially mine, let it go. Everything that I did was for one reason only. As it turned out, what I set in place was not needed, so, let it go," he repeated, with a threatening finality. Harry looked at Draco, who gave him a look of warning as he shook his head slightly.

Suddenly deflated, Harry studied the man in the painting. "All right…but I don't like it."

oooOOOooo

"I tried to warn you," Draco said, kneeling behind him on the bed.

Harry pulled his shirt off over his head. "I know. I guess I had to hear it from him." He shook his head. "So, what do we do now?"

Draco began to massage Harry's shoulders. "That depends. You heard what he said. What he wants."

Harry didn't answer for a moment, his chin on his chest as Draco worked his fingers against the tight muscles. He rolled his head from side to side, as he felt the tension begin to fade away. Turning on the bed, he faced Draco. "Well, I'm going to sleep on it. My mind's a little numb right now."

"It explains a great deal, though, doesn't it? At least we know we weren't imagining things. He's not your average portrait, that's for sure," Draco said as he stood. Harry watched him as he undressed and tossed his clothes into a corner of the room. Clad in only his boxers, he turned to Harry and said, "How about I distract you?"

Harry smiled. "Give my mind a rest, huh?"

"Hmmm, wasn't thinking about your mind, but come to think of it, this might do the trick." He motioned at Harry's trousers. "Off with them, while I fix the bed."

Harry stood and slid his trousers off, watching as Draco piled the pillows from the bed into a mound in the middle of it, then pulled down his y-fronts and kicked them away when Draco pointed to the pillows.

"Here," he directed, as he stood at the end of the bed. "On your stomach."

Harry clambered onto the bed, and started to lie down, when Draco landed a playful smack on his behind. "No, not your head," he laughed, as Harry moved up in the bed. "I want your arse in the air."

After some rearranging, that's exactly how Harry was situated. He looked back over his shoulder, no small feat, given his neck and face were on the downward slope of the heap of pillows. "All right, so this is a bit humiliating," he grumbled.

Draco knelt on the very end of the bed, then none-too-gently pushed Harry's thighs wide apart, hiking him even higher up when he bunched another pillow under the pile.

"You'll forget all about that in a minute," Draco promised, as he leant in and slid his hands along the planes of Harry's back. "Head to the side…and relax. This'll put you right to sleep."

Harry sighed, and obeyed, letting out a soft moan as Draco kneaded his shoulders, his hands doing a soft effleurage as he worked his way downward. He felt Draco's breath, hot on the skin of his face, followed by the trail of a tongue that started at his neck, drawn down along the line of his spine, no detours, into the crack of his arse, where it lingered.

Harry wriggled, then opened the eye not scrunched in the bed. "Draco…what're you doing?" Hands replaced the tongue, then he felt himself being spread wide. Draco's voice was muffled as he pressed his nose in.

"I can talk or I can lick," Draco muttered, the vibration of his voice making Harry shiver.

"Oh…lick, then," Harry groaned, pushing up with his knees.

His breath hitched as Draco began to circle his hole with his tongue. Harry'd figured it out, and his body tensed with anticipation. The sensation of it was so perversely arousing that Harry could barely stand it as Draco teased, drawing and dragging his tongue across the sensitive flesh. Harry's face flooded with heat, his mind's eye full of the picture of what the two of them must look like. He jerked suddenly upwards off the pillows as, finally, Draco breached him, then plundered, pushing and sucking and hooking that wicked tongue in his arse. He was instantly hard, suddenly torn between two fronts of agonizing stimulation, as he tried to grind himself into the pillows and push back against the face torturing him, pinned to the bed by the wet and warm and insistent intruder.

When Draco pulled back, Harry moaned in frustration, then rolled off the pillows to the side of the bed to grab the jar of lube. Kicking the pillows away, Harry shot Draco a look of smoldering intention. "Come here," he growled, as he coated his cock and his hands.

Draco stared at him as he hesitated for a moment, then did a half-roll on the bed, ending up face-to-face with Harry. In an agile turnabout, Harry flipped Draco in the opposite direction, then sidled in close behind him, forcing his legs apart with a knee as he slipped an arm beneath his shoulder.

For a moment, Harry took his time to revel in the feel of their bodies pressed together. He buried his face in Draco's hair, breathing in the familiar scent of jasmine and something else that was just…Draco. He smoothed the hair out of the way, then fastened on the skin of his neck, sucking, as he moved his hand along the curve of his shoulder, tracing the callus of his elbow, down onto his hip, fingering the bone that jutted out there. He felt Draco's body respond to him, a gentle arch backwards, a bend of the neck to bare it further. And then a definite moan….

His hand slick, Harry cupped Draco's arse, then drifted into the crack of it, insinuating his fingers to find…

Draco reached back with a hand to stop him. "No fingers, just you. Now," he murmured huskily, as he drew his upper leg toward his chest.

This was something they'd never done before: perhaps it was because their day had been so full of melodrama; maybe it had something to do with the fact that they were both exhausted; but more likely, Harry supposed, it had to do with what they both needed on a night like this one.

Slow measured passion built as they coupled, as they moved on the bed, but barely moved at all—an economy of motion, a fluid rhythm that found them never more than an inch apart. They concocted a syncopated and seamless symmetry, fashioned of two bodies that were one for the moment. There was no grasping or thrusting, no gasping or moaning, no begging or pleading. They were on a silent but sensuous, mutual and intensely intimate journey toward completion. And when it arrived, they were still, except for a slight bowing of the melded figures, a soft sigh at the spilling of warmth on the insides, a muted exhalation at the pouring of warmth over fingers. And just before falling off to sleep, in benediction, a kiss to the neck, and one bestowed to the palm of a hand.

oooOOOooo

Draco was gone after a late breakfast, and Harry was left with his usual Monday tasks. He worked in the greenhouses for a while, but his mind was far from the place, his thoughts on what he'd learnt over the weekend. He smiled, too, as he remembered the night before; sex was great, he decided, free of romantic entanglements, but more than this, he appreciated that Draco was a friend, one who seemed to accept him as he was.

After lunch, Harry thought about his list of things yet to be done that day, but couldn't seem to muster the motivation to begin any of them. He wandered up to the headmaster's office and verified that 'Bat' was still adorning the empty portrait; he strolled up to the Astronomy Tower, and stood on the parapet and looked out over the grounds, watching as Hagrid bustled in his garden; he lingered in the corridors, running his hand along the rough stone walls as he walked; he looked in at the empty classrooms, smiling as he remembered the hours he'd spent in some of them; he opened the doors to the Great Hall and slipped into a seat by the door.

He inspected the neat rows of tables and benches, then gazed up at the magical summer sky, replete with fluffy white cumulus clouds. He remembered how long a walk it had seemed, making his way to queue up in front of the High Table, on his very first night at Hogwarts. What promise his life had seemed to hold, on that night as he waited to be Sorted.

Harry thought it wise…that providence didn't allow mortals to see what lay in store for them…. What would he've thought of this magical world, that night, had he known that he'd have to defend his life, not too many years in the future, standing in almost the very same spot? And not just his own, but the lives of countless others?

So many memories in this Hall…in the classrooms and corridors; some he would always remember fondly, but others, well, he didn't have a choice, as they were etched in his memory. Disturbing pictures that haunted his dreams, painted in vivid colors that evoked sounds that evoked smells. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't relive some part of his life here. Most days it was just a flash in his mind, but on others, he found himself pulled into a full remembrance. He wondered what it would be like to be free of it…to have Hogwarts as just a place from his past, sometimes a pleasant memory, sometimes something darker….

Restless, he dawdled in the Entrance Hall, thinking of how Sibyll had almost been ousted from the castle. He rather thought that her tenure here would rival Binns', in the end. Without thinking, he was on the staircase, traipsing up the steps. It wasn't until he was standing in front of the Fat Lady that he realized what his destination had been.

"Password?" she asked him with a yawn.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's summer, Maeve, there's no password," he told her with a smile.

"Oh dear." She looked slightly dismayed, placing a pudgy hand at her throat. "Is it really? I've lost track of time again. Very well," she crooned sweetly with a gesture as the door swung open.

Crossing through the common room, Harry took the steps to the boys' dormitory two at a time. He cracked the door to his old room open, then swung it wide. The beds were stripped of their linens and hangings, giving the room an unlived-in look. He could detect the faint odor of a Dungbomb in the air, and couldn't help but grin as he made his way to his favorite spot in the room.

Perched in the window seat, Harry looked out over the lower battlements of the castle and on to the lake. He settled back against the casing, closing his eyes and stretching his legs out, the motion of it so familiar that it felt like slipping on an old glove.

He opened his eyes and glanced back to the room. Everything was in its place: beds and bookshelves, mirrors and rugs, wardrobes and cupboards. Everything that was here belonged here, and in not too short a time, there'd be five Gryffindors enlivening the room, with as much right to be here as he had.

He sobered as he looked around the room—it seemed smaller, somehow, its walls closer, and the air strangely stale. Suddenly, he knew with an almost breathtaking clarity that he didn't belong here. He realized, then, what his nostalgic tour though the castle had been about. Yes, he'd spent the happiest moments of his life here, but it was time….

Time indeed.

He felt the castle almost sigh around him, as the tendrils that'd had a hold of him slipped away, much like the tentacles of Devil's Snare in the face of fire.

He didn't know why—why now, of all times, he suddenly felt free….

Free to go.

He didn't know exactly when or how, but he knew he'd be leaving soon, that come September, Hogwarts would be opening, filled to the brim with students, but without him. He wasn't sad, or anxious, or regretful; in fact, he was relieved. He'd waited patiently, and now that the time had come, he didn't intend to overstay his welcome.

There was still work to be done, though—there was still that small matter of the not-dead-not-alive Snape in his rooms, but Harry's step was lighter as he made his way there, humming to himself as he went.

oooOOOooo

On Tuesday, in the spirit of breaking free, Harry owled Draco and asked him if it would be all right if he joined him in London for the weekend. By day's end, he received a reply, and his plans were set: he'd meet up with Draco on Friday evening at the Highfield, just in time to catch the piano player's first set.

He smiled as he folded the parchment and reached for his tea, totally unprepared, preoccupied as he was.

"Question number seven." The voice from the painting made him look up in dismay.

"You have incredible timing," Harry muttered as he set the parchment aside.

"If I do," Snape told him as he leant against the desk, "it's your fault. You've been avoiding me for the past day and a half, so I'm taking advantage of the opportunity."

"Not avoiding you," Harry disagreed. "I've had work to do, and…"

"And in the evenings?" Snape asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Start of term letters," Harry murmured, thinking to himself that putting off Snape was like putting off a toothache—postponement usually wasn't a wise course of action. "All right, go ahead," he told him, resigned.

His voice unusually soft, Snape struck. "Of all the people you've lost over the years, whom would you bring back, if it were possible?"

It wasn't what Harry expected, so for a moment he was bewildered. "Bloody hell of a question," he mumbled, already beginning to think. Snape didn't comment, but let him be. Harry stood and walked to the sideboard, thinking to himself that if anything warranted alcohol, this sure as hell did. Drink in hand, he stood at the window, watching the sliver of moon over the lake, and the ripples on the surface of the water.

Turning back, he retook his seat, then looked up at Snape, his face clear and purposeful. "This isn't what you want, I'm sure, but it's the truth. Just so you know. First, it wouldn't be my mum or dad. They wouldn't be happy…one of them being here, with the other one gone.

"Same with Remus and Sirius. I like to think the two of them are happy, pulling pranks in the afterlife." He looked away, suddenly feeling awkward about what he was going to say. "And Remus wouldn't be happy…without Tonks, and vice versa."

He slid his eyes up to see Snape's reaction, but the man's face was its usual impassive moue. "Makes sense. Go on," he directed.

"Dumbledore—not him either. He'd say it wasn't natural…always keen on that 'grand adventure.' No, I think he's moved on…."

Snape nodded. "Very good. I'm inclined to agree with you thus far."

Harry gave him a withering look. "I didn't realize there'd be a right or wrong answer. You asked me what I'd do," he accused. When Snape sighed heavily, Harry ignored him to go on.

"Not Moody or anyone else from the Order, although Fred is tempting," he said, then delivered his coup de grâce. "Hands down, it'd be you," he said firmly. He was about to hold up his hand to ward off the protest, but then didn't, when Snape suddenly became very still, his face mask-like.

"Me. I find that unbelievable," Snape said, his eyes blacker than Harry'd ever seen them before. "There's no love lost between the two of us, and although we've said more in the past month to each other than in the six years you were a student, I can't see why—"

"You're dense, you know that?" Harry retorted. "All those people are dead, Severus! While you…you have something they'll never have! A chance to live. And knowing that, well, that makes you the logical choice." His voice echoed in the room, the words seeming to reflect back to him from the walls. "They belong where they are, while you, you aren't…anywhere. It's unnatural."

Snape seemed to regard him with a mixture of resignation and wariness. "It must seem that way, I know."

Harry waved a hand. "I don't like what you did—forget all the reasons why you had to do it. What it comes down to is that you killed a man for me. Not for me, exactly, but close enough that it bothers me. And now you're trapped. Also because of me," Harry finished, the disgust apparent in his tone. "Does that answer your bloody question? Pardon me if I'm a bit put out here, because I am."

"I did what I promised to do, in the only way I knew to be foolproof," Snape told him intently with a glare. "Just as you did what you were destined to do. Like it or not, we both did what we had to do."

"Yeah, well, and now it's time to undo what you did. Draco and I…we could try. Why not? What would it hurt?" he asked, intending it to be a rhetorical question, but Snape took it to heart.

"I'll tell you why not. I think I know you well enough to count on the fact that you wouldn't disturb my afterlife without my permission?"

Harry picked up the Treatise from the table, turning to where they'd last left off, signaling that the discussion was over, but just before he began, he shot Snape a pointed look over the top of the page. "That's the problem, Severus, you don't have an afterlife."

oooOOOooo

On Thursday evening, sitting on the settee, the pile of books scattered beside him, Harry was reading when Snape interrupted him impatiently.

"Harry."

Looking up, startled, he answered, "What?"

"The purpose of having you procure them from the headmaster's office was to read them to me aloud," Snape reminded him.

"You want me to read this stuff aloud?" he asked

Shooting him a look of affront, Snape sniped, "It's not stuff. It's poetry."

Harry was reading again, and said absentmindedly, "Some of this is good." He looked up at Snape. "It's…I've never read any before…poetry. Didn't get any of this, seeing how I came to Hogwarts when I was eleven."

"Ah. I suppose not."

Chewing on a fingernail, Harry said without looking up, "Some of it's hard to understand…but some of it's, I don't know, full of soul." He glanced up. "Not something I'd ever imagine you reading."

"Why not? I have as much soul as the next person," Snape defended himself, then shut his mouth abruptly, as he seemed to realize what he'd just said.

"See. Words right out of your mouth. You said it, not me," Harry said with a sly smile.

"Harry," Snape growled, "read."

"Oh all right," he groused, flipping through the books beside him. "Which one first? Rilke, Baudelaire, Donne, or Shakespeare?"

Snape sniffed and shrugged. "Let's try the Baudelaire."

"Right, ze frog stuff first," Harry said as he picked up the volume, then laughed when Snape rolled his eyes.

Harry read to him for the better part of an hour, Snape interrupting him once or twice, instructing him on the nuances of reading poetry aloud.

"Try again; remember to pause where the punctuation indicates; otherwise it makes no sense at all."

"Hmmm, all right, how's this?" he asked, then continued.

"I am afraid of sleep,
Afraid of it as one might be afraid
Of some enormous hole: where does it lead?
I stare through windows at infinity,
Longing for death's insensibility.
Or for a world of Form and Being, made
Not of the winds that blow from that strange sleep
Nor any part of me.

"Wow," was all that Harry had to say, staring at the words on the page.

"Indeed," came the soft reply.

"It's all in what you wish for," Harry advised him without looking up.

oooOOOooo

Harry arrived at the Highfield on Friday night promptly at eight. Although there was a queue of patrons waiting just inside the door, the doorman had obviously been forewarned to be on the lookout for Harry. Motioning him forward, the man asked him, "Harry Potter?" When Harry nodded, the man unhooked the velvet rope from the post to let him through. "This way, sir."

The band was already warming up as Harry took his seat at a table not too far from the tiny stage. Seated off to the side, his back to the booths, Harry had a perfect view of the performers, in particular the piano player.

He'd just ordered a drink when the band paused before beginning the first set. Draco made a beeline for the table, smiling when he caught sight of Harry. Leaning down, he brushed his cheek with a kiss.

"You're all set then?"

Harry grinned. "Drink with a little umbrella in it. What more could I need?"

Draco squeezed his shoulder, then bent to murmur at his ear, "Oh, I have an idea." Standing, he nodded toward the stage. "First set's about forty-five minutes. Then there's a twenty minute break. Try to stay awake," he taunted as he turned to leave.

Harry followed him with his eyes as he wove his way between the tables, thinking to himself, god, he's sexy as hell, noticing that he wasn't the only one watching, several heads turning as Draco passed by. The band was uniformly dressed: tight black trousers, midnight blue shirts with something sparkly on them, billowing sleeves gathered into a cuff at the wrist.

Without fanfare or announcement, the four musicians, led by the sax player, counted down and began to play. Chairs turned as the music began, and the noise of the restaurant quieted as the soft strains of jazz music filled the room.

Harry relaxed back into his chair, listening raptly as they segued from one number to another. He'd not paid too much attention the last time he'd been here, but now…now that he had a vested interest in one of its members, his admiration overflowed. He didn't know much about music in general, but he knew enough to know what he liked. Some of what he heard puzzled him, but much of it took his breath away…such skill, such dexterity, such ability to read one another, taking cues from each other almost as if by intuition.

The center of his attention, of course, was the piano player. Bench pushed back, his long legs extended to reach the pedals, head bent forward toward the keyboard, his long blond hair almost obscuring his face, Draco was a picture of pure concentration.

Harry watched as he played, awed by how flawless it all appeared to be, how totally absorbed the man was by the sheer act of creating something beautiful. Even Harry's recent adjustment to the 'new' Draco was challenged by the passion and pleasure he saw in the man's face, by the almost ecstatic expression when he threw his head back and closed his eyes, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys, and especially during a slow mournful interlude when Draco looked out into the crowd and caught Harry's eyes, smiling for a instant, before angling his head downward to finger a particularly difficult passage.

When the set finally ended, Harry clapped enthusiastically with the rest of the patrons, grinning widely as Draco made his way to the table. Looking up at him, Harry told him, "You're incredible."

Pleasure flashed in the gray eyes. "You're biased," Draco laughed.

Harry shook his head. "No, well maybe, but it's still true." He was surprised when Draco held out his hand.

"All right, I won't argue with you." He jerked his head toward the bar. "C'mon. We've only got twenty minutes."

Tailing him through the crowed, Harry followed Draco to the exit at the end of the bar, up the steps, then down the corridor to his room. Once inside, the door firmly closed, Harry moved in a flash and pushed Draco up against the door. Pressing in against him, just before he kissed him, open-mouthed, Harry murmured into the skin of his neck, "God, I want you." After a frenzied moment of frotting, and sucking and teasing with their tongues, Harry pulled back and looked at Draco's face, brushing his hair away with hand. "You're beautiful, y'know."

Draco smiled. "Sooo, I don't make the list, then?" When Harry looked puzzled, he chided, "Tall, dark and average-looking." Sliding his hands behind Harry's back, he watched realization dawn.

"Well," Harry said softly as he leant his forehead against Draco's, "You're tall. You're definitely dark, in a different way, but…" He smiled as he shook his head. "No, not average-looking by a long shot." He pressed his crotch against Draco as he groaned, "Why only twenty minutes? I want you now," he growled.

Draco gave him a smack on the behind. "Later…only an hour…and then," he rubbed his hand against Harry's cock through his trousers, "then, I'm gonna fuck you till you scream." When Harry moaned, Draco let out a soft laugh, then pulled away, taking him by the hand to lead him to the bed. "C'mere—know what these are?" He pointed to the two objects lying on top of the coverlet.

Harry looked down, then shook his head. "No. Not a clue." He glanced up to see Draco watching him with undisguised glee.

"These," he said as he picked up the objects, one in each hand, "are anal plugs." At the look on Harry's face, he clarified, "Butt plugs."

For a moment, Harry stared at them, then felt the damnable heat in his face. "Butt plugs…." His eyes widened as understood why Draco was looking at him the way he was. "Oh…you mean…you want me to…." He couldn't take his eyes away, fascinated by the idea. "So…how does this work?"

Draco moved his hands up and down, as if testing the weight of the two plugs. "You put one in now…we go back for the second set, then when we come back here; believe me, you'll be ready for me…begging, is my wager," he finished, his voice husky and suggestive. "Are you game?"

Harry flicked his eyes up, and although he was apprehensive, he could feel himself harden even further, just at the thought of it. The look in Draco's eyes, though, was what convinced him: the glint of challenge, a hint of playfulness, the outright lust. "All right," he muttered, feeling his cheeks in full flame. "Oh, I'm game. So…which one?"

Draco smiled as he sat on the bed and set the plugs to the side. "Up to you."

Looking down, Harry considered them. One was short and thicker than a cock, with a slight flaring before the knob on one end. The other was at least twice as long, but more slender, with a similar flange, but flat on one end. He shook his head. "I don't know. Which would you say?"

Picking up the longer one, Draco made a circle with the fingers of one hand, then slipped the plug through the opening, pushing it in and out. "Oh definitely this one—has an added feature, you see," he said, breaking into a grin at the look on Harry 's face.

Harry didn't need any further encouragement. "All right. So…how do we…"

"Drop your trousers," Draco directed, watching as Harry obeyed, then patted his lap. "Down. Bend over and spread your legs."

Harry awkwardly complied, wriggling so that he was draped over Draco's lap. He heard the muted, "Accio lube," then watched as a hand picked up the longer plug. He tensed his arse in anticipation, as he felt a few drops of the cool lubricant drip onto his skin.

This earned him another slap to his behind, and he startled reflexively.

"Relax," Draco murmured as Harry felt his hand fumbling in between his crack. There was a brief pressure, then he gasped as Draco slowly pushed the plug in, inch by inch. He felt an instant of burning as he was breached by the flange, but that was the worst of it. Draco gave it an experimental push inward, making Harry groan from the fullness, then pinched him soundly on a cheek, as he gave him a nudge with his knees. "That's it. Up."

Harry struggled to his feet, then stood with his feet askance, trying to adjust to the feel of it. It wasn't painful, but he wasn't altogether sure it wouldn't be when he tried to walk. He winced slightly when he bent to pull up his trousers.

Draco stood and pulled him in close. "You're gonna love it, believe me. And that added feature…well, you'll see." They stood closely together, Draco kissing Harry for all he was worth, Harry acutely aware of the plug up his arse, and that time was running short…. By the time Draco pulled away, he had already adjusted to the feel of the solid rubber plug. As for the added feature, it struck suddenly and without notice.

Harry lurched, and let out a groan. "What was that?" he managed to croak out, as the streak of pleasure nearly took him to his knees.

Draping his arm around Harry's shoulders, Draco steered him toward the door. "That, my dear Harry, is a little stimulator, set to jolt you in just the right spot. No predictable intervals, so it'll take you by surprise." Before he opened the door, he kissed Harry one more time, then said by his ear. "I'll be thinking about you…sitting there…with a plug up your arse. Just for me. And when the set's over, I'm gonna fuck you… and fuck you…and fuck you…."

Harry leant in to him, groaning, "I'll be ready, that's for sure."

They were on the stairs, when the sensation hit Harry again. He had to stop and grab onto the rail, casting a withering look at Draco, who laughed as he waited. As they entered the restaurant, and took their own separate paths, Harry had to admit to himself that the butt plug was pure genius. He didn't know how he'd manage the next half-hour, but he was already desperate with need and want…for the deceptively winsome-looking piano player.

Fifteen minutes into the set, Harry wondered if this was what using recreational drugs felt like. Buzzed by the alcohol, and by the unpredictable strum of the plug up his arse, exhilarated by the crescendos of the piano and the wailing of the sax, slightly befuddled by the glare of the lights and the smell of cigarette smoke, all topped off by the knowing looks that a certain piano player was sending his way, Harry felt on the verge of imploding or exploding—he wasn't certain which—by the time the set ended.

When the lights brightened, as the musicians took their bows, Harry was already on his feet. Dragging an amused Draco by the hand, Harry literally pulled him up the steps and hurtled them both down the hallway to the room.

Once inside, Harry had his clothes off in a heartbeat, and just as Draco had predicted, there was begging. First on the bed, watching Draco as he undressed, Harry's eyes were glazed with lust, his breath shallow as he pleaded, "Take it out and fuck me. Fuck me…fuck me now…."

In the spirit of not breaking a promise, Draco did exactly that.

oooOOOooo

They were sitting at a stainless steel table in the kitchen of the club, eating a cobbled together breakfast of au gratin potatoes and toast, leftovers from the evening before.

"So, you've decided. I can tell," Draco said when they'd finished.

Harry stood and fetched the whistling kettle from the burner. As he poured, he admitted, "For the most part. But," he qualified, "since it's not something I can do on my own, you have a say in it as well." He sat, staring off into space as his tea steeped.

"Well, I'm in. I think you know that."

Harry refocused his eyes, then smiled. "Thanks. I was hoping you'd be."

Draco seemed to hesitate, then said as he stirred his tea, "I'm saying this as a friend, you understand? Not saying we shouldn't do it. Just so you've thought of this." When Harry nodded for him to go on, he added, "You have to consider what Severus wants."

Harry made a face. "Well, there's the problem, you see. He killed a man, Draco. And don't tell me it wasn't just for me; I know all of that." He leant forward and rested his head in his hands, not looking up as he said, "On the one hand he says, 'Let it go,' but did you hear him? What he said about why he was so angry? All the reasons he gave…the life he could've had, free of all the things that made him such a miserable cur…. Remember how he sounded. He all but said it—he wishes he were alive." He looked up as he scratched his chin. "Sounds to me like someone who might just want to have a second go of it."

Staring at him for a moment, Draco slowly nodded. "What he says and what he wants…two different things. It's not like Severus, though."

Harry drained his cup. "Well, if he's not going to do what's best for him, then someone has to. And that would be us." He motioned between the two of them. "Whether he likes it or not."

"So….we're not telling him?"

Pondering for a moment, Harry shook his head. "No, not for now. He and I…we're just getting back to normal. I don't want to mess with that. Upset my bloody routine, it did," he grumbled.

Draco's eyes went wide, making Harry glance to either side of him before he asked, "What?"

Laughing, Draco reached out and patted his hand. "Nothing. Just the way you said that." He gave Harry a speculative look, then said, "I think you're sweet on him."

Harry guffawed. "You're daft. Me and Severus," he muttered as Draco continued to smile into his cup.

oooOOOooo

They returned to Hogwarts in time for lunch, after which they stopped off in Harry's room to shower and change before going into Hogsmeade for the afternoon.

Harry came into the sitting room, carrying his shoes, to find Draco thumbing through a book.

"What's this?" Draco asked him, a strange look on his face.

"Oh, that," Harry mumbled as he bent to tie his shoes. "Poetry."

Draco shot him a look of disgust. "So I guessed. You're reading this?"

Harry didn't look up. "Yeah, well, Snape asked for it."

Draco snorted. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Resigned, Harry sat back and stretched his legs out. "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"Who reads poetry to each other?" Draco asked, nudging him with an elbow.

Picking up the Prophet, Harry slapped him on the knee with it. "We're not reading it to each other. I read and he listens."

"Same thing," Draco teased.

"No, it's not."

"Is too."

"Is not."

When Draco laughed out loud, Harry looked up and saw Snape watching. For some reason, he blushed, then shook his head, mostly at himself. Snape stared at him for a moment, then returned to his book.

oooOOOooo

It was a beautiful day, hot but not nearly as humid as the past week had been, so they decided to walk the road down to Hogsmeade, bantering back and forth as they strolled.

They took their time in the village, stopping in several shops, including Honeydukes. Harry pulled Draco into the booksellers, then after a ten minute deliberation, he bought a plain leather journal, much like the one Snape had. If Draco wondered about his purchase, he didn't say a word, for which Harry was grateful.

They ended their outing with a stop at the Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta greeted them cordially, and if she found it strange to see the two of them together, she didn't let on about it at all.

"So," Harry began once they had their butterbeers in front of them, "where do we start? You said this wouldn't be difficult."

Draco shook his head. "The ritual itself isn't. I don't think it's exactly the same as what you described, what the Dark Lord did, but it's close. No, the only part that's not clear is the phials…which to use in what order. We have two that are Pettigrew's. So which is which?"

"Hmmm," Harry mused aloud, "we have to be sure. 'Flesh of the servant' has to come first."

"Yeah, we can't muck that up," Draco agreed. They sat in silence for a moment, then Draco suggested, "We could just ask him.''

Harry scoffed, "Oh right, he'd just clear that right up for us, I'm sure."

"Harry," Draco chided, "let me handle it, all right? Trust me."

Harry remembered how adept Draco'd been at tricking Snape into confessions so far. "Sounds fair. Just…don't tip our hand. I don't want him coming out with something like, 'I forbid the two of you, blah blah blah.'"

They stopped talking while Madam Rosmerta brought them a second round.

"The only other problem I see," Draco said softly, "is the bat. Is that really where he is?"

Harry'd thought of this, and although he realized it was a valid concern, he couldn't see any other alternative. "You saw his face when you said it. It was as good as a 'yes'; he actually looked proud of himself. Bat," he muttered.

"We'll have to trap it or something," Draco told him, then when Harry looked dubious, he said, "We don't want it to go off on its own. Severus might do that, if he could."

Harry traced the rim of his glass. "I don't know. He would've done that by now, I think, if he were worried. No," he said, shaking his head, "no, he's fond of it."

"Still, we can't take any chances. We'll just cage and feed it till it's time. Insurance," Draco added.

oooOOOooo

That night, after Draco was asleep, Harry slipped from the bed and sat in the chair by the window. There was no moon, so he called up a, "Lumos,” then anchored his wand on the window ledge as he opened the journal he'd bought that day. The smell of new parchment wafted up, and Harry smiled as he bent over to write.

oooOOOooo

"Sssshh," Harry warned as they stepped into the office. Draco slid in behind him, then quietly shut the door. "Remember, not too much force."

The two of them trod softly to the empty portrait, where the bat hung from its usual corner. Harry carefully opened an end of the small wooden cage, then held it just beneath the portrait. Both of them in place, Harry gave Draco a nod.

"Relashio," Draco muttered under his breath as he barely flicked his wand.

The bat dropped like a stone into a bucket. Harry slammed the lid atop it, then the two of them bent in to look. The creature had unfurled its wings, and was huddled into a corner, trying to shield itself from the light of the room.

"I thought it would…I don't know, screech or something. You don't think it's sick, do you?" Harry asked worriedly.

"Nah, he's just scared. Think how you'd feel, kicked clean out of bed without warning," Draco said.

"Precisely so," said the headmaster's voice behind them. They both startled, then turned guiltily to face the portrait on the opposite wall. "Watch your fingers," Dumbledore admonished them. "I'm curious as to why you'd cage the poor thing?" When they glanced at each other, he prompted them, "Severus is rather fond of it, you know."

Glancing down at the cage, Harry said, "Yeah, I remember that, sir. We…we thought we'd relocate it to my rooms. Severus spends most of his time there, and…like you said, he's fond of it, so…." he finished, lamely, he thought.

"Yes, he was just saying so the other evening," Draco confirmed, nudging Harry toward the door.

"Was he, now?" the headmaster asked, eyeing them thoughtfully. When they both nodded, he shrugged. "Perhaps it will be happier there, although I doubt it. It misses its master, not just his likeness." He paused, as he combed through his beard with his fingers, studying them.

"We'd better be going, sir. Nice to see you again," Harry said, feeling the insistent pull on his sleeve.

"Good day then, and give my regards to Severus. I've not seen him in days," Dumbledore replied.

Heaving a sigh in unison, they were almost to the door when the old man's voice stopped them. "Oh, and Harry? I've just remembered something you should remember as well."

Harry turned back. "Sir?"

The headmaster had already turned too, and said over his shoulder, just before he disappeared. "Everything in Severus' trunk was there for a reason. Everything," he stressed, then was suddenly gone.

Out in the corridor, they leant against the wall. "What was that all about?" Draco asked.

Harry put up a hand to stop him. Out loud, he reviewed the contents of the trunk. "Journal, textbook, potions phials—three of them—my mum's picture and letter, painting, wand in the scarf." He looked up at Draco, his eyes wide. "The wand!"

oooOOOooo

After securing their captive in a classroom, the two of them sat beside each other in the Restricted Section, staring at the wand on table before them.

"How did he know?" Harry asked, still flummoxed. "Do you think he knows what we're up to?"

"I'd say so," Draco agreed. "But that's good, don't you think? He didn't say anything to stop us."

Harry brightened. "Yeah, you're right. And you know what else? Severus thought of everything. He knew he'd need a wand when he was brought back."

Draco frowned, then reached out to trace a finger along the wand. "That's part of it," he murmured, then sat up straight, turning to Harry. "Not the most important part, though. Think, Harry. He'd have to have known that Lupin wouldn't want to use his wand to do the ritual…a werewolf using his own wand in a Dark Arts spell. Too dangerous, if Priori were ever performed." He picked up the wand, gave it an experimental flick toward the table. "Repello." The Slytherin scarf sailed across the room.

Smiling grimly, Draco Summoned the scarf and caught it in his hand. "It's a good thing, too. I'm forbidden to cast any Unforgivables or Dark Arts spells, as part of my…agreement with the Ministry." He gave Harry an appraising look. "And I wouldn't think you'd want to cast any with yours either. So, yes, he thought of everything, it seems."

"Typical, down to the least detail," Harry said wryly, taking the wand and rewrapping it in the scarf. "We'll have to remember to thank him when this is over," he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

CHAPTER EIGHT