Title: The Edge of a Razor

Author: Acadia, http://likeaglass.livejournal.com/likeaglass/

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Harry/Snape

Summary: Snape, an undertaker who is more dead than alive, is inexplicably drawn to his newest client - one Mr. Harry Potter, a famous footballer whose husband died under mysterious circumstances.

Disclaimer: They're so not mine, it's not even funny. I just like making them have sex.

Feedback: Yes, please. All feedback, including concrit, can be sent to likeaglass at bellsouth.net

Beta: The fabulous Snakeling and Kalena (thanks, dears!). Any remaining mistakes are entirely mine.

Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm , and at my livejournal, http://www.livejournal.com/users/likeaglass

Challenge: 'Not here, not now. No magic?' for wave X

A/N: The window at York Minster can be seen at http://www.salvonet.com/yorkweb/minster/b.htm . The quotes come from Psalm 23 of the King James Bible.

Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor. - Homer, The Iliad

HR

Monday, June 12, 2006

YORK - Mr. Draco Corvis Malfoy, 27, of N. Kings Lane, passed away unexpectedly at his home early yesterday evening.

A prominent member of society, he is survived by his husband, Mr. Harry James Potter, 26.

Funeral arrangements are pending and entrusted to the funeral home of Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, & Weasley. All flowers and condolences should be sent to Weasley, Weasley, &c, c/o Mr. Severus Snape

HR

“Well, Snape old boy, I don't know what you've done to please old dad, but you've got one champion of a client coming in.”

Snape looked up from composing his last obituary of the morning. Fred Weasley was approaching his desk, a toothy grin gracing his freckled face. His tie was bright red and crooked.

Carefully straightening his papers before responding, Snape schooled his features into his perpetual mask of indifference. “And to whom has your father appointed me nursemaid this time?” he said finally, hands coming to rest on top of a handsome leather blotter. “Another sniveling bourgeois housewife? How droll.”

Fred shook his head. “No, no, no. A real winner, this one. You've heard of Malfoy Enterprises? That snooty banking firm?” Snape had, and he said so. “Well, this guy, Potter, he's the widower of Draco Malfoy, the mastermind behind it,” Fred continued. “He's going to be coming into a lot of money.” The delicate emphasis Fred placed on “a lot” suggested millions of pounds. Or more.

“Isn't Mr. Malfoy rather young? Was there some sort of accident?” Snape read the papers religiously, but he hadn't heard anything about any car crashes or wealthy business owners kicking the bucket, and the elder Mr. Weasley hadn't seen fit to tell his employee about this newest bit of business.

“Nope,” a new voice said. An identical redhead with an identical crooked tie came in from the embalming room. “That's what makes this case so interesting, innit? There wasn't a mark on him, and he was only 26. They think Potter did it,” George said.

“Poisoning,” Fred said.

George nodded. “They think it was the money.”

“But wasn't Mr. Potter rather wealthy himself?” Snape tapped his fingers against his chin as he thought. “For some harebrained sport or other? Football, I think it was.” Snape wasn't exactly a sports fanatic, but the name Potter sounded familiar even to him. He looked curiously from one twin to the next, sure that those two would know all about such unimportant matters as sports.

“Yeah, that's the only queer thing about the case.”

“Well, not the only queer thing,” George said with a wink. Fred elbowed him in the ribs.

“As I was saying.” Fred shot his brother a look of exasperation. “What they can't figure out is--”

The bell above the door jingled merrily, cutting off Fred mid-sentence. A man, black-haired and attractive, entered from outside. He wore black, wire-rimmed glasses and was followed in by a second man, this one nearly twice as wide and as unattractive as the first one was fit. Pulling off a pair of black leather gloves, the first man handed them to the second and glanced around the front room until his eyes lighted on the twins. The man, presumably Mr. Potter, smiled disarmingly and stepped towards them, stretching out a hand for Fred and George to shake.

“Hello,” the man said, still smiling. “Harry Potter, pleasure to meet you. I'm looking for a Mr. Snape?”

Snape cleared his throat and stood up, stepping forward. “I am Severus Snape.” Mr. Potter's eyes, startlingly green behind the ugly frames, swung towards him, and Snape felt the breath leave his lungs, like he'd been surprised by a punch to the gut. Mr. Potter's smile changed somehow - softened around the edges, showing less teeth and more sincerity - and he extended his hand to Snape.

He shook Mr. Potter's proffered hand. It was surprisingly firm in his own, and Potter let the touch extend just a touch too long before releasing Snape's fingers. “I'm very sorry for your loss,” Snape said. As usual, the words sounded awkward in his mouth, his tongue tripping over the insincere condolences. Mr. Potter's green eyes sparkled at him, as though he sensed Snape's unease in his assumed role of comforter and was amused by it, but Snape sensed no malice.

“Oh, not much of a loss, to tell you the truth,” Mr. Potter said, waving his hand negligently. Snape blinked, momentarily taken aback by the young man's forthrightness. Most widowers, even if they weren't particularly sorry about their spouse's death, at least attempted to play the part of grieving husband; perhaps, despite his charms, there was something to the twins' rumors. “I'm here to arrange the funeral. I was told you were the man to see, is that correct?” Potter looked at Snape intently, and Snape felt goose flesh raise on his arms under that exclusive gaze.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Snape walked back to his desk, sure that Mr. Potter would follow. “Have a seat, if you would.” He gestured to the upholstered armchair across from his own. The chauffeur stayed a respectful distance away, Snape noticed, as Mr. Potter arranged his bespoke overcoat around himself before sitting. The sleeve of his jacket slipped down as he propped his chin on his hand, elbow resting on the chair's padded arm; a tanned, slender wrist, dusted with fine black hairs, was revealed with the movement. Snape swallowed and looked back at the neatly arranged papers on his desk.

“It was nice to have met you, Mr. Potter,” Fred called, making his way towards a door that led off to the right into more offices.

Following his brother out of the room, George gave a little wave and a large smile. “A pleasure.” Mr. Potter lifted his own hand in acknowledgment, then turned back to Snape as the door closed behind the two brothers with a solid thump.

“Can anyone tell those two apart,” Potter asked, mouth curving upward in a slight grin, “or is everyone perpetually confused as to which is which?”

“Mr. Fred Weasley has one large freckle to the left side of his nose that Mr. George Weasley does not share.” Snape paused, head cocked to the side slightly as he thought for a moment. “I suppose most people wouldn't notice such a subtle difference, however, no.” Potter was staring at him, mouth slightly agape as though he'd just said a swear word in front of an elderly woman.

Snape hurried on. “There are several items we have to discuss, Mr. Potter, and we will undoubtedly have to meet more than just this once. I'm sure this is a difficult time for you...” Snape hesitated in his rehearsed speech a moment, remembering Mr. Potter's offhand comment. Gazing at him impassively and mouth closed once again, Mr. Potter showed no outward sign that he had been affected by Snape's statement at all. “Be that as it may,” he continued in a firmer voice, “I will try to make this as quick and painless as possible.” Mr. Potter nodded, showing he understood. “The very first thing we must decide is how to treat the body.”

“Treat the body?” Mr. Potter interrupted, leaning forward. A lock of hair fell in front of Harry's glasses with the movement and he brushed it back impatiently. Snape's eyes followed the movement as if it were the most mesmerizing display he'd ever witnessed. “What do you mean? I thought we would just bury him and have done with it.”

Snape folded his hands atop the desk. Potter's eyes caught and held Snape's; Snape had to fight not to look away. “That is one option, yes. We might also cremate it, if that is your wish.” Snape shifted a few papers on his desk arbitrarily, uncomfortable with so intense a gaze directed at him.

Potter resettled himself in his chair, brow unfurrowing. “Oh, I see. No, I'd prefer he'd be buried. I'm not fond of the whole pyre thing, you know? Too much like he was an ancient Greek hero, or something, which he most certainly wasn't.” That toothy smile made a reappearance on Potter's face. It looked very strange indeed, situated as they were in the somber front room of a funeral home, discussing his recently deceased, though apparently unlamented, husband.

Snape lifted a single eyebrow. “I...see.” Potter ran a hand through his hair negligently, leaving it messier than it had been. A spike of desire, so inappropriate and strong that it left Snape breathless for a moment, stabbed through Snape's belly like the blade of a dagger.

He attempted to pick up his rhythm - he'd been an undertaker for twenty years without this kind of reaction to anyone, male or female, and the sensation was so strange that it left him completely at a loss - but his voice broke on the words. “In that case, there are several more options as to how to bury the body. The most common option, of course, is a casket, of which we carry a fairly wide selection.” The familiarity of the words calmed him, and his voice gained its usual steady cadence.

“A second, less common alternative would be entombment. There is a third choice, one that has only recently come into vogue. You have the option of laying Mr. Malfoy to rest in what is known as a green cemetery. This is the simplest of all the choices, and involves burying your late husband in a simple wicker or cardboard box in a forest. A popular choice amongst environmentalists, to be sure.” Snape knew his face must show what he thought of such burials and attempted to regain his cool calm once more, but by the slight smirk that had appeared on Potter's face, Snape could see that the young man had a similar opinion. Snape looked down, away from the tempting curl of Potter's lips.

“I think just a casket would be fine. His father had wanted him entombed -- he was always after the grand statement, you know the type -- but I enjoy thwarting that old bastard's wishes any way I can.” The smirk became a full blown smile, and Snape paused again in his rote speech.

Potter intrigued him, to be sure; it wasn't often that Snape had reason to vary his routine in these matters, and it had been years since anyone had piqued his interest, or his heretofore quiescent libido, quite so much, or quite so effortlessly.

Clearing his throat slightly to cover the pause, Snape stood up. He walked around his desk to a small, unobtrusive door that led to their showroom. With Potter's eyes on him, he felt awkward in his own skin. “Very well. If you would be so kind as to follow me, I'd like to show you our selection of caskets. We have some lovely samples, in every price range --”

Potter waved his hand impatiently. “Money's not an object.” He spoke swiftly and decisively, and Snape was reminded of the twins' gossip, that this man was suspected of murdering his husband for his bank account. In that moment, he was tempted to believe it, and a curl of something dark clutched at his stomach and did not release its hold.

“Whatever you think is best, I'm sure will be fine, Mr. Snape.” Potter stood up himself and glanced at his watch - a massive gold one, Snape noticed - and grimaced in an apologetic sort of way. “I'm very sorry to have to do this, but I do need to be going. We'll need to get together again soon, yeah?”

Snape nodded curtly, the abrupt dismissal stinging what might've been his pride. Pulling himself together, he pulled a card out of its engraved mahogany holder and handed it to Mr. Potter. “This is my card. It has my number, for both my phone here at the office as well as my home telephone, if for some reason you can't reach me here. We have quite a few remaining details to be sorted out before the funeral takes place. Whenever you are available, call those numbers and I will endeavor to help you in any way I can.” They walked to the front of the store together.

Before stepping out of the building, Potter turned to face him. He was smiling that charming smile of his again, and Snape began to wonder how his face didn't hurt from contorting it about like that all the time. “I'll be sure to be in touch, Mr. Snape. It was an absolute pleasure to work with you,” and he sounded like he meant it. He stuck his hand out for Snape to take, and they shook again. Snape had the sudden urge to linger over the contact, to caress the finely shaped fingers. He snatched his hand away as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, hoping his features didn't betray his less than savoury thoughts.

Potter's smile dimmed a bit. He nodded at Snape, then turned towards the beefy man next to the door. “Come on, Crabbe,” he said, taking back his gloves from his chauffeur before he disappeared out the door, bell chiming faintly behind him.

HR

Tuesday, June 13, 2006 POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY IN MALFOY DEATH

Jill Bradley, staff writer

Police were baffled Sunday evening when bank mogul Draco Malfoy was found dead in his home. Malfoy, 27, was well-known throughout the community for his extraordinary generosity to certain charities and his successful international banking business, Malfoy Enterprises. “At this time, we do not have any conclusive evidence as to what caused the death of Mr. Malfoy,” police chief Seamus Finnigan said in a press conference held yesterday. “We have a few theories, and we are investigating leads. We are certain that we will find the cause of this death.” Drug use, however, was ruled out as a contributing factor, and Finnigan confirmed that investigators had found nothing at the scene to suggest the use of any illicit substances. The force's most prominent investigator, DCI R. J. Lupin, is involved in the case. “I have my suspicions,” he said in his brief statement Monday, “and I will know more conclusively what I'm looking for after the results of Mr. Malfoy's autopsy are disclosed.” He added that the death “did not appear natural” and that it was “unusual” for a 27-year old, especially one who was by all accounts a healthy young man, to die in so mysterious a manner. Malfoy's body was found by his husband, Mr. Harry Potter of Manchester United fame. He was not available for comment, but sources confirm that the body was found in Middlethorpe House, the residence of Messrs. Malfoy and Potter, seemingly untouched. Mr. Potter, who resides in Manchester during football months, was in town this week after a sprained elbow ended his training session early. “We can rule out any obvious means of murder or suicide,” said Finnigan. “That doesn't mean Mr. Malfoy was not murdered, of course. The autopsy will tell us more.” Sources close to the investigation report that Mr. Potter is himself a suspect, a claim that neither police chief Finnigan nor detective Lupin will substantiate. A date and time for the funeral have not yet been set, but it is expected to be a small, private affair, attended only by family and close friends.

HR

Snape folded the newspaper again and placed it on the coffee table in front of him, thinking about the young man he had met yesterday. Could he really be a murderer? He had certainly been flippant about his husband's death, but Snape found it hard to believe he was capable of taking another's life, even if they had been filthy rich.

Picking up his cup, he sipped his tea - black, of course - and pondered the incongruousness of sparkling green eyes and a warm smile, concealing a cold-blooded killer underneath. He had seen stranger things in his time as an undertaker, to be sure, but nothing that sat so unsettlingly in his stomach like something rotten.

Just then, the telephone in the hall rang piercingly, almost causing him to upset his drink. “Coming, coming,” Snape muttered under his breath, trudging towards the insistently ringing phone. He had almost forgotten what the ringer sounded like, it had been so long since someone had last called him at home. “Hello?” he said when the receiver was pressed to his ear.

“Yes, this is Harry Potter. May I speak to Mr. Snape, please?” Potter's voice sounded thin and distant, the hiss-pop of the connection telling Snape that he was using a cell phone.

“This is he.”

“Oh! Hello, Mr. Snape. I'm sorry to call you at home, but I was told you wouldn't be coming into the office until later today, and I'm afraid I've a meeting with my manager all afternoon that I can't get out of, more's the pity.” The voice truly did sound apologetic, and for once Snape found that he didn't mind being disturbed on one of his rare mornings off.

“It's no bother,” Snape said, and meant it. “Would you like to get together this morning to discuss further arrangements for your husband? We can meet at the funeral home, if you'd like.” Snape played with the phone cord as he spoke, fingers twisting the wire around themselves. He realized he was fidgeting and made a conscious effort to stop; he dropped his hand listlessly to his side.

“Yes, I'd like to meet, but I was hoping I could prevail upon you to meet at my house. If it's not a problem, of course.” Potter's voice was hopeful, and Snape caught himself thinking of beseeching green eyes. And, though he had never acquiesced to such an informal setting for a meeting before, Snape found himself agreeing, Potter's honey voice snaring him as effortlessly as a spider trapping a fly in its web.

“Wonderful!” Mr. Potter said, then, “Here, let me give you directions.”

When Snape pulled into the elegant curving driveway of Middlethorpe House thirty minutes later, he could see where the idea that Malfoy had been murdered for money had come from. The funeral home of Weasley, Weasley, &c. was the poshest in the city, but he doubted whether any of their previous clientele had been quite so well off as the late Mr. Malfoy seemed to have been.

The lawns were manicured precisely, every flower bed bursting with color and every hedge trimmed fetchingly. An enormous man was tending to the lilies along the gravel path. He looked up as Snape's car passed, black eyes crinkling with warmth behind a shaggy beard. He waved jauntily, then bent back to the lilies with his watering can.

After several minutes and twists in the road, the house itself came into view. Four storeys tall and made of a greyish stone, it loomed grandly at the top of the hill. It was easily ten times the size of Snape's own rather large abode, and unquestionably more impressive. Fashioned like an old country estate, it looked like Austen's Pemberley, and made Snape think of ballrooms filled with taffeta and lace.

When Snape was led into the house itself by an elderly housekeeper, he found the interior of the house just as grand as he had imagined. The housekeeper, a woman with greying hair, a severe expression and glasses, ushered Snape into a lush sitting room off the right of the main entranceway. She forced a steaming cup of tea into his hand before striding out of the room, lips thinned disapprovingly the entire time.

Snape was gazing up at the intricately painted ceiling when he heard Mr. Potter's footsteps in the hall. Anticipation fluttered in his belly like ravens' wings.

“--no, I don't think so, tell them that I--” Potter was saying to another servant, this one male, white-haired, and astonishingly short. Potter broke off abruptly as he saw Snape, and motioned for the butler to leave the room. Once they were alone, Potter came towards where Snape stood in the middle of the room and stretched out his hand for his habitual greeting. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Snape. I am sorry for any inconvenience this may be causing you.” His smile was warm and sincere. A small dimple graced his left cheek; Snape found his palm itching to reach out and touch, his fingers aching to stroke that small indentation. He curled them into a fist, blunt fingernails biting into his palms in attrition.

“It was no trouble,” Snape said, and wondered at his own lack of vitriol after being taken out of his comfort zone and forced into this opulent, unrestrained show of wealth, in the company of a man whose very presence was discomfiting.

Potter gestured to the couch closest to them, an ornate affair with curving arms and green velvet upholstery. “Please, have a seat. I hope you don't mind if I join you in a drink?” Potter nodded at Snape's own untouched tea as he went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of scotch.

He made his way back to the couch and sat down next to Snape; their knees brushed negligently. A thrill went through Snape, equal parts fear and arousal, and he unobtrusively pulled his leg away from the casual touches.

Taking a sip of his drink, Potter seemed to collect his thoughts for a moment before speaking. “I'm not entirely sure how this works, Mr. Snape. Is there much more to be taken care of?" Potter's eyes were earnest behind his glasses.

Snape took a cautious sip of his tea and, finding the smoky flavour pleasant, took another. “To be frank, yes, there is. However, if you find yourself overwhelmed by the process at any time, I can step in to relieve the burden. Not everything need be handled by yourself, Mr. Potter.” Generally, of course, Snape found having to baby clients who couldn't get over their own desperate, self-absorbed misery repugnant. But, as he made the offer to this particular man, his eyes fixed on a point beyond Potter's shoulder, Snape found that the offer was sincere. He had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Potter nodded, staring into the fire as he continued to sip his alcohol. The flickering flames reflected on the lenses of his glasses, and for a moment, his eyes were obscured, but then he turned back to Snape. “I think...I think I'd like to handle as much as possible. Draco would've wanted me to.” Potter was quiet for a moment, then seemed to rouse himself. “So, what's next?” he asked, face once more as bright and open as though he were discussing the weather.

“We must decide on the type of ceremony,” Snape said, falling into his role as undertaker easily, “religious or secular.”

“Oh, Draco wanted to have the ceremony at York Minster, so that's easy enough,” Potter interrupted.

Snape nodded. With a house like this, it wasn't a surprising choice. “Very good. Do you know if there was a specific priest whom Mr. Malfoy wanted to officiate?”

Potter's eyebrows knitted together for a moment, then he shrugged. “I don't suppose it really mattered to him. He wasn't much into religion, and the only reason he wanted to have the funeral at the Minster is because it's the grandest cathedral in York. He was just like his father when it came to that sort of stuff, really.” His voice held a tinge of contempt, and Snape was more curious than ever to find out the story behind Mr. Potter. He was a mess of contradictions: completely comfortable-looking in this showy mansion, surrounded by furniture that alone would have cost more than Snape's pay for a year, he still professed to abhor the “grand displays” preferred by his husband. Snape was as attracted to the man's idiosyncrasies as he was to the dimple shadowing his cheek.

“I see,” Snape said delicately. “In that case, we must discuss the attendees. I can send out the notices, if you wish, if you will furnish me with the names and addresses of all those whom you would like to be present at the funeral. Also, you must think about the pallbearers - do you wish to have friends carry the coffin, or would you prefer myself and my associates to do the honours?” Snape kept his eyes trained on the milky brown liquid in his cup, but he looked up at the sound of Potter's voice.

“Oh, I hadn't even thought of that.” Potter took another sip of his now almost empty drink. “I suppose his friends would like to carry the casket, though I don't suppose I would be able to, when it comes right down to it.” Potter frowned for the first time since Snape had seen him, but his face cleared soon after, leaving it as smooth and attractive as ever. “I've already got a list of those I'd like to invite. It's rather small, but I think Draco would have liked it private. Despite his propensity for grand shows.” The pink mouth curved upwards slightly again, but straightened out almost instantly.

He stood up and went over to a carved wooden desk of some dark, gleaming wood and opened one of the top drawers. Pulling out a sheet of paper, Potter closed the drawer again and made his way back towards where Snape sat, handing him the sheet as he took his seat once more.

Snape, setting his cup down on the coffee table, glanced at the paper, then folded it and placed it in his breast pocket. “Excellent. Then we have only to --” Snape stopped as a knock sounded on the door.

“Yes?” Potter called, turning towards the opening door and the same incredibly short butler. “What is it, Flitwick?”

“Detective Lupin is here to see you, Mr. Potter, sir. I've placed him in the smaller sitting room.” The small man looked agitated, fidgeting with the buttons on his waistcoat as he spoke.

Potter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before replying, “Yes, all right. Tell him I'll be right there. Thank you, Flitwick.”

Flitwick bowed, then turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Pushing his glasses up onto his forehead, Potter rubbed at his eyes. There were two indentations on either side of his nose, and Snape had to fold his hands in his lap to keep from reaching out and smoothing them away. “I am so sorry about this, Mr. Snape, but I must go see the detective now.” He replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose, covering the marks and freeing Snape from his temptation. “You're welcome to stay here and wait, but I'm afraid this interview will be unpleasantly long.” Potter rose as he spoke, leaving his empty tumbler on the coffee table.

Snape rose too, his own, half-empty cup next to Potter's glass. “No, that's quite all right. I assume we'll be in touch? There are a few, minor details still to be decided upon, and we have yet to decide on a date for the funeral.”

Potter nodded, leading the way back out into the foyer. “Yes, of course. I'll call you as soon as I can. Thank you so much for your understanding, Mr. Snape, you've been most kind.” The green eyes sparkled behind wire frames as Potter once again shook his hand. His skin was warm and entirely too tempting.

He opened the door for Snape, and as Snape walked out and to his car, he was sure he could feel that heavy gaze watching him, but when he turned back for one final glance, the front door was closed and Potter was gone.

HR

Over the next few days, Potter was in constant contact with Snape, ironing out the last of the details. A week after Potter had first employed the services of Weasley, Weasley, &c., the funeral was held at York Minster. It was, of course, raining.

Snape stood in the back of the nave as the service was held, letting the words of the ceremony wash over him like water. Weak sunlight poured through the myriad stained glass windows, and the many weeping mourners were bathed in hues of red, blue, and gold. The crimson light flushed their cheeks, making them look more alive than they had been before they gathered to acknowledge death.

After the ceremony, the crush of people slowly filed out, leaving Snape alone in the echoing hall. He walked forward towards the sanctuary, drawn there by some inexplicable force, though he was not a religious man. His father had beaten that out of him long ago.

He glanced up at the great East window and his gaze was caught. He stood there he knew not how long, when a slight scuffling noise to his left arrested his attention.

Potter stood to the side of the sanctuary, partly obscured by a stone pillar. He was looking not at the stained glass, but rather at Snape. For the first time in their short acquaintance, Potter's face showed the melancholia that Snape had been expecting since Potter walked into his office, and Snape was horrified to realize that he found the sadness in Potter's eyes as enticing as he had Potter's warm smile.

Their eyes met across the empty flagstones, a kind of quiet understanding passing between them; Potter dropped his eyes first. Snape turned back to the brilliancy of the weak sunlight through painted glass and spoke. “I wasn't aware anyone was still here.” His voice was quiet, pensive - whether unwilling or unable to break the fragile peace of the chapel, Snape couldn't say.

Potter cleared his throat before speaking. “Yeah, I...” He paused, and Snape heard the clicking of his footsteps approaching, but still he kept his eyes turned upwards. “It's just so beautiful here, you know? I couldn't leave yet.” His voice hitched slightly on the last sentence.

“Yes,” Snape agreed. They fell silent for a moment, and Snape's breathing sounded loud to his own ears. Snape felt more than saw Potter come to a halt just beside his left elbow, which grew tense at the proximity.

“It was...it was a pleasure, Mr. Potter, to work with you.” Snape's voice was stiff and formal, unused to giving anything but insincere flattery. They stood still again, but the silence wasn't awkward like Snape would have expected, had he thought about this moment at all.

He glanced down when he felt a brush against his arm to see Potter grasping hold of his forearm. Potter's hand looked very white against the deep black of his mourning suit. “Mr. Potter,” he said. He hardly recognized his own voice.

“I'd like--” Potter cut himself off, shaking his head. A strange sort of determination settled over his face, chiseling his jaw as if from stone. “Would you get a drink with me?” he asked. “I'd like to buy you a drink.” His eyes, turned chartreuse in the strange light, were beseeching.

“I don't--” Snape started to say, but Potter cut him off.

“Just to, to say thank you.” Potter jiggled his arm a bit in an encouraging sort of way.

Potter was so close Snape could feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. His fingers clutched his arm tighter as the silence stretched on. “Do you really think that would be proper?” Snape found himself saying after a moment, voice low.

Potter's next breath was a harsh exhalation. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, Snape knew he was lost.

The voice was soft when it next came. “Just a drink.” Potter tilted his face up towards Snape's, and for one surreal moment Snape thought Potter was going to kiss him. Here, in the chapel where his late husband had not fifteen minutes previously had his last rites. It was absurd.

“I...yes,” Snape said. “Yes. I'll have a drink with you.” Potter smiled brilliantly, and they both turned to the stained glass window once more, Potter still clutching his arm with too tight fingers.

HR

One drink led to two, and two led to four, and four led to a bold hand laid improperly high on Snape's thigh. Snape turned to Potter then to find himself being watched, Potter's gaze intense and utterly irresistible. “I -- I must go,” Snape mumbled and staggered off his stool, heading towards the back hallway by the restrooms. A hand caught his elbow before he reached the door, and he felt himself being turned gently but inexorably around. Potter looked up at him, eyes ringed with black shadows in the harsh overhead light. Snape stepped forward into Potter, unable to stop himself, the ache in his chest overwhelming every other sensation buzzing through him, fear and propriety no longer any deterrent against the tide of his longing.

Their lips met and held, a breath passing between them. Then Potter sighed and licked the side of Snape's mouth, seeming to melt into the solidity of Snape's chest. They fell against the plaster of the wall, neither able to support their combined weight with four shots and untold desire coursing through their systems.

They stayed there by the gents' restroom, kissing and licking with a passion Snape had never thought to find within himself, until they were split up by the pub's burly proprietor. They made it, just barely, to Snape's home, forgoing the grandeur and coldness of Middlethorpe House for the warmth and privacy afforded by Snape's lack of butlers. Making it to the bedroom was even more of a challenge, but they rose to it, as did other parts of their anatomies, manfully. By the time they made it to Snape's bed, both were completely divested of clothing, and neither knew nor cared whether their trousers had been left on the stairs or in the pub.

“Lube?” Potter panted, sealing his mouth to Snape's neck and sucking as though it were ambrosia.

“God, yes.” The back of Snape's knees hit the bed and they both fell backward, Potter laughing into his neck. Snape shivered with the intimacy of it; never, with any of his few lovers, had there been laughter in bed.

Potter bit his collarbone gently, and Snape could feel the curve of his smile against the bone. “No, Severus. I meant, where is the lube?”

Something of the meaning penetrated Snape's hazy brain, and he tipped Harry off of him before turning to his nightstand. He dug around the bottom drawer for a moment before pulling the small tube out triumphantly, along with a shiny foil packet.

Harry smiled and tackled him, murmuring “excellent” before licking a wonderfully wet trail down to his navel. While Harry was paying his respects to the dark thatch of crisp hair on his belly, Snape fumbled open the wrapper with alcohol-clumsy fingers. “Got it!” Snape said, a bit too loudly.

Harry winced and lifted his head from where he had been busily nuzzling Snape's erection. “Give it here, then,” Harry said, holding out his left hand while his right wandered below Snape's balls, petting the delicate skin he found there.

Snape made a kind of choked gurgling noise that he just knew he was going to be embarrassed about come morning. Everything with Harry seemed more intense, more immediate, and he could feel himself falling. He handed over the condom, which Harry took and rolled down Snape's erection. Snape's breath came out strangled, and Harry's mouth curved in a little half smile. Harry grabbed the lube from where it had fallen next to Snape's thigh and flicked it open with his thumb, drizzling out a generous amount into his palm.

“Now,” Harry said, rubbing his hands together to warm the slippery stuff, “come here, my pretty.” Snape thought he was being mocked until Harry brought his hand down between Snape's legs; the lube was spread with too reverent a touch for that.

Harry smiled down at Snape, his eyes glittering in the light of the bedside table. He had lost his glasses somewhere, and Snape only hoped that they wouldn't have to go back to the pub to find them. The barman hadn't seemed too friendly, after finding Harry's hand down the front of Snape's trousers.

“All right,” Harry asked, but before Snape could answer he was lifting himself up and sinking back down onto Snape's cock.

“God, god, god,” Harry whispered, head arching back. Snape's eyes traced the curve of it, the adam's apple bobbing as Harry visibly swallowed. He was still atop Snape for a moment, like deep waters shining in the moonlight.

Then, gently, Harry began to move, shifting up and down along the length of Snape's cock. Snape reached up and cupped his hand behind Harry's head, fingers twining through the wild strands he found there. He tugged Harry's mouth to his own, Harry folded almost in half on top of his lap in order to steal a kiss.

The minutes stretched out between them like taffy, sweet and sticky with sweat and stolen breaths and the ache of desire being fulfilled. By some silent consent, their gentle rocking quickened into demanding thrusts, and their mouths missed each other more often than not in their hunger for kisses and each other. Snape's fingers dug into Harry's hips. There would be bruises there in the morning, but neither cared.; it was enough for now to feel warm, living flesh beneath his palms, and to think about tomorrow when it came, as it surely would.

Too soon, Harry pulled away and back, settling on his hands and riding Snape even as his own breath stuttered in his chest and he came, coating the black pubic hair he had been so fond of earlier in the evening with the milky fluid. The undulation of his hips undid Snape, and he found himself spilling into the condom, “Harry,” coming out in a pained gasp. He choked back more words, terrified of saying them aloud, eyes tightly closed against the brilliancy of hungry green eyes.

When he opened them again, Harry grinned down at him from his perch, sweaty, semen-soaked skin gleaming. “That was bloody brilliant.” He slumped forward onto Snape's chest.

“Yes, I suppose it was,” Snape said, voice breathy and not his own. He winced as the condom made an unpleasant squelching noise as it slipped free from Harry's body.

Harry huffed a laugh into his neck. “Only you,” he said, but it sounded like an endearment. He moved off of Snape reluctantly, and once they had set their limbs in order reached down for the condom, which he tied off and threw unceremoniously to the floor. Snape raised an eyebrow, but made no other objection to the abysmal treatment of his carpet.

“Sleep now,” Harry said, voice slurred. He reached over Snape and turned off the lamp, settling an arm around his companion and squeezing lightly. Snape sighed into the darkness, and folded his own arm about Harry's waist.

HR

>The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.<

Face made up of sharp angles and no little asymmetry, Snape was not what most would call an attractive man. His hair hung limp and greasy against his scull no matter how many times he washed it; his nose overpowered every other feature, including what he had been told, in a rather nasty tone, were piercing black eyes. Nevertheless, Snape had worked his way through life quite well with what he had, and he didn't begrudge Potter his beauty.

He did, however, begrudge himself his own weaknesses, and Harry was turning out to be one of his worst.

He had left early after his illicit tryst with Mr. Potter, unable to face those eyes, which were sure to be horrified in the light of morning-after, as they always were when faced with the reality of having bedded Severus Snape. Snape did not consider himself a coward, but nor did he consider himself a masochist.

He went to work, as usual, and hardly thought of Mr. Potter at all.

>He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.<

When he returned home that evening, tie undone and footsteps heavy against the cement walkway, it was to those same eyes he had been trying to avoid all day.

Potter sat on the stoop, looking like nothing so much as a whipped puppy. His eyes were huge and round behind his glasses (so they hadn't been left at the pub; at least that was something), and his hair was wilder than Snape had ever seen it, as though he had been running his hands through it all day. He probably had.

“What do you want, Mr. Potter?” Snape said tiredly. The chill of the evening was wearing into his bones, and all Snape really wanted at that moment was a large brandy and a warm fire.

>He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. <

“You left,” Potter said. His voice sounded strange. “I woke up and you were just, gone.”

Snape ran a hand through his own hair, fingers snagging on a knot. “Yes, I left.” He sighed and continued past Potter. He slid his key into the lock and pushed open the front door, turning around to look at Potter. “Usually, that would be taken as a sign that the tryst is over, and the young plaything would make his way to his own home. Sitting on a stoop all day,” he sneered, “is usually not part of the arrangement.” He injected his voice with all the vitriol he didn't feel.

For a moment, Potter looked as though he had been kicked, suspiciously wet eyes blinking furiously. Then his face hardened, jaw jutting out in that obstinate, infuriating way. “Young plaything, am I?” he asked, pushing himself off the step.

>Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. <

“Who kissed whom in that pub?” Potter pushed him into the doorjamb, trapping him in the liminal space. “Huh? I was a perfect gentleman until you shoved your tongue down my throat.” And though that wasn't entirely true, Snape found he had no breath to dispute it.

Potter shook his head, once, hard. Then, as if eager to give a demonstration of the circumstances that had led to this humiliating tableau, he seized Snape by the ears and crushed their mouths together in an inelegant, but effective, display.

Snape had no choice. He kissed back.

When Potter finally pulled back, eyes so terribly open and so terribly young, Snape's resolve wilted like a flower in the heat. He grasped Potter by the waist and fairly dragged him inside, slamming him against the wooden paneling of the wall. Their mouths met again, exchanging breath and life. They stayed like that a long time, hands roaming over buttons and bare skin indiscriminately.

>Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.<

Snape pulled back when Potter's small cold hand insinuated itself in the waistband of his trousers. “No,” he said, the taste of denial mingling with that of Potter. “No, we can't.” He let go of his death grip on Potter's arms and backed away, arms outstretched as though Potter were a ghost that needed to be warded off.

“Why not?” Potter demanded. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright and wild. “What could possibly be the matter?”

The dampness of Potter's bottom lip was distracting, and for a moment Snape couldn't think to speak.

Turning his face away, Snape gulped in a breath of air before speaking; even when the words came, they were so quiet he wasn't sure that Potter would hear them. “How could you possibly want me?” Other words, accusatory ones, pressed against his teeth, but he bit them back, unwilling even now to voice that deepest fear, that this man had taken another's life and might take Snape's own.

>Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.<

“Is that all?” Potter asked, voice and eyes soft. He came forward, hands outstretched and palms up. He looked like he was trying to tame a skittish horse. “Why wouldn't I?” His voice was quiet and firm, and Snape couldn't think of any possible reasons in the face of it; no objection withstood the quiet force of it.

He closed his eyes, only opening them when he felt Potter's beguiling mouth close to his ear. “Who wouldn't?” he breathed, then licked a wet stripe along the whorls of his ear, teeth grazing the lobe.

Snape breathed out, as though expelling all his demons with that one breath. He grasped Harry's scull and kissed him.

The morning found them twined together in the wreckage of Snape's bed. Even if Harry's limbs hadn't been twisted around Snape's like ivy, pinning him to the sheets, Snape wouldn't have gone anywhere.

HR

Wednesday, June 21, 2006 Potter Cleared in Mysterious Malfoy “Murder” Case Jill Bradley, Staff Writer

"The York police department issued a press release yesterday, in which the entire force expressed its deepest apologies for implicating Mr. Harry Potter in the unfortunate death of his husband. “We are deeply sorry for any problems our inquest might have caused,” the statement said. “We have since learned that Mr. Malfoy's death was entirely natural, thus clearing our suspicions about Mr. Potter.” The statement was prompted by the public release of Mr. Malfoy's autopsy, which showed that the young man died from a rare heart condition. Mr. Potter again could not be reached for comment, but his agent has said that they will not be pressing charges against the police force, who made “an honest mistake.”

HR

“You're in the paper again,” Snape said, cinching the belt of his dressing gown tighter about himself as he sat on the edge of the bed. Some foreign emotion fluttered lightly in his chest - it felt like happiness.

Harry stirred sleepily, a muffled “unggh” that might, possibly, have been a word escaping his mouth.

“Yes, fascinating, isn't it?” Snape continued, a slight smirk on his face. “You've been cleared of all charges.” He reached forward and peeled back the covers, unveiling Harry's head and chest.

“Oh, that,” Harry said, his voice thick with sleep. He blinked owlishly up at Snape, who handed him his glasses from the floor. “Of course they did. Finally figured out it couldn't have been me, the slow bastards, since I'd not been home since that morning.”

“I wonder why they thought it was you, though,” Snape said, chin cupped thoughtfully in his hand. Harry's arms came around his middle and a warm sleepy weight draped itself across his back. He smiled, safe in the knowledge that Harry couldn't see the curve of his lips from his position.

Harry nosed Snape's hair away from his neck, then placed a kiss there. “Almonds, of course,” Harry slurred.

Snape sat stunned for a moment, hand stilling where he had been stroking the hair on Harry's arm. “Almonds?” he repeated blankly.

“Yup,” Harry said, nuzzling more insistently into the side of his neck. “That arse Finnigan said he smelled roasting almonds, which was a sure sign that I'd poisoned Draco.” Hands were busily untying the sash of Snape's robe. “Apparently, cyanide has the exact smell of roasting almonds. Who knew?”

“Almonds?” Snape repeated blankly.

Harry huffed a laugh into Snape's shoulder, which he'd managed to bare without using his hands, which were petting the furred planes of Snape's belly. “Yes, Severus, we've already been through that part.” His hands traveled farther south and Snape yelped. “I'd come home that morning to find him and his boyfriend roasting almonds in the fire, just as cozy as you could please,” and though he was talking about the infidelity of his husband, his voice was as calm as if they had been discussing the state of his taxes.

“He was cheating on you?” Snape asked incredulously, turning around in Harry's arms.

Harry looked put out over his new, less cuddly position, but nodded. “We were going to get a divorce anyway, s'not like it mattered much. Why do you think I spent all that time in Manchester?” Harry shrugged his shoulders. “It hadn't been working for years, really.”

Snape stared at him for a moment, trying to remember that first article he'd read. Suddenly, he reached forward and grabbed Harry's arm, earning a startled “hey!” from its owner. “What happened to your ‘sprain' that caused you to leave Manchester early?” Snape asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, that,” Harry said, shifting so he was wrapped once more around the by now half-undressed Snape. “Lies, all lies.” Harry was grinning at him, mouth swollen from last night's activities. “I was really coming home to sign the divorce papers, but we wanted to keep it private until the divorce'd gone through.”

Snape used Harry's arm to pull him closer, until it was impossible to tell whose limbs were whose. “I see,” Snape said, mouth close to Harry's.

Harry's breath hitched slightly before his mouth was claimed in a kiss. The distant sound of a phone broke them apart. “Who--?” Harry asked, breathing heavily.

Snape cursed under his breath. “It has to be Mr. Weasley. I was supposed to be at work,” he glanced at his alarm clock, “two hours ago.”

A grin tugged at the corners of Harry's mouth. “You don't sound like you're that concerned about it.”

Snape lifted one shoulder in a negligent little shrug, which had the added benefit of causing his robe to slip off, leaving the tempting flesh bare. “I've not missed one day of work in nearly twenty years,” he said, hands roaming down the bed-warmed skin of Harry's back. “They can wait a little longer,” he whispered, pulling Harry's smiling mouth to his again.