Short Accounts

 

Story: Short Accounts
Storylink: http://archiveofourown.org/works/172345
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Author: RaeWhit
Last updated: 03/20/2011
Words: 7320
Status: Unknown
Content: Chapter 1 to 1 of 1 chapters
Source: ArchiveOfOurOwn.org

Summary: 	"Keep your accounts short, and you'll have no regrets."
 *Chapter 1*: Short Accounts

Short Accounts 
	Harry opened the door to Hagrid's hut, and although there was no need for stealth, he slipped furtively inside and flattened himself against the wall. There was a fire in the grate, Hagrid's great brute of a dog snoring where he lay in front of it. In one of the chairs to the side, a familiar silhouette sat. Surprised though Harry was, he still took a moment to close his eyes, as the memory of dozens of other late-night clandestine visits flashed through his mind.
	"You took your time—I expected you an hour ago."
	Harry's eyes snapped open as he exhaled sharply. Stepping to the center of the room, he dropped into the other lumpy armchair, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "You did, huh? Strange. I didn't decide to come here until I left the wake a few minutes ago."
	Snape sat forward to place a bundle of parchments on a table to the side, before looking back to Harry. "I left hours ago. By the glaze in your eyes, I didn't imagine you'd last much longer." He quirked an eyebrow. "They're still at it, I suppose?"
	"Yeah, for sure. Will be for a while. The dancing's over; they're down to telling stories now. All of them are pissed."
	"Including my Deputy Headmistress?"
	"Oh, especially her," Harry smiled. He pursed his lips as he thought. "Funny, isn't it, how people get when they're pissed? Can't string two sentences together or keep their eyes uncrossed. Some turn quiet, others get downright mean." He shook his head. "Not Minerva. Prim and proper when she's sober, but give her a bit to drink…"
	''…and she's the epitome of witticism and verbal indiscretion."
	"No harm in it," Harry murmured, glancing around the room before settling his eyes on Snape's face again. "Hagrid would've loved it. It's all about him. All for him." He tilted his head to the side. "Pity he couldn't be here for it. Makes me think wakes should happen, I dunno, while the guest of honor is still here to enjoy it."
	Snape seemed to consider for a moment. "Ah. But wakes are for those left behind. To ease their grief. Hagrid's beyond reach now."
	For the tenth time that day, Harry felt his throat constrict, but he sensed that at least this man wouldn't appreciate—or pass on the opportunity to mock—a display of emotion. Instead, he asked, "What're you doing here?"
	Snape motioned in the direction of the parchments. "You're staying the night, aren't you? The reading of his will is at eight tomorrow morning." He must've read the confusion in Harry's expression, for he added impatiently, "I'm the executor of his estate—for as much as there is one."
	"Oh, I hadn't thought of that. I assumed it'd be…" He really hadn't assumed at all; it hadn't even crossed his mind.
	"Someone else?" Snape asked dryly.
	"Yeah. Something like that," Harry agreed, curious now. "You have to admit you're an odd choice."
	Snape was using a fingernail to dislodge something from between his teeth. He examined whatever it was on his fingertip before flicking it toward the fire. "And why is that?" he asked, his tone almost bored.
	"Well, c'mon, Severus, you and Hagrid…well, it's not like you were best mates."
	Turning slightly in his chair, Snape stared at him. "And you would know this because of the handful of times you've graced us with your presence in—let me see—the last fifteen years?"
	"Oh." Harry flushed. "Sorry, I just assumed—"
	"Then you shouldn't have. Hagrid and I got on quite well, once the war was over, and especially after his marriage put him in the castle more often. He turned out to be a fair chess opponent—no match for Albus, of course—and we spent a great deal of time together on forays into the forest for my rarer potions ingredients."
	Harry's mouth dropped open. "You don't say."
	"I just did," Snape almost snapped at him. "He was my friend—you're not the only one who'll miss him."
	Harry thought back to the wake, how he'd misjudged Snape's aloofness, his rigid posture as he'd stood and watched the memorial. Everyone grieves in their own way, he thought. Chastened, he tried to make amends.
	"I'm sorry. I didn't know." He groped for the right words. "But I'm glad to hear it—that you were friends." He shifted moodily in his chair, then nudged the sleeping dog with a foot. "You were a better friend than I was. What you said is true; I should've got up here more often. Hell, I didn't even know he was sick."
	"He wasn't actually sick. Just aging," Snape told him more mildly. "These last five years since Olympe died, he declined in the way that some do when they've lost a beloved partner."
	"What do you mean, aging? He's wasn't all that old," Harry protested.
	"Oh, but he was. Eighty-five, and for giant breeds, that's a goodly age. They're not blessed with the same longevity that wizards are."
	"I didn't know that," Harry said slowly, distressed. "If I had, I'd've made it my business to get up here." He pulled at his lower lip, his misery increasing. "There were things I would've liked to have had the chance to tell him; even things we might've done. And now I never will. I let him down."
	Snape made a harrumphing noise. "As much as I'd like to let you wallow in the despond of despair, may I remind you that you owled him every Monday for the past fifteen years, remembered him at Yule and birthdays, not to mention subsidizing his little creature adventures—or should I say 'misadventures'?"
	"He told you I owled?"
	"No, he didn't tell me. He read every single one of your letters—aloud—to the entire High Table."
	Harry blanched. "He read them aloud? All of them?"
	"Alas…yes."
	Resting his forehead in his hand, Harry groaned.
	Snape suddenly seemed to be enjoying himself. "It was rather Dickensian. From one week to the next, we were held in suspense: would your feline's constipation resolve? Would Kreacher truly survive your pronouncement that you never wanted to see another turnip on your plate again? Would your paramour of the moment gain Weasley family approval?" He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Needless to say, we were constantly on the edge of our chairs."
	Harry dropped his hand as he scowled. "I get the picture. No need for sarcasm."
	Snape appeared to almost smile, but not quite. "We did realize you wrote to him about the things you thought might interest him."
	"Thank god. Yeah, that's what I did. He wasn't stupid, but I didn't think he'd be interested in Ministry stuff, well, most of my life, actually." He crossed his arms over his chest. "So glad I managed to entertain the rest of you," he grumbled.
	Sighing heavily, Snape peered at him. "My purpose in telling you was to underscore how much a part of your life he believed he was. As you said, he wasn't stupid, Potter. He knew you were busy with your life, and those weekly owls meant more than you know. He told me once, 'He hasn't forgotten me, Professor. See, regular as clockwork, he sets himself down and finds time to let me know how he's getting on. Even asks my advice, Harry does. Couldn't be prouder than if he was me own.'"
	Harry felt the lump in his throat threaten again. "Still, if only I'd…" He looked up at Snape. "He didn't suffer, did he? God, it kills me to think he was lonely or afraid."
	Snape snorted. "Hagrid afraid?" He shook his head. "He had a rather sanguine outlook on life and death—one's as natural as the other, he told me. Oh, he did pine for Olympe; he looked forward to seeing her again. As for fear," he paused as he chose his words, "none for himself. His only fear was for the grief he'd cause the people he'd leave behind. Us," he said pointedly, then softly added, "you, in particular."
	They sat in silence for quite a while, until Snape arose to throw another log onto the fire. Then he squinted at the bottles arranged atop the mantel, selected one, Summoned two glasses, which he scrupulously inspected before pouring them each a measure of firewhisky. Handing one to Harry, he didn't sit again, but stood with his back to the fire.
	Harry was watching him; Snape seemed as if he had something to say, something of import, but didn't appear to know how to begin. Several times, he opened his mouth, about to speak, then closed it again.
	"What is it?" Harry asked, slightly alarmed that 'never-at-a-loss-for-words' Snape seemed…at a loss for words.
	Snape took his seat again and angled his chair to face Harry straight-on. "I've had reason…" He stopped and studied the drink in his hand. When he looked up, Harry read a steely determination in his black eyes. "I myself have had reason to think a great deal about death lately."
	Harry coughed, forced to swallow his mouthful, feeling the burn of the liquid trickling down his throat. Finally, he managed a mirthful half-gasp, half-laugh. "I'd've thought you had plenty of time to think about it, what with the work you did. Violent death, sudden and unexpected death. Never knew when or where or even who."
	Tossing back what remained in his glass, Snape studied him shrewdly. "No, I meant death that occurs more naturally. The sort that finds us all in the end." He seemed suddenly unsure of himself, almost hesitant, and stopped to Summon the bottle again. After pouring for himself, he set the bottle aside when Harry refused a refill.
	"Not so unusual you'd be thinking this, is it? I mean Hagrid…" Harry stopped, his alarm now mixed with puzzlement.
	"Part of it was Hagrid's circumstances, yes, but that's not the crux of it." He looked away, tapping the side of his glass with a fingernail.
	"What, then? Severus? It's not like you to make me drag it out of you."
	Snape's eyes narrowed as he seemed to come to a decision. "All right. And I'm only telling you this because of your regret over Hagrid. It's my belief that the best way to have no regrets when someone dies is to keep one's accounts short. Say—and do—while you still have the chance, the time."
	Harry recognized this as sage and valuable advice. Hadn't he vowed to live this way just after the war, when it'd been too late to talk to Dumbledore (in the flesh, at least), and Lupin and Tonks, Moody and Fred? But Snape was making this sound distressingly and achingly personal.
	Suddenly, Harry got it. For an instant, the firewhisky attempted a reverse course—up from his stomach, into his throat. He clenched his teeth together and swallowed frantically. Sweat beaded on his forehead, nausea almost overwhelming him, but at last he was in control of himself again.
	"Who, Severus? Who is it?" When Snape didn't answer, but wouldn't look at him, Harry let out a strangled moan. "It's you, isn't it?"
	Snape wiped the corner of his mouth with a finger, set his glass aside, then serenely folded his hands in his lap. "Yes. It is I." Only a faint tic in his cheek betrayed his emotion. Harry remembered how awkward and stilted Snape became when skirting the realm of the personal.
	"What're you saying?" Harry asked quietly. "That you're dying? Is that what this is about?"
	There was a vague nod of assent. Not a 'yes, I am,' or a 'yes, you're right', but assent nonetheless.
	"I've wondered if you'd even care to know in advance. But our past—our efforts at reconciliation over the years, convinced me it would be presumptuous to assume you wouldn't. Care," he elucidated, as if that were even necessary to add.
	"Of course I care. Of course I'd want to know." Harry stopped, flummoxed by the turn the evening had taken. Violent, unexpected death was bad enough. Death at the end of a long life such as Hagrid's wasn't much better. But this…a man he'd come to know, come to respect, come to believe would always be there, it was downright…horrible.
	"How long have you known?" he asked, for lack of something better to say, still trying to process the unbelievable.
	"A while. And I would've waited longer, but you're seldom here; I'm not favored with Monday morning owls," Snape almost sneered, and in spite of himself, Harry was tempted to smile, "and in the interest of keeping accounts short and avoiding heart-wrenching regrets, this might be the best time to say whatever it is you would eventually want to say. That's not to assume there's anything you haven't already said before. I seem to recall you had quite a lot to say, years ago. I can't imagine there's anything left."
	Harry ignored the attempt at levity to ask, "When? How long?"
	"Let's leave that for another time, shall we? It's not a matter of days, in any case."
	Sitting riveted to his chair, Harry's mind worked furiously. What was left to say that he hadn't said before?
	I misjudged you; you're the bravest man I know. If it hadn't been for you, none of it would've worked. Do you know how much I respect you, need your approval in my life?
	No, he said all that before. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Snape on his death bed, and himself with one last chance to add to the litany.
	When he opened his eyes, he found Snape was scrutinizing him carefully, and for the first time, Harry noticed how gaunt he appeared. He was still ruggedly attractive, in an ugly sort of way, but the hollows of his cheeks were more defined, the creases and ridges around his eyes and mouth more deeply furrowed. Only the eyes were unchanged: piercing and bright with the same intensity and focus that once upon a time had scared Harry out of his wits. And yet…Harry saw vulnerability there too. Death on the horizon could do that to a person, he thought—even Snape.
	Harry took a deep breath. "It's not much, but it's something I want you to know." He paused to wet his lips. "I can't tell you how many times, over the course of my week—when I'm faced with people and decisions and problems—that I ask myself, 'What would Severus do? What would he say? How would he handle this?' Because you've turned out to be one hell of a Headmaster. No one else could've filled Albus' shoes the way you have. I get a lot of my answers that way, without having to ask anyone else."
	Whatever Snape was expecting to hear, Harry could tell this wasn't it. The man straightened slightly, his eyes wide, then the faintest crack of a smile appeared. "Really?" he asked in a low voice. "You think of me that way?"
	Harry nodded. "To the exclusion of all others."
	For a brief instant, Snape seemed almost sad, but quickly recovered. "Thank you for telling me."
	Harry shrugged, still feeling slightly sick. "Thanks for giving me the chance. I know it's not much, but when I think of you…." Suddenly, without warning, something else occurred to Harry, something entirely inappropriate to the moment—so much so that he had to bite his lips and look away.
	"What is it?" Snape asked warily.
	Waving a hand, Harry replied, "You don't want to know."
	"Ah." Snape raised his chin. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"
	"It's just…It's not very respectful. Something I've wondered about. A little game I play with myself"
	"Humorous, is it?"
	"Oh, I think it is. You might not."
	Snape's lips twitched. "You might be surprised."
	Oh, why the hell not? "I've always wondered," Harry began, "about your nose."
	Reflexively, Snape raised a hand to his face. "My nose," he intoned incredulously.
	"Yeah. You know what they say about men with big noses."
	Snape's eyes flashed—with apparent mirth, thank god. Reaching up, he placed the pad of his thumb at the bottom of his nose, and his forefinger crosswise against the bridge. Pulling his hand away, he preserved the measured distance in the air between them. "What would you say—three inches?"
	Harry smiled. "At least. So…?"
	"At least three times that," Snape smirked, then dropped his hand, his face relaxed. Harry was sure he spied a hint of amusement in his expression.
	Emboldened, he sat forward in his chair. "If you don't mind—and feel free to slap me—any chance I could see it? Put my imagination to rest, it would."
	In a heartbeat, Snape's pupils dilated—like cat's eyes, from pinpricks to the size of marbles. "From fertile imagination to actual documentation, you mean? A man after my own heart," he said, and though his tone was solemn, the note of amusement was unmistakable now.
	Shocked, though, Harry couldn't believe his own presumption. "I mean, if you're up to it."
	"Oh, I'm not that far gone yet. But you'll have to move closer for this. Here, by the fire where you can see."
	In the most surreal moment of his life—and there had been plenty of those—Harry slid from his chair and sat back on his heels in front of Snape, eyes fixed on the long fingers slowly undoing the flies of his trousers. For better viewing, Snape stretched out his legs, one on either side of Harry, then slouched down slightly in his chair.
	Harry had to remind himself to breathe, watching as three inches…six inches…then all nine glorious inches were deftly displayed amongst the wrappings. He came up on his knees to stare.
	It was the most beautiful cock he'd ever seen in his life—and he'd seen more than his fair share, probably. Not a youthful cock—all pink and smooth and perfect—but ruddy in color, veins standing out on the surface like lifelines, the head bluntly peeking out of its sheath, the shaft sparsely and wirily haired. As he bent his head closer, he was startled when it suddenly twitched.
	"Is it all you imagined?" Snape asked, his hands white-knuckled on the arms of his chair. His voice was hoarse, slightly tremulous, and Harry worried that he'd overtaxed the man.
	"Exceeds Expectations," Harry murmured, then looked up to Snape's face: his cheeks were flushed, his mouth slightly open. "Outstanding, actually." Without thinking, Harry reached out but then stopped, his fingers aching to curl around it, especially when he saw the glint of fluid at the tip. "May I touch it?" he asked, barely audible.
	"Certainly you may." Snape parted his trousers and pants more.
	Almost reverently, Harry drew a fingertip down the length of it, steeling himself not to flinch away when Snape gasped. Two fingertips next, brushing lightly up and down, until he hooked them both underneath and covered the cock with the flat of his hand, careful not to squeeze yet. Did permission to touch include squeezing? He hoped so.
	"It's lovely. Just like I imagined." He smiled as he looked up to find Snape staring at him, his breath coming in shallow little puffs.
	"You think so? I suppose you've had enough reference material to make a comparison."
	Harry nodded vaguely, lost in the beauty and fragility of the moment. "I think cocks are the most beautiful part of a man." He chanced a look at Snape's face, then grinned outright. "It's odd, but most times, no matter how the man's built, his cock fits him. Take George Weasley, for exam—"
	"No names if you please. I might never be able to look whomever you mention in the face again otherwise."
	Harry laughed. "Yeah, you've got a point. Okay, I know a bloke who's short and stocky, and his cock's just average length, but really, really thick, almost muscular, just like he is. It looks perfect on him."
	"There are no muscles per se in a cock, you know."
	"Well, I meant when he's aroused."
	"Engorged."
	"Yeah, whatever. Take this bloke who's tall and thin. His prick is long and slender. Not as long as yours is, but then," Harry paused as he pictured it, "yours is the longest I've seen."
	Without even realizing, Harry was absentmindedly stroking—brought back to reality when Snape let out a definite groan.
	"Oh. Guess that was bound to happen."
	Harry reasoned that if Snape's cock was nine inches, flaccid, it looked to be at least ten, engorged.
	Snape seemed to have to make an effort not to move his hips. "Inevitable, especially since no one's touched me in years." His chin on his chest, his eyes alternated from Harry's face to his cock and back again. "I suppose I can die happy now."
	Harry snatched his hand away, as if he'd been burned. "Don't say that—it's not funny. It's bad enough…" He was shocked when Snape reached out and grabbed his wrist.
	"Don't stop, please. It feels rather good."
	Harry didn't move for a moment, transfixed by the expression of pure pleasure on Snape's face. He began to slowly stroke again—more grip, more pressure—daring to swipe the fluid with a fingertip, then smear it over the head.
	Do I dare offer? I really want to. But would that be going too far? It could be embarrassing if he refuses. But on the other hand, look what you're doing now. Such a short step from a handjob—well, a quasi-handjob—to what I'd really like to do.
	"Severus?"
	"Huhhhhh?" Snape's eyes were closed, his hands relaxed on the chair arms, his mouth suspended open in a perfect 'O'.
	"Just leave dying out of it for now, all right? But what I'd really like to do is something…happier."
	The eyes opened slowly; Harry noticed they were slightly unfocused, and more than a bit wild.
	"Happier?" Snape slurred the word, which injected Harry with a jolt of optimism.
	"Yeah, well, you're aroused. Engorged," he corrected himself. "I've got this thing for cocks, you've probably figured out, so if you're up to it—and don't feel like you have to—"
	"Potter, it's irritating," Snape said, this time his speech distinctly clear and definitely churlish.
	Harry pulled his hand away once more, only to have Snape snag it instantly and replace it with a longsuffering sigh. "You're irritating, not your hand, which is absolutely…sublime. I'm aroused, yes, and you've got this thing for cocks, so what is it you want?"
	Softly, scarcely able to believe he could say the words, Harry said, "I'd like to taste you." He couldn't meet Snape's eyes.
	For a moment, the only sound was the snoring of the dog and something foraging in the garden. Then Snape responded by letting his knees fall open. "Tasting is an odd choice of word. Sucking me off seems appropriate, however, seeing how you've brought me along so far already."
	"You wouldn't mind? You could handle it?"
	Snape caught Harry's chin with his fingers, forcing him to look up. "If we do this much longer, I swear to god I'll beg—and I endeavor to never beg. As for handling it, I suggest you're the one who should be asking himself that question." He sat back in his chair, and studied Harry as the stroking began again. "As you pointed out, I'm much more than your average mouthful."
	His words connected with something so visceral in Harry that he drooled as his heart began to pound.
	”I can handle it," Harry told him, his eyes glittering. "You're the limiting factor here; tap me on the head if you need me to stop." As he moved closer to the chair, Snape snorted.
	Gently cradling Snape's bollocks with a hand, Harry began with the tip of his tongue. As he moved, he felt hands settle on his shoulders—more of an anchor for Snape than to keep Harry in place. He mapped out the cock carefully, tracing veins and ridges, using his tongue to glide along the slit and twirl an errant hair here and there. Body contact increased when Snape crossed his ankles over the backs of Harry's thighs, then moved his hands from Harry's shoulders to his hair. Harry was trapped like prey, he realized, but he hadn't the remotest desire to escape.
	Sucking began in earnest, and as Snape's body reacted, Harry's sensation of being prey shifted suddenly to that of hanging on to a wild animal. But Harry was so good at this, so good at using his tongue, hollowing his cheeks, relaxing his throat to draw the firm, warm flesh even deeper. Snape groaned and swore, writhed in his chair, seeming to want to escape, but Harry knew better.
	He waited for the tap to his head, which never came. Instead he read the signs and prepared himself to resist when Snape would try to pull out, which also—to Harry's glee—didn't happen either.
	The final arch of Snape's hips out of his chair had Harry holding on for dear life. Snape was so deep in his throat, that when the burst of orgasm came, Harry barely needed to swallow. After a few reflexive spasms and a familiar taste on his tongue, Harry kept his mouthful, but moved his arms up to circle Snape at the waist.
	As he waited for Snape to soften, Harry breathed expertly through his nose, enjoying the feeling of the fingers still working casually through his hair.
	Still no tap to the head.
	Harry was the first to pull away. Moving slightly back, he used his tongue to clean what little there was to clean, patted Snape's shirttail over his cock and bollocks to dry them, then finished by tucking him in and doing up his flies.
	Sitting back on his heels, he surveyed his masterpiece: Snape's face was a picture of bliss—all the little worry lines were smoothed out, his mouth slack, his face flushed. His eyes, though, were a different matter. Harry read the confusion there, and a certain sadness, along with satisfaction.
	"It wasn't too much?" he asked anxiously.
	Snape reached out to give him a handkerchief. "I was going to ask you the very same thing. Thank you for not gagging." He pointed to Harry's mouth. "You have a bit of…" Harry dabbed at his face with the handkerchief. "Ah yes, you've got it." Snape took back the handkerchief, examined it for a moment, before carefully folding and replacing it in his pocket.
	"Happier now?" Snape asked him soberly.
	"Are you?"
	"Immeasurably. Thank you…Harry. I hadn't thought to have a memory such as this to ponder. Ever. It appears I was wrong."
	Suddenly feeling silly, sitting on the floor, Harry stood and stumbled backward into his chair. "Same for me. It was perfect. I’m glad you said what you did, you know, about keeping accounts short."
	Instead of seeming pleased, Snape appeared uncomfortable, making Harry wonder why.
	Maybe I should've stopped with 'What would Severus do?' Maybe this was too much.
	Harry was curious, though. Snape had got his 'short accounts' answer, and it made perfect sense that Harry should have his as well.
	"So, this works both ways, I think. I mean, I had things I needed to say to you. To keep accounts short. What about you, Severus? I'm going to make a point of seeing you…before the time comes, I promise. But if there is something you'd want to tell me, then tonight's as good a night as any. Seeing how one never knows…" He fixed Snape with a meaningful look.
	"I'd already decided as much. And yes, there is something I want to say, in the interest of keeping accounts shorts. As well as an explanation of sorts, which I prefer to save for last, if you don't mind."
	"Sure," Harry said slowly. "So tell me."
	Snape rearranged himself in his chair, his hands once again folded in his lap. "I'm a man of few words, as you know, so this will be concise. Your conduct in the war was commendable, but that was long ago. I'm a firm believer that what defines a man is his present course of action. You understand?"
	"I do." Harry nodded, suddenly nervous.
	"Oh, for god's sake, relax. I'm not pronouncing a verdict." He waited as a sheepish Harry rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.
	"Okay. I'm all right now."
	"Over the years since then, I've watched your life from a distance. You didn't permit the expectations of others to direct your path, even when it caused you personal misery. You fearlessly made your sexual preferences known; you firmly resisted a fast-track into the Auror corps. You chose work you found fulfilling, and achieved excellence in it. You're respected and revered for who you are now—a man of unquestionable ability and unwavering integrity. All those who love and esteem you—both living and dead—are proud of you, including myself. No small feat for a man of thirty-three."
	He stopped for a moment to straighten his cuffs and pick a stray thread from his trousers. Looking at Harry again, he went on, "There've been times when I've bemoaned the likelihood that you would do far better as Headmaster than I." He held up a hand to forestall Harry's predictable objection. "When you declined my offer of the DADA position seven years ago, I was deeply disappointed, not only because you would've clearly been an asset, but also because…" He stopped to clear his throat. "…because your presence here would've been greatly appreciated. A colleague with an understanding of the Muggle world, one who would provide fresh inspiration and ideas, and for me personally, some much needed stimulating companionship. But alas, it was not to be—and I understood. As with everything else you do, you had to follow your very good instincts, no less your heart."
	Harry was stunned for a moment. He'd had no idea… Sure, they'd buried the hatchet, got on quite civilly, in fact. But from that to…
	"Stimulating companionship?" he asked with a smile.
	"Don't push it, Harry." But Snape smiled too. "So, that's it."
	"That's it," Harry said, his mind still processing what he'd just heard.
	"Except…"
	Harry's head snapped up. Except? Oh, of course there'd be an 'except'. "Except what?" he asked warily.
	And there it was again—the confusion in Snape's face, the reticence in his manner, a struggle to say something out of his realm of comfort.
	"Given that we've been intimate, it's only fair that I confess to a bit of fantasy of my own."
	Oh.
	"In all fairness to myself and how I will appear, I never once entertained the notion until well after the war. It would've remained my little secret, I'm sure, except for the events of the night."
	"You mean tonight?" Harry asked.
	"Of course tonight, you idiot. What other night would I mean?" Snape asked.
	Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.
	"Go on."
	"First, let me be clear, there is to be no further mention of my health tonight. Understood?"
	"Perfectly."
	Snape took a deep breath, stood from his chair, and straightened his robes. "If you're up to it—and since you're staying for the reading of the will—I'd be honored if you shared my bed tonight."
	Harry was dumbfounded, at the same time tempted to spring to his feet to dance a little jig. He resisted; he was thirty-three, after all.
	"Share your bed, meaning…"
	"Meaning you've wondered about my cock—excuse me, or was it my nose?—and I've wondered about fucking your arse."
	"You have?"
	"Don't make me say it again if you have any intention of accepting," Snape said dryly, his eyes belying his apprehension.
	Harry was out of his seat in a flash, but forwent the jig. "I accept. We'll just have to sneak in the side door, won't we?" Snape held out his hand, which Harry hesitated not a whit to take. "Oh, by the way, I'm a top, you know."
	Snape smiled his superior smirk. "For tonight you aren't."
ooOOoo	When Harry awoke the next morning, the sky was light. Despite Snape's instruction of: "This is my side of the bed; that is yours," the two of them were tangled together in the middle, arms and legs wound around each other, sweat and other fluids dried where they'd pooled.
	Snape was still asleep, snoring lightly with his mouth open. Harry tried to move slightly and was quickly snapped back in place. Not for the first time, Harry mused that he couldn't tell Snape's elbows and knees apart; all four were bony and sharp, with the ability to prod and poke in the most uncomfortable of places.
	Slowly, as if untangling a giant string puzzle of flesh, Harry extricated himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
	What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four hours ago I was dreading Hagrid's funeral, and now, here I am with a new perspective on life—and death.
	He'd been given a gift, he realized: life is shorter than you think; keep your accounts short, make sure the people important to you know what they've meant to you. He'd missed it with Hagrid, sort of, but with Snape, the slate was clean.
	Snape.
	He felt a small twinge of misery as he remembered what he'd learnt the night before. And what he'd learnt would only make the future more difficult. At least for himself. With all of his resolve, he determined to take that knowledge and make Snape's future—however long it would be—more bearable.
	"You're up already? I thought Gryffindors made the most of their lie-ins."
	Harry rolled back onto the bed to face Snape. "They do—usually waiting for the Slytherin to get his act together."
	Snape reached out and tousled his hair. "I expected you'd leave."
	"What? And miss the will? Not a chance."
	Making a face, Snape said, "No, not that. I thought you'd go to your room."
	"And miss you snoring…and farting."
	"I do not fart," Snape scowled.
	"As if you'd know," Harry smiled, tracing a finger along Snape's cheek. "Breakfast?"
	"No time. We're late. Only time for a shower." He made a move to sit up, but Harry stopped him with a hand to his chest.
	"Severus, wait. I know it's none of my business, but now…I have to know. Not what it is if you don't want to tell me, but at least how long you have. I have a right to know now. I'm…involved. You said not just days, so what is it? A month? Months? Please tell me."
	Snape did sit up then, moving back in the bed to rest against the headboard. No confusion now, not even awkwardness (after the night they'd spent, Harry didn't expect any). But there was something in Snape's eyes: uncertainty…maybe even dread.
	"We can talk afterward. I have things to prepare for the read—"
	"No, now. How long, Severus?"
	Snape looked around the room, rolled his neck from side to side, wiggled his feet, before finally meeting Harry's eyes.
	"Oh, about sixty years, I'd say. Optimistically seventy."
	The room was dead silent for a moment.
	Harry sat with a blank look on his face. "But…but you told me you're dying!"
	Snape made a feeble attempt to roll his eyes, but didn't dare prolong the effort, given a physical assault was probable. "I'm dying. You're dying. We're all dying. Today, tomorrow, a month, a year, decades, it's all the same."
	Harry hadn't recovered the use of his tongue, but his arms worked. Snatching up a pillow, he knelt up on the bed and delivered a dead-on whack with it to Snape's head.
	"It's not all the same! You know it isn't, you bastard! You let me believe…you told me!"
	"Did I lie? No. Did I allow you to make an assumption? Perhaps. In the end, my advice still stands: keep your accounts short, and you'll have no regrets." The uncertainty was gone, but an attempt at smugness was encountering difficulty.
	Harry sat immobile, the pillow still in his hand, as the events of the past evening and night rolled through his mind
	Of all the stupid, childish, cunning, Slytherin… But wait, how far does my outrage really go? And is there any outrage at all?
	"I trusted you." His shoulders slumped.
	"And I hope you still do."
	"I meant every word I said," Harry said quietly.
	"As did I. It's what came next that bothers you, isn't it?"
	"You think so?" Harry snorted.
	"Has anything changed, now that we've done what we've done? Remember, it was what you wanted—what I wanted—wasn't it?"
	"Yeah, I suppose so," Harry said begrudgingly.
	"So what's the difference—last night or years in the future? Better to act on it now—at least the pleasure was a sure thing. I'm not sure how I would react to that fantasy in sixty years."
	Harry still suspected he should feel outraged. So, why didn't he?
	"Listen to me, Potter. I wanted to show you that keeping your accounts short with people will in the end spare you regret. That was my only intention. No way to fix what you feel about Hagrid, but as for you and me, the air is clear. Can't you see? It's a gift, Harry. I didn't plan it; it just happened, and I'd point out, both of us are complicit here."
	A gift. Isn't this exactly how I thought of it, not ten minutes ago?
	He'd said precisely what he'd wanted to say to Snape, hadn't he? And vice versa. As for the sex, well, if Snape were to blame, then Harry was just as guilty. But guilty of what? What they'd both fantasized and wanted?
	Harry stepped off the bed. "All right. It makes sense now…sort of. I said what I wanted to say—so did you. I got to suck you off and you got to fuck me." He nodded, as if he'd just convinced himself of something. "We're square, then?"
	Snape raised his eyebrows. "Square? I suppose so, whatever the hell that means." He waved toward the bathroom. "Shower. You first."
	They dressed sitting on opposite sides of the bed. Harry picked up his cloak, then stopped at the door. Turning, he saw Snape had stood and was watching him.
	"About the sex…" Harry began.
	"Yes?"
	"It was fantastic. You're a bastard, but a fantastic bastard."
	Snape smiled slightly. "I am what I am."
	Harry had started to turn away when Snape spoke again.
	"No regrets?"
	Harry smiled. "No regrets."
ooOOoo	A small group of invitees sat in the half-circle of chairs in front of the Headmaster's desk: Minerva, Pomona, Kingsley, Arthur, Hermione and Ron, and Harry.
	Snape began the meeting with a short explanation of wizarding inheritance law. All of them were to be gifted with material goods, as the monetary portion of the estate had been left to the Hogwarts Fund for Indigent Students.
	Harry's mind wandered as Snape read through the apportionment. Some of it he heard: linens to Minerva, crockery to Arthur, books to Hermione, et cetera. Mostly, though, he was focused on the executor himself.
	Snape…the timbre of his voice, the curve of his lips, the gracefulness of his hands. How he pushed an errant strand of hair from his face. Nothing that Harry hadn't seen before, but now—now everything was different.
	He'd touched. He'd tasted. He'd breathed in the scent and soul of the man, and nothing would ever be the same again.
	What had Snape said? I might never be able to look whomever you mention in the face again otherwise. One outcome of spontaneous intimacy, he realized. But as he sat and listened, it didn't escape his notice how often Snape caught his eyes and held them, before looking down again. Where before there would've been polite regard and attention, now there was warmth, and the hint of a secret shared.
	"To Harry James Potter, I leave Buckbeak's female progeny, Buttercup, along with a heretofore arranged lifetime (hers) supply of ferret feed from Willoughby's Creature Consortium."
	Harry's mouth dropped open as the room erupted into laughter.
	"To Harry James Potter, I leave my good and faithful dog, Spikey, along with a lifetime (his) supply of Willoughby's Dog Diet from Willoughby's Creature Consortium."
	Harry smiled glumly as Ron clapped him on the back, the rest of the room breaking into applause. Snape didn't smile, but Harry could tell he was enjoying himself. The bastard.
	"And lastly, to Harry James Potter, I leave my mother's secret recipe for raisin scones. Take good care of it, Harry. It's been in the family for generations, but I know you'll guard it well, seeing how much you liked them."
	The formalities concluded, tea was passed around, as well as anecdotes about Hagrid, and some good-natured ribbing for Harry.
	Harry lingered after everyone else had gone. There was the matter of arrangements to be made for his new acquisitions, and one other, more personal item.
	"Thanks for not telling me last night," Harry said as he picked up his cloak from the chair.
	Turning from his desk, Snape looked at him blankly for a moment, before realization seemed to dawn. "Oh. It never occurred to me to tell you in advance." He stroked his chin for a moment, then shocked Harry when he began to laugh out loud. Not once or twice, but a long continuous roll of it.
	It was a rare enough event, so that Harry wasn't even tempted to take offense. He crossed his arms and plastered a patient expression on his face, until Snape sobered enough to speak.
	"I was so looking forward to your reaction," Snape said. "You didn't disappoint." He seemed on the verge of laughing again, but Harry was grateful when he didn't. "You do realize, he honored you with his most precious possessions."
	They both started for the door. 'Yeah, I do. Well, now I do. Now the initial shock's worn off."
	Snape made a commiserating noise. "If you're agreeable, we'd be happy to house the Hippogriff here at the school. This is her home, after all."
	Harry turned and leant against the doorframe. "Would you really? That'd be perfect."
	"As for the dog…"
	"No, I'll be taking him. Not today, though. Next Saturday, if that's all right."
	Snape opened his mouth to speak, when Harry held up his hand and said, "No, wait." Snape's eyebrows rose. "What I meant to say was I was planning on coming up Saturday anyway, so could I just collect him then?"
	His eyes narrowed, Snape asked, "You were coming on Saturday again? Why?"
	Idly scratching his chin, Harry said, "Well, I'm at a loose end most weekends, so I thought I'd go out on a limb here—thought you might be up for some…" He faltered as he slowly raised his eyes to Snape's face.
	What if I'm wrong?
	"Stimulating companionship?" Snape asked, his voice low.
	"Well, yeah, since you're not dying anytime soon," Harry parried, and was relieved when he was rewarded with a slight smile.
	"Something to look forward to, then," Snape said softly, then surprised Harry by stepping forward suddenly, slipping a hand behind Harry's neck to kiss him soundly, shortly and intently, before stepping back again.
	Harry smiled, resisting the urge to lift his hand to his lips. "See you in a week, then. Thanks for everything, Severus."
	Snape nodded as Harry began to turn away, but Harry heard the words.
	"My pleasure."
	A spring in his step, Harry strode for the staircase.
	Mine as well.