Whispers of Intent

by

Tira Nog

Harry Potter took a deep breath as he stepped through the pub door. Whispers wasn't your typical Wizarding pub. It was one of the few places in the Wizarding World where wizards of certain predilections could meet other like-minded wizards. Unlike the similar establishments on Knockturn Alley, Whispers had a certain air of – if not respectability, then at least safety. A man could come into Whispers and know he'd still be alive come morning. That couldn't be said about some of the other places Harry had frequented in his younger days.

As an Auror, he knew that he probably shouldn't be here at all. Prejudice against same-sex relationships was still rampant. Were he any Auror other than Harry Potter, there was every chance he would lose his job for being spotted in a place like this. But he was Harry Potter. He figured after all the grief his celebrity status had brought him, it was only fair that he be allowed to trade on it on occasion.

The inside of the pub wasn't much brighter than the midnight street outside had been, but it was warmer. The heat and smoke of a wood fire embraced him as Harry shook off the cold inside the doorway. A spell had kept the incessant rain off him, but there wasn't a spell in the world that could keep the damp from penetrating.

Wiping the moisture from his glasses, which he'd once again forgotten to spell, Harry peered owlishly around the low-lit pub. The music was a little too slow for his tastes, more a waltz than anything, but his gaze moved appreciatively over the wizards who were pressed tight together, slow-dancing on the dance floor.

He knew he was a sentimental fool, but whenever he saw a scene like that, he always imagined that the wizards embracing and slowly swaying to the music were long-term lovers rather than the far more likely one-night-stands that they were. There was a time he'd wished for something like that, a partner he could hold close and cherish, but reality had taught him a harsh lesson about what the Boy Who Lived could and couldn't have.

His celebrity status was simply too huge an obstacle. The wizards it attracted wanted him for all the wrong reasons, and the wizards Harry found himself drawn to were always too worried about the publicity to risk more than a one-night-stand. He'd been bitter about it for years, but now at thirty-three, he was resigned to his fate.

He came to Whispers when he couldn't hold out any longer, but mostly, he went it alone. Life hadn't turned out as he'd thought it would, but then, whose had? Certainly no one Harry knew.

Tearing his eyes away from the hypnotically shifting couples, Harry made his way to the bar. Though he'd been certain to make sure his bangs were concealing the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, he heard the excited susurration that passed through the clientele as he was recognized.

Harry used to hate that, but these days, he used it to his advantage. Once word on who he was spread through the place, he usually had his pick of partners. It made it easier, if seedier. When he was younger, he used to talk to potential lovers to try to establish some kind of connection with them. These days he just picked out who looked hottest and fucked them. He hated it, but need always outweighed his morals.

"Firewhiskey," Harry told the chubby blond bartender when he finally reached him. The Friday night crowd was pretty thick.

Harry was taking his first sip of the harsh liquor when someone called his name.

"Harry?"

He turned, because normally it was 'Are you Harry Potter?' or 'I've read so much about you,' not just his first name, said so familiarly.

The face was very familiar. It took him a minute to place the name of the dark-haired, good-looking wizard who'd sidled up to the bar beside him. Sixteen years had passed since he'd left Hogwarts, and he hadn't seen the other man since. With difficulty, Harry pulled the wizard's name out of the thousands of names he'd accumulated over the years.

"It is you! I never would have expected to see you in a place like this. I didn't even know you were gay!" Justin Finch-Fletchley exclaimed, patting Harry on the shoulder as if they'd been best of friends.

That was another thing his celebrity status encouraged. People who'd barely given him the time of day when young now tended to over-exaggerate the closeness of their prior association.

Since Justin had never been really awful to him, Harry pasted a smile on his face and tried to look happy about the chance encounter. "Hello, Justin. How are you?"

Justin's peaches-and-cream cheeks turned bright pink. He was obviously delighted that Harry had recognized him.

"Fine, Harry. I'm fine," Justin nervously stammered. "I guess I don't have to ask how you're doing. I read about your adventures in the papers every day. You've done quite well for yourself."

For a man who had no hope of ever forming a satisfying relationship, he supposed that was true. The comment, however, put Justin immediately out of the running for tonight's flavour of the month. Suppressing a grimace, Harry shrugged and said, "You know how the papers exaggerate."

"Yes, but still . . . you've got quite the life, haven't you? They say that you're so good an Auror that even Mad Eye Moody's record dulls in comparison," Justin enthused.

Desperately trying to change the subject, Harry asked, "So what are you doing these days?"

Justin gave a self-deprecating smile and answered, "I'm a mediwiz at St. Mungo's," sounding like saving lives on a daily basis wasn't something that could possibly compare to being an Auror.

"Hey, that's great," Harry said.

"I suppose. It's nothing like what you do, though." The awkward pause that always came when people who'd barely known him tried to make contact set in. Justin broke it with the question Harry had been dreading. "So, how are Hermione and Ron these days?"

Telling himself that it wasn't mature to grit his teeth, Harry fielded the inquiry as best he could. "Fine, last time I saw them."

Harry didn't add that the stretch between when he'd last seen Ron was only a few years shorter than when he'd last seen Justin. Breaking your best friend's kid sister's heart wasn't conducive to endearing yourself to a family. It had been more than thirteen years since he'd seen any of the Weasleys, other than Percy, whom he occasionally passed at the Ministry office. As for Hermione, well, he saw Hermione, but the rift between Ron and him had all but destroyed their closeness as well. They tried, but it was painful to them both.

Justin didn't need to hear any of that, however.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Justin answered, his awkwardness growing by the minute.

Harry hoped that Justin wasn't working up his courage to proposition him. This fawning was hard enough to take from strangers, let alone from people who'd actually known him and should have known better.

A bubble of uncomfortable silence seemed to isolate them from the noisy, busy bar for a moment.

Visibly searching for conversational gambits, Justin nervously offered, "You'll never believe who's here."

Wincing at the prospect of yet another of these god awful reunions, Harry wondered if he should just forget about getting laid tonight and head home. Still, his manners wouldn't allow him to simply ignore Justin's attempt, so he gamely asked, "Who?"

"Snape," Justin said, with his first real grin.

It was amazing, really, the level of emotion that simple name could inspire in him. He'd once hated Snape more than Voldemort. He hadn't seen the man since the trials sixteen years ago.

"No way," Harry denied. But he could see no trace of joking in that attractive face.

"Really," Justin said and pointed off to the shadows at their right. "He's at a table over in the corner there. It shocked the hell out of me the first time I saw him here. I come here pretty regularly. Snape shows up a couple of times a month."

"Did you ever – " Harry found himself voicing a totally inappropriate question, because the idea of his old nemesis frequenting a gay Wizarding bar was so beyond his capacity to comprehend that he temporarily lost control of his mouth.

Justin appeared scandalized by the suggestion. "Are you insane? He mightn't be my potions teacher anymore, but Snape is still the greasy, ugly bastard he was back in school. It's a wonder he gets laid at all."

"Does he get laid?" Once again, Harry's question escaped without benefit of forethought.

"I saw him leave with a wizard once at closing time, but mostly, he just sits there and watches the dancers, then leaves alone," Justin said.

Harry was intrigued in spite of himself. He had never imagined that Snape might be a homosexual. With all the horrible, nasty things he'd said and thought about the man in school, that idea had never crossed his mind. But then, he hadn't thought of any of his former teaches as sexual beings. Still didn't, in truth. Just the idea of thinking of Minerva or Hagrid that way was enough to short-circuit his brain.

But Snape was apparently here in the flesh, and that was just too much of a novelty to pass up. Picking up his firewhiskey, Harry gave Justin's arm a friendly pat and said, "Good seeing you again, Justin," and headed over to where Justin had said Snape's table was.

He could feel Justin’s shocked stare on his back the entire way.

Harry hadn't a clue what he'd say to Snape, but even if they got into one of their shouting matches, it would have to beat the awkward small talk he'd been attempting with Justin. The one thing he knew for certain was that Snape wouldn't act like a star-struck sycophant.

Away from the bar, it was darker. Harry had trouble distinguishing the tables on the far side of the dance floor, but when he'd circumvented the dancers, he finally saw the tables.

It took Harry barely a heartbeat to pick out the familiar, menacing figure from his schooldays. Even after more than fourteen years as an Auror, Harry still found Snape an intimidating sight.

The blighter hadn't changed much. His hair was longer, unfashionably so. Snape wore it pulled back in a ponytail now, which only accentuated the stark, homely lines of his long, angular face and oversized nose. The black robes and the jacket with the dozens of buttons might have been the very same ones Snape had worn at Hogwarts.

Harry stood in the shadows, taking a long moment to observe his former teacher, debating the wisdom of even attempting to make contact. It wasn't as if Snape and he had ever had an amicable relationship. Even when Harry had testified on Snape's behalf at the trials, the man had been a bloody terror to him, insulting and sniping at him every other minute.

No, there had definitely been no love lost between them, but . . . Harry had known Snape, in a way that he'd never known Justin or perhaps any other person in his life. For all their differences and all the hatred between them, they'd both been Dumbledore's men to the very end, although it had taken Harry some time to understand that.

If nothing else, Harry figured he'd get some decent conversation out of Snape, providing the man agreed to speak to him at all. Harry was highly aware of the fact that Snape was perfectly capable of making a scene that would make the front page of the Daily Prophet faster than his own marriage engagement would. As if.

"Still skulking in the shadows, Potter?" the familiar, deep voice from his Potions class drawled from ten feet away. "Either get over here and sit down or leave . . . before I hex you."

Harry jumped. He should have been completely invisible in the shadows. He wasn't used to dealing with anyone as observant as he was, at least, not outside of work. But he'd always had a bad habit of underestimating Snape. It didn't surprise him at all that the man had lost none of his edge over the years.

Thinking that the invitation to sit, however rudely voiced, indicated that Snape might be inclined to suffer his company, Harry crossed the few feet that separated them. He was highly conscious of Snape's dark gaze upon him as he approached the small, isolated table and slid smoothly into the empty chair opposite Snape.

Absurdly enough, Harry found himself wishing that he was taller, that he could have made a better impression.

"How’d you know I was there?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.

"For all the commotion your arrival caused, you might just as well have one of your minions sound a trumpet to announce your arrival," Snape said. "Subtlety and notoriety don't mix well."

"That explains when I entered the pub, but I was standing in the shadows a moment ago. I could barely see you and you're more in the light than I was," Harry said.

"It isn't as though your power has decreased any over the years," Snape said. "Any wizard who felt that level of energy crackle behind him would have been on guard."

"Yet, you're the only one who felt it," Harry said.

Snape shrugged. "This isn't the type of place that attracts those dedicated to the enhancement of their magic. I must admit to some surprise at seeing you in such an establishment, Potter."

Harry was stunned to feel a smile touch his own lips at Snape's words. They really weren't all that different from what Justin had said to him, but somehow the impact wasn't quite the same. "I was about to say the same thing, Professor."

"I haven't suffered that title for sixteen years now; I'm relieved to say," Snape corrected.

"I'd heard you'd left Hogwarts without telling anyone where you were going or what you were doing," Harry said, stunned by how amicably things were going. He knew that wouldn't last, but it was a nice change from the enmity he remembered. Figuring that they might as well get the shouting over with now, he added with his usual cheek, "Some of the rumours were . . . fairly far-fetched. One version had you in Italy, running an owl-order business for illegal poisons. Another claimed you'd started a Dark Arts school to rival Durmstrang. The one I liked best said you'd gotten filthy rich manufacturing beauty products. So, which is it? The poisons, the school, or the beauty aids?"

Sixteen years ago that kind of question would have gotten him a roar of fury and six months' detention. But tonight Snape merely stared at him a long moment before softly answering, "Although I admit the poison premise sounds interesting, I fear that my work is now boringly legal. And if it weren't, do you believe I'd be so dense as to tell an Auror if I were involved in the sale of illegal poisons?"

"The school then?" Harry said, startled to realize that he was actually teasing Severus Snape – and getting away with it. So far. He was highly conscious of the fact that that could change any second.

"Surely, you can't have forgotten my aptitude for teaching," Snape said, completely deadpan.

"So, it is the beauty products, then?" Harry asked with a huge, genuine smile. Normally, when he came to Whispers, all his smiles were forced. Truth told, he didn't smile much at all these days. That Severus Snape would inspire the first real one in what felt like forever was astonishing.

"Really, Potter. Would even someone with your pathetic intelligence purchase a beauty product manufactured by someone with my face and hair?" Snape asked with shocking self-honesty.

Harry found himself chuckling. "In that case, what are you doing – providing it's something you can tell an Auror, of course."

"If you must know, I've been doing experimental research on healing potions. I can't say that it has made me filthy rich, but it has kept me quite comfortable," Snape said.

"I'm glad to hear it," Harry said. He was intimately acquainted with the narrow, suspicious look Snape turned on him in response to that.

"Is that so? I would have thought you would have liked to see me starving on the streets," Snape said.

Harry held that probing gaze. "Once, maybe, when I was still in school. Even you have to admit that you were never exactly . . . kind to me when I was your student."

"Perhaps not, but, then, I am not a kind man," Snape answered, his left brow rising as if to accentuate his point.

"To be honest, I'm a little surprised by how . . . amenable you're being tonight," Harry hesitantly admitted.

"I wouldn't have thought your vocabulary included a word like 'amenable'," Snape remarked, but it wasn't said in a contentious tone.

"I'm just full of surprises," Harry countered. Deliberately not squirming as those inky eyes continued to scour his features, Harry continued with, "But, seriously, I was sure you'd be belittling me by now."

"You don't find comments about your pathetic intelligence and inadequate vocabulary belittling?" Snape enquired.

"Not from you," Harry answered. Snape had always known how to get under his skin, instinctively knowing which insults would cut him the worst. From Snape, detrimental comments on his intelligence and vocabulary were nearly compliments.

"I may not be a kind man, Potter, but I do acknowledge my debts," Snape said, holding his gaze. "There was a time when you could have taken your revenge and condemned or ruined me. Perhaps even had me killed. Instead, you argued my case before the Ministry and forced them to release me with the same honours every other member of the Order received."

"I didn't do anything special," Harry denied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The last thing he wanted was Snape's gratitude. He remembered how bitter being indebted to his father had made Snape. Harry had no desire to continue that particular family tradition.

"No? Do the words 'If you put Snape in Azkaban, you have to put me there too, because he was following Albus Dumbledore's direct commands the same way I was!' sound familiar?" Snape asked in a mild tone Harry had never heard him use.

"I didn't do it for your sake," Harry protested. "I did it because it was what Professor Dumbledore would have wanted me to do."

Snape nodded, still seeming . . . non-aggressive. "I realize that. It's why I have never . . . troubled you with no doubt unwelcome expressions of gratitude."

"You didn't seem all that grateful at the time, if you don't mind my saying, sir," Harry pointed out carefully, not wanting to offend, but wanting honesty.

To his shock, Snape answered him rationally instead of losing his temper. "I suppose that's true. At the time . . . death seemed to be the best I could hope for, and, if we're being honest, I didn't trust you. Until the very moment the Ministry released me, I expected you to turn around and demand that I receive the Dementor's Kiss."

Harry digested that in silence, having expected nothing else. The only wonder was that Snape would openly admit it to him. "I would never have asked for that, even if I'd still wanted you dead for what you did to Professor Dumbledore."

A shadow passed across Snape's hitherto unreadable face when Harry mentioned the horrible night Dumbledore had died. After a long, strained silence, Snape quietly admitted, "Perhaps I should have known that. Albus always held you in the highest regard, even though I could never comprehend why. But even if I had been . . . of a different, nobler nature. . . I could hardly have been deemed rational at that time."

Harry thought back to those days – all the senseless deaths, Voldemort's atrocities, the constant terror they'd all lived under. Towards the end there, Snape had been on the run from both sides. Harry couldn't even begin to imagine what that must have felt like. He still had nightmares about his own experiences, and he'd only had to worry about eluding one side.

"None of us could, sir, not after what we'd been through," Harry found himself answering. "And . . . as for noble, you did what Professor Dumbledore asked of you for the good of us all, even though you knew you would be signing your own death warrant by following his orders."

"I must admit that I'm shocked to hear you say that," Snape said.

Harry gave a humourless chuckle. "It took me a while to figure it out, and even after I did . . . well, I hardly defended you in the proper spirit back then. I did it as much to get up the Minister's nose as to help you. So, you don't really owe me anything."

"Don't I?" Snape questioned. "Regardless of your motivation, you still did it. That . . . matters."

"You seem . . . very different," Harry confessed. If it weren't for the scimitar sarcastic edge, he would almost have thought this man a complete stranger. With a start, Harry realized that even if Snape hadn't changed, that was still the truth. He had never really known what made Snape tick when he was younger, never seen him as anything but a cruel tyrant.

"For more than fifteen years, I haven't had to infiltrate an insane, sadistic megalomaniac's forces while simultaneously attempting to teach a complex subject like Potions to a schoolful of brainless dunderheads," Snape said.

"I guess the stress was severe," Harry said, only now realizing what this man must have gone through every time he answered one of Voldemort's summonses. His dreams and interactions with Voldemort had shown Harry how completely savage the dark lord could be. Snape must have lived in constant fear of his life back then. Harry realized that he'd never known Snape when he wasn't living under that shadow. Snape had been alerted to his former master's survival from the year Harry had first entered Hogwarts, when Quirrell had been host to Voldemort while Voldemort tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone. The worry and strain as Snape waited for Voldemort's inevitable return to power must have weighed on him horribly. Only now, as an adult, could Harry imagine what it must have been like for Snape, waiting day after day, dreading Voldemort's return and the revenge the madman would wreak upon his former servants. Was it any wonder that Snape had been so foul-tempered?

"It would be easy to blame my behaviour completely on stress, but we both know my natural inclinations tend towards cruelty," Snape said.

Only Snape wasn't being particularly cruel now, Harry realized. In fact, if this were anyone but Snape, Harry might have found the man's cutting honesty appealing.

"There's that," Harry said, not sure how to reply.

"I'm not the only one who's changed," Snape said in that rich, hypnotic voice that had always been the only thing Harry had liked about him.

Recognizing how true that was, and aware of what Snape might have said to detail how he'd changed, Harry gave a shrug and a wry, "I suppose even I had to grow up eventually, sir."

"You can dispense with the 'sir', Potter. I'm not your teacher anymore," Snape said.

"What shall I call you, then?" Harry asked.

"My name would do," Snape said, heavy on the sarcasm.

Harry considered it. "Calling you Snape feels disrespectful somehow."

Even though Snape's face revealed nothing of what he was feeling, Harry sensed he'd surprised him. After a moment's thought, Snape said, minus the sarcasm, "You might try 'Severus', then."

Feeling as if he'd been paid a great honour, Harry grinned and said, "All right, Severus. I'm still Harry."

"That you most certainly are . . . Harry," Snape replied, clearly almost choking over the name.

Harry didn't even try to hold back his laughter this time. When he calmed, he said, "You can still call me Potter if it makes you happy."

Harry took a sip of his firewhiskey and regarded the man sitting across the table from him. It was truly bizarre that he would be sitting here in a gay bar laughing with Severus Snape of all people.

He'd just opened his mouth to ask Snape what type of medicinal potions he was researching when someone touched his shoulder.

"Harry Potter?"