If You Loved Me


A/N: Written with a wink to lovetoseverus and a big thank-you for her wonderful beta work. Mrs. Rowling, no thievery is intended.



At the beginning, there were wet dreams. They were graphic, and complex, and hot; never the same twice.

In some of them, he was in detention, scrubbing cauldrons or chopping flobberworms and ended up buggered on a desk, or against the stone wall.

In others, he was in class, hidden under the desk, deep-throating the professor as he lectured, his voice undisturbed.

Some featured Grimmauld Place: one where he rode Snape’s hard cock as the man sat in one of the library chairs, while they could hear the voices of the members of the Order just on the other side of the door; another, his favorite, where Snape snuck into his room, and they fucked as quietly as possible as Ron slept on in the next bed. He liked that one best, because they kissed the entire time to contain their moans and their whimpers.

There was an interesting one where Snape pulled him out of the pond in the Forest of Dean, and they shagged on the forest floor, on Snape’s black cloak, surrounded by a Warming Charm, until the horizon turned pink with the sunrise. This was the most complex one, as they first argued, then kissed and frotted leaning against a tree, then fucked each other in turn.

Harry had never thought of Severus Snape that way before, had always hated him, and so it was more than a little weird that he should dream of him so often and so… vividly, now that he was dead.

Harry had gained a new perspective on the man and his motivations from watching his memories, of course. He respected, and even admired Snape now. But still. It was a little strange. A little ghoulish, even.

He certainly had never seen the man without his clothes on and yet, in the dreams, Snape’s body was detailed and clear, from the circumcised cock to the dark treasure trail, to the scars on his back, and another, distinctive in the shape of a sickle, above his left nipple.

Then the dreams changed. Well, not all of them. Harry still got to have sex with Snape, one way or another, almost every night, but he also started dreaming of the man doing benign, everyday things: chopping wood, cooking dinner on an old wood stove, reading a book in front of a fire, putting petrol in his pick-up truck.

In those dreams, Snape was dressed as a Muggle. At first, he had bandages and then scars on his neck.

When Harry told Ron and Hermione that he had no desire to start dating Ginny again because he was gay, they pointed out to him that he had never before liked boys, that he had never even kissed a bloke. He had to admit they were right, but told them that it didn’t change anything. He was definitely gay.

When Harry told them he would not be coming with them to Australia to retrieve Hermione’s parents, because he had to go to Lake Quinault in Olympic National Park (and could Hermione please find out where that was?), they thought he was crazy.

Maybe he was. But in the dream, after filling up his tank, Snape had driven past a sign that said Olympic National Park, Lake Quinault Lodge, 12 miles. It had been raining, and Snape, after turning onto a narrow dirt road, had finally pulled up next to a small log cabin surrounded by imposing evergreens. He had walked to the front door, which was protected from the rain by a wrap-around porch, carrying a small paper bag of groceries.

Harry landed at the Seatac Airport in the state of Washington on the evening of August 24th, and took a taxi to the bus station. By 8:45 p.m., he had checked in at a small motel in Olympia. The bedspread and matching curtains were a faded pattern of avocado green and orange, and the shower dripped, but the sheets were clean and he was too tired to care about anything else. Too tired to wonder why he was here, on a quest he could not explain, even to himself.

That night, he dreamt of Voldemort in the Shrieking Shack. He tossed and turned, sick with fear for Snape, but powerless to change what happened. He whimpered when Nagini tore Snape’s neck open. And when he looked into Snape’s eyes, after collecting his memories, he felt in his mind the strange caress of Legilimency. It faded as the light in the dark eyes dimmed, but not before something small and seemingly insignificant was left behind.

The next day, he hitchhiked his way to the peninsula. His heart was drumming in his chest when his ride drove past a gas station, past a sign that said Olympic National Park, Lake Quinault Lodge, 12 miles. The car dropped him off where a dirt road met the highway, and Harry continued on foot. It was mid-afternoon by the time he arrived at the small log cabin.

It was deeply shaded by enormous trees and surrounded by wards Harry could feel from a hundred feet away. He settled out of sight, sitting on his windbreaker, his back against the trunk of a tall Douglas fir. All was quiet. When the back door banged, and Snape stepped out of the cabin, alive and well, with a basket of laundry under his arm, Harry was not even surprised. He just closed his eyes for an instant, savoring the warmth in his chest. Snape hung the clothes on a line in the only patch of sunshine and then split some wood into kindling, with an economy of movement that spoke of long practice.

Smoke came out of the chimney, and Harry ate a candy bar from his backpack to quiet his hunger. He was not sure what he was waiting for. He had come this far on his quest, and had found his quarry. He wished he understood his dreams, and his connection to the man who now sat on the porch in a deep Adirondack chair, reading, a mug in his hand. Harry watched him for a long time, until Snape got up, stretched, and went back inside as the night fell on the shadows.

Aside from the dancing light of a storm lamp spilling from the cabin’s window, the darkness was relentless. The tall tree canopy hid the night sky, and the forest was full of the shushed noises of nocturnal life. Harry heard the rain drops on the branches above long before the first drips reached him.

He stood up, rubbing his hands on his jeans, and stretching the kinks of his long watch out of his limbs. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he walked towards the light. The wards were like a caress on his skin, welcoming him. The door opened as he stepped onto the porch, and as easily as breathing, he walked into Snape’s embrace.

Their first kiss was slow and tender, a dichotomy of recognition and discovery.

“Harry, Harry…”

Their second kiss spoke of yearning, and want, and need, and urgency.

Their third kiss was heated and eager as their naked bodies met and pressed against each other on the soft quilt covering Snape’s bed.

Their fourth kiss was a declaration of love, a hard cock gliding slowly home into welcoming heat.

Their fifth kiss was slow and tender again, sated and joyful.


Then they talked in the semi darkness, close enough to breathe each other’s air, close enough for Harry to see Severus clearly though his glasses were…somewhere.


“…potions…plans made long ago…”

“But how?”

“…at the last minute, when you looked at me… through Legilimency…a connection, a small window into my thoughts…you would see me, when I thought of you, but only if…”

“Only if what, Severus?”

“The connection would only work, only open if… if you loved me.”


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