A Lucky Man (Snarry)

Is it better to speak or die?

"If he knew, if he only knew that I was giving him every chance to put two and two together and come up with a number bigger than infinity."

― André Aciman, Call Me by Your Name

"You're doing it again.", Hermione whispered.

Harry straightened, blushing profusely at being caught daydreaming again. He glanced at her, seeing her watching him from the corner of her eye even as her hand flew over her notebook, taking notes at the speed of light. How she was able to do that, Harry could never understand. It was like her very own superpower.

He quickly averted his eyes to his own notebook, realizing that he hadn't actually written anything and it was already the middle of the class, wincing at the thought of having to ask Hermione for her notes tonight if he was going to pass this class.

Harry could already hear her lecture, berating him for not focusing on his studies, and he just knew she would want to know the reason behind it. She had been bugging him about his absent-mindedness for some time now, and the reason behind it. Harry had been able to avoid answering her questions but it was getting harder to do so. After all, she was the smartest person he knew, and he feared one of these days she would figure it out on her own, and just the thought of someone knowing his secret made him feel sick to his stomach.

It had all started at the beginning of this year. Well, if Harry was completely honest with himself, something he tended to avoid, it had probably started last year, not that he had realized it at the time.

After all, Harry was fifteen and a boy, which meant that even a brush of wind could get him excited most of the days, so when he found himself awake in the middle of the night, sheets sticky and the ghost of a name, his name, still heavy on his lips, Harry had discarded it as a fluke.

It happened a few times after that, but with Umbridge breathing down his neck and Voldemort messing with his head, Harry's nighttime activities had taken a bit of a back seat as he was trying to stay alive.

Then Sirius... Fuck, then Sirius went and got himself blasted through that bloody veil and his dreams became nightmares for the foreseeable future.

It was a couple of weeks into Harry's sixth year that the dreams returned, but this time they came every night. He went into denial at first, telling himself that the long, thin fingers that did unspeakable things to his body were someone else's, some unidentified shape concocted by his hormonal mind, but when the dreams went from hot and heavy to sweet and loving, talking instead of fucking, laughter instead of moans, denial became obsolete.

He was in love. He was in love with Severus Snape.

Crazy, he knew. The hated Potions turned Defense Teacher, the bat of the dungeons, the slimy old git. It was madness, of course, and yet every time Harry tried to convince himself that it wasn't true, he would see him and he was back at the beginning, the vicious circle starting all over again.

It didn't matter that Snape hated him, or that he would probably curse Harry out of existence if he found out. Nothing mattered because Harry knew something that others didn't.

You see, that day when he had accidentally fallen into Snape's Pensieve, he didn't just see his father and godfather pulling a prank on Snape. He saw so much more.

Of course, right after being caught by the man, the first thing on Harry's mind was the 5th year incident, a horrifying realization that his dad and Sirius weren't the men he thought they were taking precedent over everything else he'd discovered, but once he was back in his bed that night, the memories came.