A Culinary Seduction
by Quill Lumos


Finally, after months of trying to get there – well, enough months to equal a couple of years, actually - Harry walked through the door of Elena’s; the most talked about, most reviewed, most highly thought of Italian restaurant in all of London.  Muggle London was huge, a teeming metropolis, one of the largest cities in the world. Of course, magical London was much, much smaller.  But Elena’s was feted there too.

Every night the restaurant was full and every night there was a long line of people waiting and hoping and praying to snag a cancellation.  Bookings were taken months in advance.  Those who had actually eaten there were smug and self-satisfied; those who hadn’t would do anything to share a table with the lucky few who had a booking. Everyone who had eaten there, spoke of Elena’s in the most glowing of terms. It seemed the atmosphere was salubrious, the staff excellent, the food sublime.

And tonight Harry had a table at the restaurant for the very first time.

It was a well known fact among Harry’s intimate acquaintances that he steadfastly refused to use his notoriety or his fame to garner any favours or priority treatment. This refusal was especially irritating to Ron, who was forever coming up with hopeful suggestions – for example: tickets for sold-out Quidditch games, or, more importantly, international portkeys to make travel to a honeymoon destination easier for long time, best mates who just happened to marry each other. He had said no when asked to secure seats at a Weird Sisters concert for Ginny or the latest Witch Weekly cookbook (pre-publication and signed by the author) for Molly.  Never feeling comfortable with his unasked for and unwanted fame, and consequently feeling it would be unethical to do so, Harry had simply refused all attempts to use it for personal gain. To make up for this betrayal, as Ron called it, he had tried to help in other ways whenever he could.

However, wanted or not, his well-known name had gained him admittance to a number of different establishments over the years – all except Elena’s.  At Elena’s, Harry’s name had seemed to be a drawback, not an advantage.  When he had phoned to make a booking the maitre d’ was always polite and helpful, that is until Harry mentioned his name, and then the person on the other end of the phone would turn frosty and any available reservations would suddenly be filled.

It was the same if someone else booked for him.  His previous boyfriend, Oliver Wood, had once secured them a table, only to find that, when they arrived, the booking had mysteriously vanished and there was no space after all.

Harry had been, at first, surprised, then stunned, then shocked, as the reality sunk in that he was persona-non-grata at Elena’s. He wondered whether his lack of welcome at the renowned restaurant had to do with his sexuality.  The scandal Harry’s ‘coming out’ had caused in the wizarding world had taken months to abate.

The Prophet had discussed Harry’s sexuality at length - and the possible reasons for it.  Harry’s traumatic childhood was considered, and Ginny Weasley’s lack of femininity (at least according to Witch Weekly) was supposed to have played a part as well.  She did play for the Holyhead Harpies, after all, and they were considered the toughest team on the circuit! Witch Weekly insinuated that Ginny had ‘put him off women’, which was hardly fair considering she was not the last woman he had dated.  That honour had gone to Geraldine Murtlap, with whom he’d shared a very short relationship, after which it had been rehashed and re-examined for a much longer time than the relationship itself had lasted.

When the press had exhausted Ginny and Geraldine’s supposed flaws, the fact that Harry had been mentored by Dumbledore was wheeled out as another possible contributory factor for his apparent gayness. The Prophet had even approached Cho Chang for her opinion, but she had refused to comment. Nonetheless, speculation had gone on for months and the theories about why their hero liked boys rather than girls became ever more bizarre.

Finally, apparently accepting that their articles were not going to persuade Harry to bat for the ‘wrong’ team, they began to speculate about who he might date next, who might be the right man for their hero.  Every time he spoke more than a few words to a man, pictures were printed and pages written about whether this was ‘the one’ for the Saviour-Of-The-Wizarding-World.

Harry had stopped reading the papers; especially after speculation about his relationship with Oliver Wood reached fever pitch, finally driving them apart. He had then retreated into a sort of protective bubble and only socialised with his long time friends from school: Neville, Dean, Seamus and Ron, having convinced Harry they were not upset about being linked romantically with him every time they went for a pint.

However, after the split with Oliver, Harry’d had to give up the idea of his ‘gayness’ being the reason he was rejected time and again from Elena’s, for he’d soon discovered that his erstwhile boyfriend dined regularly at Elena’s, never seeming to have a problem finding a table. So Harry had come to the realisation that it was, in fact, he himself who was unwelcome at the coveted eatery.  Unaccountably Harry had felt a little hurt by the continuous rejections.  Until tonight that was.

Earlier that evening Harry had received an invitation to eat at the infamous restaurant.

The invitation had been engraved on cream velum and delivered by a large, imposing, black owl, which had seemed strangely familiar to Harry. However, the owl had given him no clue as to his origins; it had merely stood on Harry’s kitchen worktop and glared at him until he’d scrawled a messy reply to the RSVP on a spare scrap of parchment.
*

Upon entering the elegant foyer of Elena’s, Harry’s eyes grew wide in appreciation. It was, quite simply, beautiful. Deep green walls were hung with mirrors, reflecting tables laid with crisp white table-cloths. Silver cutlery shone in the flickering candlelight and cut crystal glasses and pristine white china awaited the meals that would be served. Chandeliers hung from high ceilings and everything gleamed and shone and glittered in the shimmering light they cast.

Harry’s gaze swept the room in admiration when he came to a sudden realisation and his expression turned to one of astonishment – the room was empty. Where were all the customers? Music played quietly in the background, something classical that Harry didn’t recognise. He became aware of a man in a dark green waistcoat and trousers and a silver shirt and tie approaching from the rear of the dining-room.

“Buonasera, Signore Potter.  Welcome to Elena’s. Molto piacere, pleased to meet you at last.  My name is Luigi.” He shook Harry’s hand and led him to a table in the middle of the room where he pulled out a chair, saying, “Be seated.  Praego.” Then he proceeded to pour him a glass of water from a crystal carafe.

Harry did as he was asked.  He took a sip from his glass to cover his confusion. “Erm...Pleased to meet you too, Luigi.  Er…can you tell me where everyone else is?  Why is the restaurant empty?”

Luigi smiled.  He really was a very good looking man with dark hair and sparkling dark eyes.

Harry had only recently discovered that he had a type.  When he’d first discovered he was gay it had been a bolt from the blue.  It had all been Oliver’s fault.  Oliver had been Harry’s first and only gay relationship and he was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, soft-spoken Scot.  Oliver had made him realise that dark-haired, slim and disturbingly male was Harry’s type.  Cedric had been Harry’s first crush, even if Harry hadn’t known what his hero worship had actually meant at the time.  Poor Cedric, who had died far too young, he had been Harry’s hero…and then there had been Viktor Krum.  Both these young men had stirred the Gryffindor’s preferred fantasies.

Cho Chang and Geraldine had been exceptions, but only because they were female, otherwise they fit his type, especially as both of them were boyish in appearance.

Harry’s greatest crush in school had of course been the Half-Blood Prince, but he refused to even think about him.  In Harry’s mind he had been dark too, dark and brooding and starkly handsome.  The prince had turned out to be all of those things. But he had also turned out to be Snape, which had really put a dampener on things as far as Harry was concerned.

Ginny had been different from the others.  She had been slight and red-headed and very, very female – despite what Witch Weekly had insinuated. After the final battle Harry had realised his emotional attachment to Ginny had not been romantic love, or even lust.  She had represented home to Harry and he loved her like a sister. To continue a pretend relationship just wasn’t fair, not to himself and certainly not to Ginny.

So one day not long after this discovery they’d had a long discussion and Harry told Ginny how confused he was. She had held him and stroked his hair and told him she had suspected as much and that he would always have a place in her heart. Harry had wished with all of his own heart that things had been different, that he could love Ginny and marry her and have the children he’d always wanted.  But when had Harry’s life ever been easy?

For now at least, he was alone.

So he smiled at Luigi and Luigi smiled back. Harry noticed the attractive Italian had gleaming white teeth and a dimple in his cheek.

“If you wait a momento, Signore Potter, all will be understood,” Luigi said in answer to Harry’s question.

Then he turned and called out.  “He is here, Severino - your boy, he has come.”

Harry followed Luigi’s gaze.  A green and cream panelled door opened and a figure walked through.  He was tall and imposing and dressed all in black.  Dark hair was cinched back from the man’s face and black, serious eyes bore into Harry’s own.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter, so glad you could take time from your busy schedule to answer my invitation.”

“Snape?” Harry gasped.

As far as Harry knew, Snape had vanished from sight after he’d been rescued from the Shrieking Shack.  No one had seen him for years -at least, Harry had not seen him for years.  The last time had been at the Wizengamot hearing where Snape had been cleared of any wrong doing.  It seemed that despite being present at a number of Death Eater atrocities, Severus Snape had never participated. He had always tried to protect people and a number of witnesses had come forward to attest this as being the case.  Of course, the best known witness of all had been Harry, himself.

Once the fact that he’d been a spy for the Order became generally known, Severus Snape had been lauded as a hero by the Wizengamot. He was thereafter assigned a new romantic persona by the wizarding press and by the public in general. But apparently scorning such adulation he had retreated from the public view, refusing to see anyone, especially one Harry Potter.  As far as Harry was aware, he had disappeared totally; his experiences during years of spying no doubt giving him plenty of knowledge on how to do just that.

In the years which followed, Harry had occasionally wondered about the elusive potions master and where he might have gone. Harry had visions of him wandering abroad somewhere or holed up in a dingy little house like the one that Snape had put up for sale (the Muggle way) immediately after the war was over.  In his capacity as an Auror, he had, from time to time, made tentative enquiries but these had led nowhere. Now it seemed that Severus Snape, at least for the last few years, had been living and working within a very short distance of Grimmauld Place.  But Harry would never in a million years have connected Elena’s, glamorous Italian restaurant, with snarky git, missing spy, and war hero Severus Snape.

“Indeed,” Snape acknowledged, inclining his head in an affirmative gesture.

“Snape?” said a gobsmacked Harry again.

“You haven’t changed then, Potter? Still as eloquent and as observant as ever.”

“But nobody’s seen you for years!”

“Just because you haven’t seen me, it doesn’t follow that no one has.  After all, Luigi sees me every day as do my staff and my customers.  You always were very self-centred; not everyone relishes the limelight as much as you do.”

Harry gaped.  “But I don’t relish the limelight!” he objected. “Hang on a moment, don’t turn this into yet another discussion about my faults. We were talking about where you’ve been all these years.”

“We haven’t been talking at all,” Snape replied coolly as he walked across the room and pulled out a chair into which he elegantly lowered himself. “You have been babbling on, incoherently as usual, and I have been correcting your misapprehensions.  I am now about to order us dinner.”

“We’re having dinner?”

“Do try to keep up, Potter.  We are in a restaurant. My restaurant, in fact.  It is seven forty-eight in the evening and this is a menu.”

He flourished a handsome, gold tooled leather menu holder in Harry’s direction, causing him to flinch slightly and then blush at the unnecessary action.

“I shall order for you as I doubt you have any Italian and probably wouldn’t understand the choices even if you did.  I understand, after all, that you were raised by a family whose closest living relatives were a pack of baboons and that you were never fed more than over-chlorinated water and stale, dry bread.”

Harry gaped again.  He had no idea what was going on here.  Had Snape known about his childhood?

“Um…you knew about my relatives?” he finally asked.

For a fleeting moment Snape’s expression softened at Harry’s question, making him look almost handsome. Then it returned to its usual half glare and he snapped, “If I could have done something about that I would have.” After which he grudgingly added, “I did not agree with Albus’ opinion that you should stay with those people. However, I had no real say in your upbringing. You can be sure if it had been otherwise, you would not have been allowed to get away with half of the nonsense Albus indulged you in.”

Harry was speechless. He’d known Snape had been privy to at least some of the awfulness of his childhood; how could he have missed it, after all?  Having seen so many of Harry’s childhood memories during Occlumency training, he could not have remained ignorant.  But Harry suspected that a great number of people had known what a wasteland his childhood had been and none of them had ‘almost-apologised’ as Snape had just done – in his own particular way, of course.

For a moment Harry found it hard to swallow and his chest hurt.

“Er…thanks…I think,” he stuttered.

Snape inclined his head again in that familiar gesture of assent.  Harry had forgotten that Snape used it.  It was a gesture he’d seen the man use on a number of occasions during their years at Hogwarts.  Rarely to a student, however, and never toward Harry. Of course, in those days, Snape agreeing with Harry Potter over anything would have heralded the end of the world, or at the very least a cold day in Hell.

Luigi came up to the table. “Pronti per ordinare, Severino?” Snape glared at the man fiercely and Harry wondered what the waiter had done to raise Snape’s ire.  Not that it took a lot to annoy Snape, Harry reminded himself stoically.

“Yes, Luigi, we are ready to order.  I think we should commence with the bruschetta, formaggi misti and frutti di mare and accompanied by…yes, a nice Orvieto.” He looked hard at Harry for a moment. “No, that will probably be far too dry for an uneducated palate like Potter’s, make it a sweet Vin Santo.  This will be followed by Risotto ai Funghi Porcini, again with a white.  Perhaps the Verduzzo would suffice, yes, you agree?  Zabaglione for dessert, I think; the Verduzzo will do for that too. And then biscotti and coffee to finish.

He handed the menu back to the waiter without ever having opened it.

Stunned by Snape’s fluency and confused by all the foreign words, Harry muttered, “Er…how did you know what to get?”

He had no idea what the man had ordered for them both but found himself reluctant to display his ignorance, though he rather suspected Snape knew anyway. He’d always been able to read Harry so clearly, especially in situations where Harry really didn’t want him to.  He figured ‘di mare’ meant sea, so it must have been some sort of sea-food dish.

However, regardless of what food had been ordered, Harry’s attention was caught by the way Snape spoke the language and the shivers it sent down his spine. Harry remembered the low-pitched, beautifully modulated voice from potions class. It had a deep velvety quality like a fine instrument, almost lyrical in its musicality – that is, when it was not directed at Harry in deadly cold, cutting sarcasm.  But Snape speaking Italian, this almost sent Harry over the edge. He could feel his cock hardening in his pants and he shifted in his seat, willing the amorous beast to deflate and not embarrass him.  He’d wanted to see the man for years, find out what had happened to him, but he feared an obvious bulge in his trousers would put a stop to that immediately and send Snape running for the hills.

“I know what to order because I wrote the menu,” Snape answered. “The food is in the kitchen, kept warm by a magical charm.  I cooked it myself.” He glared at Harry as if challenging him to criticize his cooking skills. As if he would dare!

“I do a bit of cooking, too,” Harry said and winced when Snape’s glare intensified.

“I hope you don’t cook for others, Potter.  If your lack of potions skills is echoed by an equal lack of cooking skills, you would make your guests very miserable indeed.”

Harry winced again, his cock deflating somewhat in the face of Snape’s acerbity. So did he but he gamely retorted, “I’m not a bad cook!”

Snape just raised an eyebrow and looked at him quizzically.  Harry felt even more deflated.

“I-I’ve never tried Vin Santa,” Harry continued.

“It’s Vin Santo, Potter.” Snape’s voice was scathing. “You haven’t changed; you still don’t listen.”

“Look, what the fuck is going on?” Harry growled.  “I get invited to ‘your restaurant’ after months, no years, of not being allowed in, just so you can insult me!  Well, fuck that!”

Harry pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, shaking with barely repressed anger. He was an Auror now; he ran a department; he tracked down bad wizards, those who would hurt the innocent. He was a good man. Yet ten minutes in Snape’s company and Harry felt like a teenager again. A very stupid, very gauche teenager.

“Harry, sit down, please.”

Harry sat in astonishment.  Snape had never called him Harry and he’d never, ever said please to him - not in all the years they had known each other.

“You called me Harry!”

“And your problem is? Don’t you like someone like me calling you by your first name?  Should I call you <i>Mr. Potter</i>?”

Harry bit his tongue. The old bastard was impossible!

“Don’t be so fucking ridiculous!  You know I’m not like that!”

“You do seem to use a lot of expletives, Mr. Potter. Didn’t you realise that it is the sign of an uneducated mind?”

“And who’s fucking fault was that, then?  After all, you were one of my fucking educators!”

Harry was on his feet again and breathing hard.  He’d forgotten how bloody aggravating and mean the Slytherin git could be.  He whirled around, ready to storm out, only to find Snape’s waiter standing smack in his way and holding several plates of food.  The food looked and smelled delicious and Harry’s stomach growled in recognition of that fact.

“Oh, signore, you are not thinking of leaving? Signore Esposito work hard on this. No?”

“Signore Esposito?”  Thrown off balance by the waiter’s sudden appearance and strange comment, not mention the delicious smells wafting his way, Harry turned towards Snape and blurted, “I thought you said you cooked it?”

“I am Signore Esposito, Potter. You don’t think that I managed to conceal myself so well by keeping my own name, did you?”

“Oh,” Harry said feeling deflated again.

Snape sighed. “Please, Mr. Potter, do sit down and eat.  I’ll tell you all about it.”

Harry couldn’t decide if he was angry, confused, or just very hungry, but he did sit down again. Luigi placed the dishes in front of them and left, only to return seconds later to pour some wine into Snape’s glass.  Snape lifted the glass to his thin lips and took a delicate sip. He nodded at Luigi and the other man placed the wine bottle on the table and then retreated to the shadows.

“I took my grandmother’s name.” Snape began by way of explanation, his voice soft and melodic. “This restaurant is named for her, too.  She was called Elena and her maiden name was Esposito.  It seemed appropriate somehow.  It was a name commonly given to abandoned children in Italy, at least prior to its unification in 1861.  It comes from the Latin "expositus," the past participle of the Latin verb "exponere", which means 'to place outside.'  It seemed rather appropriate to me, especially as the name is prevalent in the Naples region of Italy.  My grandmother came from Napoli.”

“Oh,” Harry repeated, not knowing what else to say. He couldn’t take his eyes off the food in front of them.  Luigi had placed the dishes on the white, cloth-covered table and everything looked wonderful. Harry was hard pressed to keep from salivating. When he looked up at Snape again the man was studying him, a strange glint in his eyes.

“I thought we’d start with simple food, Potter,” the man continued, his voice deep and velvety smooth as he described the food before them. “Appetizers, usually known as Antipasti, make for a good introduction.  He picked up his fork and gestured at each of the dishes in turn.  This is bruschetta, bread smothered in garlic, tomato and herbs.  Formaggi misti are a selection of ripe Italian cheeses and frutti di mare…why, frutti di mare is a selection of perfectly prepared, freshly caught seafood.  It should be moist and cooked to perfection, which of course it is.”

Harry was aware of the fact that his mouth was open. He thought he was probably drooling, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  Snape’s voice was just so sensual and when the man lifted a fork fully laden with frutti di mare and put it in Harry’s mouth, where it did indeed melt on his tongue, Harry nearly choked.

“I would suggest you use your napkin, Potter,” Snape purred. “That is why it is here, after all.”

Harry shook his head to clear it.  He felt like he’d been hypnotised. Snape’s voice was like that, hypnotic and so bloody sensual. Nobody had ever fed Harry, or spoken to him in quite those sibilant tones. No wonder he choked.

“Erm…yeah, right.” Harry managed to squeak and hastily cleared his throat.  He picked up his fork, ready to feed himself, and then put it down again so he could place the snow-white cotton napkin in his lap first.

“Would you like some wine?” Snape asked with an amused smirk and at Harry’s nod poured out two glasses of Vin Santo.

It was the strangest meal Harry had ever eaten. The food was simply sublime and the wine was perfect.  Music, beautiful music that Harry didn’t recognise, played in the background and Snape talked to him almost as if he liked Harry, or could at the very least tolerate him.  He asked about Harry’s job and hobbies and he talked about himself, which Harry couldn’t help think was the strangest thing of all.  Snape didn’t share himself, not with anyone and certainly not with James Potter’s son.

“My grandmother taught me to cook.” Snape confided, pouring himself yet another glass of wine.  “She was the only adult who ever had any time for me as a child and you know better than anyone how intoxicating that can be.”

Harry nodded - he did indeed.  He’d agreed to go and live with Sirius half-an-hour after meeting him, just because Sirius had been the first adult to show him any interest in his entire childhood.  Sirius’ death had never left him, not even now.  The cruel loss of opportunity was still tender, like a barely-healed scar.

“I do.” Harry said simply.

For a brief moment they shared an accord and Harry felt almost content.  In the background the music soared, the sound of a piano, the tinkling keys filling the silence between them.

“Is the music Italian?”

“It’s Chopin, Potter.”

Harry didn’t say anything to that; he didn’t quite like to. He knew with a deep certainty that Chopin would prove not to be Italian if Harry looked him up.

Luigi arrived with the main course.

“Grazie, Luigi.” Snape smiled at the waiter; the man seemed to be forgiven. Harry gaped anew…who would have guessed, Snape actually knew how to smile.The ex-professor’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he did so and he looked younger somehow. Harry realised the man was actually very striking, almost handsome, something he had never noticed about Snape before.  He had to admit that, deep down, in some unacknowledged part of his brain, he had always found his teacher attractive, well ever since he’d been old enough to notice such things. Snape brushed a stray wisp of hair out of his face and took his fork in hand. “This is Risotto ai Funghi Porcini. I use an Arborio rice, sometimes thought to be only for puddings, it makes the dish more substantial.  It absorbs the stock so well, a stock rich with the flavour of mushrooms.

“Eat.”

Harry did as he was told; obedient to Snape’s suggestion in a way he would never have believed of himself when he was younger.  But then Snape had never before asked him to do anything as wonderful as eat a delectable meal like this.  Harry cleaned his plate in no time at all.  Each grain of rice was delicious, soaked as it had been in a rich porcini broth, fulsome with flavour.

Snape was so elegant. Harry had never really noticed that when he was younger.  Sure there was the whole swirling, sweeping robe thing, which had always been impressive; but the way the man sat, the way he held his fork, the way he ate in a controlled and yet somehow sensuous way, all of this was mesmerizing to him.  Harry had never before thought eating could be sexy, not until tonight.

“That was delicious,” he sighed contentedly, finally replacing his fork on a plate that looked at if it had been licked clean.

Snape smiled tightly.  “The secret is using the very best, the very freshest ingredients.  The onions are softened in butter, lots of butter. When you remove the onion it is necessary that you do so with a slotted spoon, so the rice can be added and browned in the butter too.  The Porcini should have been soaking in water and when they have swelled quite satisfactorily, strain the water as it may contain sand and reserve it for use as stock. Chop the mushrooms before adding them, along with the onions and some of the stock, to the rice while stirring constantly. Continue to add stock until it is used up and the risotto is creamy and fragrant.

During this recital Harry more or less ignored the recipe and concentrated on watching his dinner companion’s mouth.  The shape his lips made as he spoke the words with that silky intonation did something wonderful to Harry’s nether regions…again.  What was wrong with him tonight? How come he was getting aroused…and so damned easily…by Snape? He shifted in his seat once more, glad there was at least one more course, and coffee to finish.

Harry was so busy listening to Snape expound on the method for making Risotto ai Funghi Porcini that he didn’t notice Luigi remove the plates and replace them with two small glasses filled with a creamy yellow concoction.

“Wow! What’s this?”

“It’s a sort of custard, Mr. Potter, made from egg yolks, sugar and Marsala.  It’s called Zabaglione and… it is one of my most favourite puddings. Eat up.”

Harry did. The pudding, like everything else, was simply divine. Snape had been a skilled potions master and it seemed the skills which he’d utilised in his previous role suited his new life even better.  The man was a superlative chef and Harry told him so, earning a tight-lipped smile and a trademark incline of the head.

Later, when he’d finished his second cup of coffee, Snape threw him out.  He’d done it quite nicely, for Snape that is.  But Harry was under no illusion and he knew he’d outstayed his welcome.  The ex-potions-professor-turned-chef cast Tempus, commented on how late it was and then, mere seconds later, Harry was on the street outside the restaurant facing drawn blinds and shuttered windows.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he wondered aloud to the empty evening air. Then, as if in answer, the sky, which had been totally clear only an hour earlier, began to rain.
*

The following Wednesday the same owl which had delivered Harry’s first invitation to dine at Elena’s delivered yet another missive.  This time the note instructed him to join Snape for dinner that evening at 8.45 prompt.

Once again he was met by Luigi, once again he was seated at the table in the middle of the room, once again there were no other diners, and once again Snape ordered for them both and Harry let him.

They started with Pomodori col Riso, or tomatoes stuffed with rice. This was to be followed by Cima all Geno and would be finished with another fabulous Zabaglione.  This time Snape requested Valpolicella to accompany the meal, which Harry discovered tasted light and fruity; the only problem being that he consequently drank far too much.

He rarely drank. His life to this point necessitated he always kept his wits about him: first as a teenager being hunted by a Dark wizard and then as an adult with a career as an Auror.

Ron was always badgering Harry to loosen up a bit, relax.  Of course, because it was Ron, Harry never took any notice.  But recently Hermione had said similar things and Hermione’s words were somehow harder to resist.  So for the first time Harry decided to listen to his friends and have more wine than was probably sensible; besides which, it tasted so good. Again the food was wonderful, the setting divine and Snape’s company was pleasant and rather amusing.  He’d never seen this relaxed, witty side of the man before. Which did nothing to help Harry’s confused state of mind – for the words Snape and amusing and witty, all used in proximity to each other, was something he would have bet his life on never happening.

By the time they started on the main course Harry was feeling a little giggly.  He couldn’t understand how he had never realised Snape was so funny, or so sexy.  A very sober part of Harry’s brain protested that he didn’t find Snape sexy but the rest of him, the nicely squiffy part, told his sober self to shut the fuck up because he was trying to talk to Snape and he was enjoying himself.

They talked of inconsequentials, of mutual acquaintances and of the past.  Harry told Snape about his childhood, about how awful it had been. He said more to Snape than he’d ever said to anyone and yet, somehow, it just felt right to do so.

“Cima alla Genovese is a very Italian dish,” Snape said in that silky tone of his, the one that seemed to cause Harry’s nether regions to stir in a most disturbing manner.  “Veal is very much a part of the culture.  This particular dish comes from Liguria and takes about two hours to prepare.”

“I like it when you speak Italian,” Harry finally admitted, a little uncertain about why his words sounded slightly slurred and why Snape had become a bit fuzzy around the edges.

“I think cheema alla Jennifer makes you go all fuzzy, Snape.”

Snape smirked. “I think my possible fuzziness has far more to do with the effect of the Valpolicella on you, Potter.”

“You’re very, very sexy you know,” Harry slurred. “Did you know that, Snape? You have lovely eyes. Like velvet. Or like coal. When kids make snowmen they make their eyes out of coal.  You have coaly eyes, eyes like coal.  Do they smoulder when enflamed?” He giggled again.

“You are getting rather drunk, Mr. Potter,” Snape retorted sharply. He sounded so disapproving that Harry giggled again.

“You gonna put me in detention, then? You were so mean to me at school. I hated you when I was a kid.  Did you know I hated you? I don’t hate you any more though.” A huge, lopsided grin broke over Harry’s face as he continued, “You’re dead fanciable.  I bet you get girls queuing round the block waiting to get into your pants.”

“I hardly think so, Potter.” Snape’s tone was dry. “Even if there was female interest, it would not be reciprocal.”

But Harry wasn’t really listening to Snape any longer; he was too busy feeling sorry for himself.

“Nobody wants me. I…I’m lonely, Snape.  I did what I was supposed to do and offed the bad guy. So why am I on my own?”

The tiniest part of Harry cringed at his indiscretion and his whiney tone.  But the far larger part of his personality, the part that wanted someone to love him and understand him, was determined to bare his soul for Snape.  Sadly, as far as common-sense was concerned, the indiscreet Harry had taken over and was saying everything Harry had ever wanted to say and saying it loud and clear.

Snape looked at him for several seconds.  “Perhaps your reputation puts people off.”

Harry pouted. “What reputation?” he asked.

“I had once thought you were destined to marry Miss Weasley, but numerous editions of The Prophet, have disabused me of that notion.  You have quite a following, do you not? Quite a number of dalliances, I believe. How can anyone who might be interested in you hope to strike-up a relationship when you are shagging your way through every available man in the wizarding world, and a considerable number who wouldn’t be available to anyone else?”

Harry blushed.  In recent months The Prophet had made all kinds of insinuations about him: his ‘hinted-at’ sexual insatiability being only one of them. Which was quite ironic because Harry had only ever had sex with three people in all of his adult life.

The first had been Ginny Weasley (twice) and he wished with all of his heart that she had been right for him.  He loved Ginny, always had and always would, and she in turn loved him.  But that had not been enough. Harry had been lied to and misdirected for most of his childhood and he didn’t want to start his adult life in the same way. He’d had the good sense to discuss with Ginny how uncertain he’d felt about his sexuality; she had understood and they had agreed to remain friends.

His second, and very short lived relationship, was with a girl who worked with George at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes.  Geraldine Murtlap had looked very different to Ginny. She’d been tall and dark and fairly androgynous. After two weeks of going out together she had dumped Harry and sold their story to The Prophet.  George had been furious and had promptly sacked her, but the damage had been done.  For months afterwards the ghastly rag had discussed Harry’s supposed shortcomings at great length and with great relish.  It had taken Harry a long time to trust anyone after that.

Oliver had been his third and his one and only gay relationship. Much more emotionally and sexually satisfying than those with the women, it had lasted for six glorious months and been over for more than eighteen. With Oliver he had felt safe, because Oliver wanted to avoid publicity and speculation over his sex life as much as Harry did. Since Oliver, however, there had been no-one at all.

“You shouldn’t believe what you read in the papers, Snape. I’m really not very promiscuous,” Harry managed to articulate, somewhat sulkily. He felt rather hurt that Snape would believe such things about him, while at the same time noting, with no little surprise, that Snape had said the word ‘shagged’.

“Not even with that delectable secretary to the Italian Minister for Magic?” Snape had raised one of his eyebrows and Harry shivered.

The young man’s eyes widened and he thought to himself, No…I did NOT just think that Snape has shapely eyebrows, did I? Maybe I’ve really had too much to drink.

“I read that you found his accent fascinating,” continued Snape and then he said something in Italian which increased the shivers already running up and down Harry’s spine.

“Pare  che trovi l’italiano molto sexy.  È così che ti conquisterò , Mr Potter? Così che arriverò a te finalmente?”

“What did you just say?” Harry demanded quickly but Snape’s smirk just grew wider.  It was obvious the infuriating git wasn’t planning on answering him anytime soon.

Harry tutted. “Anyway,” he persevered, somewhat petulantly, “I do like accents, and I like hearing people speak in other languages.”

He did, too. He’d once told himself firmly that it had everything to do with Fleur Delacour’s visit to Hogwarts when he’d been in forth year, but he suspected it had far more to do with Victor Krum’s deep voice and Bulgarian accent.  Oliver’s Scottish accent had been toe-curlingly wonderful, as well, now he came to think about it.

“Doesn’t mean that I was sleeping around though,” Harry finished with a pout. “I was just being friendly to Giovanni.”

Snape was smirking at him; he had a very self-satisfied look on his face. “You were standing very close to him.  Did his accent sound better from inside his robes?”

“I never got inside his robes!” Harry was indignant. “I only talked to him for about ten minutes.  I’ve not been with anyone since Oliver!”

“Methinks the Hero-Of-The-Wizarding-World doth protest too much!” Snape snickered, lifting a spoon to his lips and allowing the pointed tip of a pink tongue to pop out and lick off the pale, yellow custard.

“Oh, fuck off! I’ve only ever had three relationships and Oliver was by far the longest…and the best,” he added after a thoughtful second.  “He was also the only male.”

Harry shoved a heaped spoon into his own mouth and immediately forgot his annoyance as he tried not to moan around the delicious confection.

Snape smirked and took a sip of wine, studying the young man through narrowed eyes.

“You never liked me, did you?” Harry complained, stuffing another spoon of Zabaglione into his mouth.  “You just got me here to insult me. It’s cos you hated my Dad.  My mum would have wanted you to be nice to me, though.”

Another spoon was unceremoniously shoved in and Harry swallowed hard, barely noticing the glorious flavour this time. He felt insulted. He was fed up with people making assumptions about him or pitying him.  Harry hated being pitied. He felt his temper stirring.  That’s why Snape had looked after him as a kid, wasn’t it. He’d never cared about Harry, he’d only helped him because he felt he owed a debt to Harry’s mother.

“Is that why I’m here, Snape?” He dropped his spoon back into the crystal glass.  Somehow he’d lost interest in dessert. “You feel sorry for me, don’t you? You are trying to feed-up the poor little orphan-boy?  Well, fuck you! I don’t need your pity. I’m fine on my own. I’ve always been fine on my own.  I’ve had to be.  I can take care of myself and I am not a boy any longer.”

“I can see that.” Snape said and, for a moment, Harry thought the man was checking him out appreciatively.  Then he knew he’d had too much alcohol, because the idea of Snape checking him out was completely ridiculous.

“I also think that you are a maudlin drunk, Potter.”

“M’not drunk!” Harry slurred.

“I think you should go home.” Snape said.

Harry’s eyes felt scratchy and his chest hurt. Nobody wanted him, not even the greasy git himself.

Harry hiccupped.

“Don’t worry! I never stay where ‘m not wanted. I’ll be out of your hair right now.”

He felt so hurt. He was twenty-four years of age, had only really ever had one serious relationship.  He was pursued all right, but he could never trust anyone’s motives and only really felt comfortable with his friends from school. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, now that he was grown up; nothing had worked the way he hoped. By this time in his life he was supposed to have a growing family and a loving wife.  That was the plan, what he’d always wanted. He wasn’t supposed to be alone any more.

Harry pushed himself up from his seat and turned towards the door, determined to leave before he became any more self-pitying. But since he’d first sat down someone had moved the floor, bloody idiot, so that it tipped alarmingly and the whole room began to spin.

Was Snape saying something? He was sure he heard a man say, “Oh Harry” in a sympathetic, kindly tone; so it couldn’t possibly be Snape, but if not, then who? Why oh why had he drunk so much Valpolicelli? The next moment he felt strong arms catch him as he fell and heard Snape’s proprietal tones calling Luigi. They held a brief but urgent conference; about what, Harry had not a clue as the whole conversation was conducted in Italian.

He was obviously delusional.  Snape was right after all, he’d had far too much to drink. Then the light faded, everything grew very blurry…and Harry passed out.

The following morning, Harry didn’t remember how he had managed to get home. He couldn’t possibly have Apparated, he’d just been too drunk. For a moment he had this very strange feeling that someone with piercing, dark eyes had brought him home, removed his shoes and tucked him into bed. But on second thought he decided it must have been a dream because he also had a very vague memory of someone stroking his hair and calling him ‘Harry’ in dulcet tones.  And that, he told himself, could only have come from a dream. If only the little men with hammers in his head would stop pounding, he might be able to get a better grip on the events of last night.

One thing he knew for sure…he’d made a total prat of himself, through and through. Snape would never want to see him again.  He felt a pang at the thought of never again eating at Elena’s. He would compensate by buying himself an Italian cookery book the next time he was in Muggle London. He knew he was a good cook and could follow a recipe far more easily than he could follow instructions for a potion.
*

The next time Snape’s owl scratched at Harry’s window he recognised it instantly.  Eagle Owls were still quite rare in England. The creature glared at him imperiously as he opened the rolled parchment to find what his ex-professor wanted this time.  The owl peered down his beak at Harry, his dark eyes wary. Harry thought the resemblance to the man who owned it particularly striking. He wondered if owls could sneer, because this one certainly seemed to be doing just that.

“I have to read it first, before I reply,” Harry told the impatient creature, wincing as the dratted thing tried to peck at him.

The note was an invitation, no, a demand, that Harry join Snape again for dinner that very evening.

Promptly at seven-thirty, Mr. Potter.  Do not be late.

“What is the old bastard up to?” Harry asked the owl.  Only to be pecked again in reply.

So Harry was prompt, as requested.

“You have a very grumpy owl,” Harry told Severus as he sat down at ‘their’ table.

“Baldaserre simply doesn’t suffer fools gladly, Potter.  Now shall I order?”

This time they began with Zuppa di Cozze o Vongole al Pomodoro which, according to Snape, was clam soup with tomatoes; it certainly tasted good, though Harry secretly thought the combination was a little strange.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me again…umm…I mean…after last time. I acted like a fool.”

“Don’t worry, Potter. I have known you since you were a child.  If your foolishness bothered me I would never have contacted you to begin with. I merely take your immaturity into account and act accordingly.”

“Snarky git!” Harry said without rancour. “So why did you contact me again? What is this, Snape?”

“Zuppa di Cozze o Vongole al Pomodoro?  I did tell you, Potter.  Do try to keep up.”

“No, not the soup,” Harry ground out through clenched teeth. “What are you doing inviting me to dinner like this all the time?  You hate me, don’t you?”

“I do not hate you, Potter. On the contrary, I find you rather attractive. In fact, I might well be interested in developing some sort of relationship with you.”

Harry was sure that his jaw had dropped all the way to the floor.  But he noticed Snape wasn’t looking at him; instead, he had those dark, velvet eyes of his focussed on his bowl of soup. Two bright spots of colour had appeared on his cheeks. For several long moments neither of them spoke. Harry couldn’t quite believe his ears. Had Snape just said what Harry thought he’d said?

Finally the other man broke the silence. “Orata al Cartoccio?”

Harry blinked.  The man was totally impossible. He changed the subject without blinking an eye, just when Harry had finally processed what Snape had said to him.  At that moment Luigi placed a plate between Harry and Snape.  A brown paper parcel sat on the plate releasing an intriguing aroma and piquing Harry’s interest.

“Grazie, Luigi.” Snape’s black eyes met the waiter’s brown ones and Luigi nodded once.

“Dagli tempo , Severino, gli piaci.lo sò.”

Harry shifted in his seat. He didn’t like the fact that something was going on in which he had no part, that he was being spoken about in a language he could not understand.

“What are we doing here? What is going on?” interrupted an anxious Harry.

Luigi turned and left.

“I thought we should perhaps try to get to know each other a little,” Snape said, sounding more uncertain than Harry would have believed he could.  “I thought that we should meet on neutral ground. Just in case…just to see if there was…if there could be some sort of attraction between us.”

Harry’s jaw dropped and Snape looked away.  For a moment the other man’s expression had been almost open, eager.  But now it was closed again, as though someone had slammed a trap door, concealing the possibilities within.

“But what made you think…?” Harry cringed, realising how the other man might view this comment. He sighed.

Snape flinched.

“I’m sorry, Potter. I should have known my company would be objectionable.” His voice was harsh, his gaze as stony as slate.

“I don’t mean it like that! I wanted to come. I’ve enjoyed our meals.” Harry was quick to reassure him. Snape looked slightly mollified, but only slightly.  “I just mean that we haven’t had the best of relationships in the past; what made you ask me now?”

Snape blushed and Harry wondered if the world had come to an end.  Snape had blushed!

“Your exploits received wide coverage.”

Harry felt sick.  “You thought you might get to bed me, huh?  According to The Prophet Harry Potter is easy.  He’ll go with anyone for the price of a good meal!”

Harry was tempted to go for his wand and hex the bastard.  How could Snape, of all wizards, believe the articles those scurrilous papers printed as fact?  They’d once written a three page article about his latest ‘conquest’ when all Harry had done was stop a man outside a club and ask the time.  He’d not wanted to cast Tempus as there had been too many Muggles about and he’d been running late to meet up with Seamus and Dean, to celebrate Dean’s impending engagement. Another time he’d been asked to hold someone’s coat and The Prophet had speculated for weeks about a possible forthcoming marriage.  He hadn’t even known the guy’s name till he’d read it in the paper.

“The articles about me are a load of shit!” Harry hissed. “How could you think those things about me?”

Snape blushed again.  “I didn’t,” he answered. “Not really.”

“Yes, you fucking did!”

Snape bristled.  “If I had wanted a one night stand I would have gone to Knockturn Ally.  Or just given the wink to one of the pretty little boys who turn up here regularly, on the arms of older men.  They don’t give a damn about looks. They’re glorified rent boys and I assume, now that I own all of this,” he waved an arm in a wide arc, indicating Elena’s, “that I am a tasty prospect for someone.

“But you know me, Potter.  Better than anyone else in my entire life has known me.  You saw my memories and…” Snape didn’t speak for a moment or two. “You have seen my memories and yet you haven’t rejected me, or my offers for dinner. I want a relationship…with someone I can trust.”

“Why did you think I’d refuse you?”

“Plenty of people would, and they wouldn’t have been very polite about it either.”

Something inside Harry twisted with sadness.  “Plenty of people have, haven’t they, Snape? You want more than a visit to a whore or a few shags from some little gold-digger that you can’t trust. I can see that, understand it too.”

“You have changed more than I realised since I saw you last,” Snape commented simply. “I did not expect you to…to appreciate the situation so quickly. You were never this perspicacious at school.”

“Yeah, well. I’d never been in that situation myself when I was still at school. I’d never been sold out by people that I trusted.”  Harry ruthlessly quashed the thought that those same people had not always been terribly supportive either.

“You can’t compare yourself to an ex-Death Eater, Potter.  The reason I am alone is that people don’t really trust me or like me.  However, I do have a certain notoriety on which they can trade.”

“Well, ditto for me,” Harry snorted. “Probably not the hate bit, though there are still quite a few wizards around with Death Eater connections.  But the notoriety, oh yes, I’ve got plenty of that.  My notoriety has enriched more than one person.”

No one had managed to dupe Harry in quite the way Geraldine had. But he’d decided in the end she’d actually done him a favour, he was far less trusting now than he’d been at nineteen. Nevertheless, there had been a number of people, over the years, to whom Harry had warmed, begun to trust, only to find his trust thrown back at him when he read his own comments and conversations in the papers.  Of course, those conversations were always twisted a little to show the betrayer in the best possible light.

There was the hairdresser who’d outed him at a point when he’d still been unsure about his sexual preference.  There was Oliver’s friend from the team who’d given the press details of their relationship, causing weeks of frenzied speculation.  Then there’d been the woman who’d sold details of Harry’s feelings about his childhood.  Details she’d only found out after being privy to a conversation Harry’d had with a young girl who’d been left orphaned after the final battle. The child had not betrayed Harry, and to this day Harry still visited when he could, but the people who cared for her had related his conversation word for word; they had been magically banned from his presence forever.  Harry still cringed when he thought of it.  Those words spread across several editions of The Prophet, his hurt and his loneliness being digested by people with their morning toast.

“Open the parcel,” Snape said, breaking into his thoughts and bringing them back to the dinner table.

Harry sighed.  He obviously wasn’t to get any sort of answer right away.  He would have to play Snape’s game first. “Fucking Slytherins” he muttered under his breath.  Why did they have to be so sneaky? As a child he’d hated being kept in the dark, having decisions made about him, not being told things for his own good. As an adult he hated it just as much. Harry sighed again.  His life would undoubtedly have been easier if he’d trusted Snape when he was at school.  He would give the man a chance now, but he wasn’t leaving without getting some kind of an explanation.

So he did as he was asked.  The parcel contained a fish, beautifully presented.  The fish was swimming in melted butter, which was pooled in the folds and the creases of the brown-paper in which it had been wrapped: Sea Bass, smothered in prawns and surrounded by mussels, olives and cherry tomatoes. Steam from the cooking process wafted out as soon as Harry cut the string holding it together and something in the perfection of the moment made Harry want to cry for the first time in as long as he could remember.

“You made this for me.” Harry’s words were so quiet he wasn’t even sure he’d spoken aloud.  Snape knew him so well; it was as if he’d looked into the depths of Harry’s soul.

He rarely thought of his childhood anymore, but there was something about food, about having something cooked for him, that touched Harry to the core of his being. During his years with the Dursleys he’d barely had enough to eat; but from his Hogwart’s years onward, and perhaps partially because of the way Molly and Hagrid had tried to nurture him by feeding him, food had become synonymous with affection. And now, having beautiful, wonderful, superlative food made especially for him was something soul-stirring, something that had never, ever happened to Harry before.

He still fondly remembered the cake Hagrid had made for him on his eleventh birthday, every food parcel sent to him by Ron, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley, every meal he’d shared at the Burrow.  Even now, even now, he appreciated every meal he was invited to… somehow Snape must have known.

“I love this dish.” Snape spoke quietly, Harry hoped the other man hadn’t noticed his emotional distress, in his opinion it was rather obvious; he struggled hard to control himself. “It takes a long time to prepare,” the dark-haired man continued, “but when it is served, it feels like one is giving a gift.”

The look accompanying these words was guarded, tentative, and yet at the same time almost hopeful.

Harry was startled. Snape knew, he knew how Harry felt. Was this Snape’s way of reaching out to him, of making an effort to get to know him?

“Taste this,” Snape commanded, dipping his fork into the flakey white fish. Harry opened his mouth and let the man feed him once again. This dish was the best yet, it tasted divine.  Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on the taste and the aroma, allowed his senses to be overwhelmed.  He was deeply touched, deeply affected by the gesture.

“I was curious.” Snape’s tone was cautious, perhaps mindful of Harry’s last outburst.  “All those articles in the press, detailing your exploits.  At first I believed them totally, but then I decided they could not be true. Not all of them, anyway.  You simply wouldn’t have had the time to be quite the whore they presented you as.”

Harry winced.  The man still didn’t mince his words, not with Harry at least. “I am not a whore!” Harry ground out the words through clenched teeth.  “I have only had three lovers in my entire life.”

“I know. I asked Miss Granger.”

“You asked Hermione about my sex life?” Harry squeaked.

“I wanted to know if the stories were true. For a long time I was reluctant to even see you. I believed you were sleeping around and I…I could not have bourn that – seeing you here with a string of lovers.

“I also wanted to know if there was any chance you might look favourably upon any suit I might undertake.”

Well, one mystery explained at least; now he knew why he’d never been welcome at Elena’s.

“But, Hermione, why would you speak to…what did you say?”

“I wanted to know if you would let me court you.”

“You wanted to court me?”

“Potter,” Snape said, in an overly patient manner, “why do you think I have been inviting you here for dinner?  Why do you think the restaurant is always empty when normally it would be packed with diners?  Why do you think the food is always cooked to perfection? That I sit here and eat it with you? Make conversation with you?”

“Snape, is this meant to be a date or something? Is that what we’re doing here?  Because if it is, you need to tell me. I don’t get subtlety, remember…I’m a Gryffindor.”

Snape flushed.

“I suppose that would be completely objectionable as far as you are concerned, wouldn’t it Potter?”

“Er…no,” Harry said rather abruptly.

Snape looked up at him, his eyes wide.  Harry doubted, however, that the man was any more surprised than he was himself.

“Of course, you don’t have to answer now,” the potions master-cum-chef hastily added. “Think about it for a day or two.”

“Um…okay, yes.”

Snape stared at him. “Potter trying to interpret your ramblings is a nearly impossible task at times.”

“Yes. I would…er…like it if you would court me.”  It was Harry’s turn to blush.

Snape smiled.  It wasn’t a nice smile.  It was triumphant and not a little smug. He filled his fork with the tasty fish again and held it to Harry’s lips and, with a grin of his own, Harry let Snape feed him.

It was weird, fork after fork was lifted to Harry’s mouth and Harry opened up and allowed himself to be fed, like an obedient child.  Every so often Snape would take some food for himself, using the same fork.  Harry told himself he should find the action repulsive but he didn’t. He felt cared for and protected and safe…and, yes, he admitted to himself, not a little excited.

Snape’s other hand was on the table and Harry reached over and brushed his fingers against Snape’s.  Snape stiffened for an instant and then moved his hand closer to Harry’s, so they brushed against each other.  Harry, ever the bold Gryffindor, reached over and took the other man’s hand in his own.

For a second Snape’s gaze flicked to where their hands were now joined and his lips curved in an almost smile but he said nothing.

They had finished the Orata al Cartoccio, the remnants sitting between them still in its wrappings; the fish had never made it to their plates, but had been eaten in situ from the serving platter on which it had arrived.

Luigi appeared again as if by magic.  Harry wondered if the man had Apparated from the kitchen, although his arrival had been soundless. He finally decided the waiter must move as silently as a cat and his shoes were simply soundless on the thick carpeted floor.

“L’avevo detto che gli piacevi stupido perchè non mi dai mai retta! posso portarvi lo Zabaglione adesso ?”

Luigi looked very cheerful as he served them.

“What’s he saying?” asked Harry as curiosity got the better of him.

“Luigi is my cousin. He knows quite a lot about me and he…erm…ascertained my feelings for you some time ago. It was Luigi who first contacted you. He sent Baldaserre the first time.

“After the battle and the trial, I went to Italy in search of my grandmother’s family.  They were very welcoming.” Snape blushed yet again, presumably at some memory. “Family is very important in Italy.  They looked after me, helped me get well and then Luigi joined me here.”

“I was sick of potions but I loved to cook.  However, I’m not a particularly friendly person,” Snape scowled and continued, ignoring the Harry’s strangled snort, “so I do the cooking and Luigi takes care of the restaurant.  We work well as a team.”

Harry was desperately trying to keep his snort from developing into a full blown laugh. Snape saying he wasn’t ‘particularly friendly’ was a bit like saying Aragog’s family were a little bit snarky or that Voldemort could be a bit of a bully sometimes.  But Snape had just bared his soul to Harry, well, a part of it at least. In fact, he was a little bit shocked by how much the usually reticent Slytherin had divulged. There seemed to be a sort of trust growing between them and Harry was not about to let him down.  So instead of a flippant remark, he merely smiled at the waiter, Snape’s cousin, to whom family was important. “Thanks Luigi.”

“Prego, di niente.” Harry looked confused. “I said, you are welcome, that it was nothing.”

Harry snorted.  “I bet it was, if you persuaded Snape to do something he didn’t want to do; I’ll wager it must have been bloody hard work.”

Luigi smiled at him. “Anything for my cousin. I wish to see him happy; he has done much for me.”

Harry didn’t know how to answer that. It seemed to him like a veiled threat, make my cousin happy or else.  Surely it was early days for that?

This was, after all, their first ‘official’ date.  Family’s important, Snape had said.  Harry felt a pang at that – he’d never been important to his. But Luigi had held Harry’s gaze without flinching, not easy to do, Harry knew.  Half the wizarding population was terrified of The-Slayer-of-Voldemort. Harry nodded.  He had no idea where this was going but, knowing Snape, the decision to invite Harry here and allow him to see feelings and hear confessions must have been very difficult for such a private man.

“What now?” Harry asked.

“Now we have the Zabaglione, as usual.”

“I meant what now for us,” Harry said as Luigi turned and headed in the direction of the kitchens again.

“Well, I do think I would like to kiss you.” Snape responded simply, obviously grown bold with Harry’s acquiescence.  Then he leaned over and did just that.

Harry felt like he was melting.  He had never been kissed quite like this before.  Snape’s kiss was hungry, demanding. Harry could almost taste the other man’s need, his desire. But he was not about to sit there and do nothing, he wanted Snape too. Harry released Snape’s hand and brought his own up to cup the back of Snape’s head. His ex-professor’s hair was soft and silky smooth, not greasy at all, not like it had been at Hogwarts.  Then they were standing and Snape’s own hands were roaming over Harry’s body seeking a way under Harry’s clothing so that skin could touch skin.

Suddenly they could not get enough of each other. Snape grasped Harry’s shirt and pulled it open, sending buttons flying in every direction. Harry was half sitting, half kneeling on the table. He didn’t remember getting onto it or noticing the glasses and cutlery flying everywhere as he kicked them aside in his haste to get to Snape.

Now Harry was dominant.  He held Snape’s face in his hands as he kissed the man hard, demandingly.  Now Snape was pushing Harry down, so that he lay prone and Snape was once again in charge.  This love-making was like everything else in their relationship…passionate, explosive, competitive.  They fought for dominance; first one in charge, then the other.  It had always been like that.

Snape was on top kissing Harry thoroughly and passionately, his hand on Harry’s chest tweaking a nipple. Harry arched against him. Between groans of pleasure and mounting desire, Harry in turn was desperately trying to unbutton Snape’s robes, to reach the skin beneath, to touch Snape’s flesh.

“Too many fucking buttons!” he ground out. Snape chuckled. It was a low sound deep in his throat and Harry felt a tingle run through him. That voice, Snape’s voice! Hearing that voice had always done something to Harry, he just hadn’t understood what until now.

“Voglio baciarti adesso,” Snape said in Italian, breath hot against Harry’s neck, almost sending Harry over the edge into orgasm.  Harry had no idea what the man was saying, but it sounded so sexy.

“Voglio sentirti urlare il mio nome e pregarmi di prenderti…” Snape whispered, causing Harry to tremble all over. He felt wild, undone, out of control.

“Oh, Merlin!” Harry breathed as Snape moved on top of him, rubbing against Harry’s groin.  Snape chuckled again, causing Harry to shiver deliciously.

“He’s not here, Harry. You’ll have to make do with me.”

“Oh fuck!”

Snape moved his face close against Harry’s neck and breathed deeply, drinking in the scent of him.  He placed a gentle kiss against Harry’s collarbone. Harry arched up into the man, whimpering.

“I plan to, Harry. Many, many times.”

Harry was no longer capable of speech.  Snape had unfastened his trousers and he placed his hand on Harry’s cock.

Harry whimpered again.

“Voglio baciarti.”  Snape’s voice caressed him. “Voglio baciare il tuo petto, bellissimo e liscio come seta.”

He placed gentle kisses over Harry’s chest, latching onto and gently sucking a hard, erect nipple.

“Il tuo collo è delizioso… meraviglioso.” Snape licked a tiny meandering trail from Harry’s nipple up to his neck.

“Voglio baciare anche quello.” He placed sucking kisses along the sensitive skin of Harry’s neck and along his jaw line, finally stopping at Harry’s mouth.

“Voglio baciare le tue guance il tuo naso la tua bocca.” Snape said, trailing more kisses from Harry’s jaw to his cheek, placing one on the tip of his nose, then back along the other cheek finishing with a gentle kiss on the opposite corner of Harry’s mouth, as if asking entry.

Harry reached up again and buried his hands in the luxuriant softness of Snape’s hair, twining his fingers in the silky strands and pulling the man’s head closer so he could kiss him back.  Harry was not a passive person, he never had been.  It had been so long, he had been so alone. He wanted this. Desperately. He wanted someone to hold him. He wanted to be touched. Caressed. Made love to. He wanted it to be Snape who made love to him; he suspected he had wanted this without knowing it for a very long time.

No, Harry was not a passive person, and he was not passive now.  He wrapped his leg around Snape’s thigh and pulled him closer, so Snape’s groin was forced against Harry’s, trapping the other man’s hand between them. Snape squeezed Harry’s cock.

Harry screamed.

“Harry mio Harry urla per me, vieni per me.” Snape purred.

Harry tried, he really did.  He tried to hold back his orgasm; but Snape’s voice, whatever the man was saying, washed over him, resonated within him. It had been so long, such a long time since anyone had touched him like this and he couldn’t help himself. It was as if someone had opened a floodgate, released a valve that had been blocked; his eyes closed, he threw his head back and his toes curled.  Then screaming and arching once more against the man who had aroused all his senses, Harry came.

“I’m sorry.” Harry finally said, when he’d stopped trembling. He’d been lost in pleasure, unable to hold back any longer. “Shit, that’s terrible, Snape. I didn’t think about you at all.” The other man had slumped against him, heavy on Harry’s ribs, but it was a nice weight, comforting.

“Why are you sorry, Harry?” Snape seemingly asked somewhat puzzled, his voice soft, tender.

“You didn’t get to come.” Harry felt tendrils of guilt stirring inside him.  He had thought nothing for the other man at all; he had totally been focussed on what he was feeling.

“Yes, I did, Harry. Thank you.”

Snape kissed him again, gently, on his forehead, just beside his scar. He sounded so unlike his normal self, so much softer than usual.  But then Harry didn’t normally have hot, passionate, desperate sex with him.

Snape moved so that he was lying beside Harry. His hand came up so that he could make lazy circles on Harry’s chest with his long slim fingers.  Harry felt ridiculously shy.

“Tu sei bellissimo.” Snape murmured, “meraviglioso.”

Harry could feel himself blush. Had Snape just said that he was beautiful?

“You are too,” he breathed, quickly.

“No I’m not,” a stiffening Snape reiterated firmly. “I am about as far from beautiful as it is possible to be.”

Harry twisted to look at his new partner in intimacy. He pushed himself up on one elbow so that he could gaze down at Snape.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

Harry hadn’t managed to undo Snape’s buttons and he was fairly sure he now had indentations in his chest from the wretched things.  He trailed his fingers over them, letting them dance along and then tracing the shape of the other man’s jaw.

Snape turned to look at him and for an instant, before they became shuttered and blank, Harry could see vulnerability reflected in those eyes. Those dark, dark eyes, which had seemed as soft as velvet only moments before, were now expressionless and as hard as stone.

“I do,” insisted Harry. “How do I say it? You are…you’re belissima.”

Snape smirked and his eyes softened. “Tu sei bellissimo.”

“Why, thank you, Snape.” Harry preened.

Snape laughed.  An honest to goodness, unselfconscious laugh.  “You are such an idiot.”

Harry grinned.

“You do know how to charm a guy, don’t you?”

“I think I do,” was Snape’s smug reply, seemingly mollified by Harry’s attempt at murdering the Italian language. “I seem to have succeeded with you.”

“I’m easy, remember?”

“I don’t know about that,” Snape smirked again. “I put a lot of effort into our meals, especially the Orata al Cartoccio.”

“I know,” Harry chuckled softly, “and I really appreciate it. I…it means a lot, Snape. I…I…really appreciate your thoughtfulness.” He leaned into the other man, resting his head against Snape’s shoulder. “You put a cushioning charm on the table didn’t you?”

Snape chuckled.  “Of course I did. I wanted to make love to you, not cripple you.  I didn’t quite expect things to happen so quickly.  I have a very nice flat upstairs. Perhaps next time we could go there?”

“There’s going to be a next time?”

Snape’s voice grew sombre. “If you wish it, if we both wish it.”

“Yes, please,” Harry confirmed. “I would really like to do this again. Only, more next time and maybe somewhere a little less…umm…public?”

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows feeling slightly panicked.  He’d suddenly remembered Luigi.  “Where’s your cousin? He wasn’t here, was he?”

“Luigi left some time ago. When I kissed you, in fact.”

“Oh, good.” Harry was relieved. “Whoa, shit, Snape, we made quite a mess!”

Snape chuckled.  “I do have some tidying up to do before I can open again.”

“Yeah, and some scourgefying,” Harry said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Would you like to come upstairs for a shower?”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry, pleased and rather touched by the gesture. “That’d be really nice.”

Snape stood up, somewhat stiffly and extended a hand to help Harry up.  The table was in complete disarray: one of the chairs had fallen over, the tablecloth was rumpled and dirty, cutlery and crockery were scattered widely and the bottle of Orvieto that had finally been ordered, was lying on its side, almost empty, having poured its contents onto the carpet.  The man had been right to start with, it was too dry for Harry.

“Er…Snape?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“If this thing between us, whatever it is, goes further, will you teach me Italian?”

Snape smiled, a lovely, almost tender smile, holding only a hint of mockery, which transformed his whole face.

“Si, Harry. Mi ciarmo Severus.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, my name is Severus.  I have just had my hand on your cock, I think you should call me by first name.”

“Okay, Severus,” Harry said, grinning.

Severus was standing.  Harry felt totally dishevelled, his shirt was ripped, his trousers were still unzipped. Snape, on the other hand, looked totally calm and in control.  “How do you do that?” he asked, feeling somewhat disgruntled.

Snape just looked down his not inconsiderable nose at Harry.

“I never knew how you did that robe thing, either.  How did you get them to flare out the way they did? It always looked so fucking stylish.”

“Whereas you look totally fuckable, Harry,” Snape said.

“I have no idea what you said earlier,” Harry replied, clambering off the table and trying to rearrange his clothing. “When you were,” he blushed hotly, “when you were making love to me. But it sounded dead sexy.”

Snape smirked again. “Sono sicuro di poterti insegniare molte parole e frasi ci concedi un tentativo Harry?”

“Er...what? That was sexy but incomprehensible, Sn...erm...Severus.”

“I have a very comfortable bed upstairs if you care to join me? He extended his hand to Harry as he spoke.  For a moment Harry was uncertain, but he looked deeply into Snape’s eyes and saw a glimmer of something fragile in those dark eyes.

Harry took his hand. Snape’s smirk became a smile, albeit a rather tentative one. There was a strange sort of sweetness about it and Harry couldn’t help smiling back at him somewhat shyly.
“Shall we?”

He led an unresisting Harry towards the door through which he’d entered the first evening Harry had visited Elena’s and together they climbed the green-carpeted stairs towards a future hopefully ripe with promise, and where loneliness might just become a ghost of the past.
Fini


The translations are below, in case you’re curious.  But trust me, it sounds far better in Italian!!!

“Pronti per ordinare, Severino?”  (Are you ready to order, Severino?)

“Pare  che trovi l’italiano molto sexy.  È così che ti conquisterò , Mr Potter? Così che arriverò a te finalmente?”  (I suspect that you find Italian, sexy.  Is that how I will seduce you, Mr. Potter? Get through to you at last?)

“Dagli tempo , Severino, gli piaci.lo sò.”  (Give the man time, Severino. He likes you, I think.)

“L’avevo detto che gli piacevi stupido perchè non mi dai mai retta ! posso portarvi lo Zabaglione adesso ?”  (I told you he liked you, you idiot boy. You need to listen to me more often.  Shall I bring the Zabaglione now?)

“Voglio baciarti adesso.”  (I want to kiss you.)

“Voglio sentirti urlare il mio nome e pregarmi di prenderti …”  (I want you to scream my name, beg me to take you)

“Voglio baciarti .”  (I want to kiss you.)

“Voglio baciare il tuo petto,bellissimo e liscio come seta.”  (I want to kiss your chest, your beautiful, smooth chest.)

“Il tuo collo è delizioso… meraviglioso.”  (Your neck is delicious, wonderful.)

“Voglio baciare anche quello.” (I want to kiss that too.)

“Voglio baciare le tue guance il tuo naso la tua bocca.”  (I want to kiss your cheeks your nose, your mouth.)

“Harry mio Harry urla per me, vieni per me.” (Harry, my Harry.  Scream for me. Come for me.)

“Tu sei bellissimo ... meraviglioso.” (You are beautiful ...so beautiful.)

"Sono sicuro di poterti insegniare molte parole e frasi ci concedi un tentativo Harry?”  (I have a very comfortable bed upstairs if you care to join me? Stay the night perhaps?)
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