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Quid Pro Quo by Aucta Sinistra

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The black shape moved — the motion, despite the darkness and the passage of time, familiar enough to instantly uncloak him.

And if that had not been sufficient, the voice – dark wine, mulled with the traditional hot poker until it hissed – sent that well-remembered shiver down Harry’s spine.

“Mr. Potter. I am dumbfounded to perceive that for seven years we endeavoured to teach you prudence only to find you as vulnerable to surprise as the most defenceless of Muggles.”

Harry turned, smiled. “I knew it was you.” He got up as Snape glided out of the darkness in the corner of his office. “How are you, professor?”

Snape stopped, sneer only half on, and looked Harry down. Then up. Then down again. The sneer fell away.

“What?” Harry looked down at himself, plucking at his thin jumper. “Did I spill something on myself in Dumbledore’s office? He’s forever plying people with sweets and ...” He looked up to see a flicker of something like embarrassment cross the potions master’s face.

Snape shook his head. “Nothing.” He moved behind his desk and sat, motioning for Harry to do the same.

Harry sat back down, pondering. He knew – not because he himself had been aware of the gradual changes, but because Hermione had remarked on it last time he’d seen her – that he’d grown taller and filled out quite a bit since leaving school. To him the changes were the inevitable result of the hard work all the Hit Wizard squad put in. It was a very physical job, much more so than he’d anticipated. After her comments, Harry’d given himself a dubious once-over in the mirror and realized that his fame might not be the only reason for the previously puzzling attentions of his female – and male – colleagues. He looked ... well, pretty good.

Never in a million years would he have imagined Severus Snape noticing.

Harry had to bite back a laugh. There’d been a passel of speculation in school about Snape’s sexuality or lack of it. Harry’d opined that the man gave it off like nobody’s business, which had earned him some very strange looks (giving Harry major pause – was he the only one who’d noticed how damn’ sexy the hateful bastard was?). But no one had been able to offer proof of the potions master swinging one way or the other.

Then they’d had the final showdown with Voldemort, and that and its aftermath had eliminated all frivolous thoughts from the minds of the survivors for many months.

Now, though, if the faint flush on the man’s cheeks was any indication, it was possible Snape might want to swing in his direction. This visit might be profitable in more than one way.

If he doesn’t just tell you to go to hell.

But, having already been there, Harry wasn’t afraid of that either.

“If you’ve just come to occupy my space and breathe my air, Mr. Potter, you may leave any time.”

Harry started. “I’m sorry, sir. I wanted to speak to you.”

“That desire evidently lost its hold over you at some point.” Snape began shuffling parchments on his desk.

“This isn’t easy for me,” Harry complained.

“It is a matter of no moment to me, Mr. Potter, how easy or how difficult you find this—” Snape sneered. “Whatever this might be. However much some people have led you to believe it to, the world does not revolve around you. Most certainly I do not.”

Harry sighed. “Sorry, sir. I’ll waste no more of your time than necessary.”