
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7883956.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J.K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, First_Time
  Collections:
      Ink_Stained_Fingers
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-01-26 Words: 3898
****** Making Do ******
by M.J. [archived by ISF_Archivist]
Summary
     When you can’t have what you want, sometimes what you can have is
     enough.
Notes
     This story was originally archived at Ink_Stained_Fingers, which was
     created in 2002 as a home for Harry Potter slash fiction. To preserve
     the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an
     Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. We e-mailed all authors
     about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached
     everyone. If you are (or know) this author or artist, please contact
     me using the e-mail address at the Ink_Stained_Fingers_collection
     profile.
     Author's notes: Harry is 16, Snape is not. If this is chan to you,
     and therefore offensive, kindly do not read.
Making Due
  Harry's not really sure how long he's been sitting here, waiting, chin in
  hands, at this battered table, with his cloak hood pulled up and a ratty
  blanket draped around his shoulders. He dozes; slips in and out of
  consciousness with fade to black and back to white screen cuts, barely
  registering the subtle gradations between asleep and awake. He can hear
  Hermione, her voice soothing as water lapping at the edges of a calm lake as
  she comforts other weary campaigners, collects information, consoles the
  heart worn. Harry hears it all from the purgatory between sleep and self,
  unable to fully connect with either. He sits, and he waits, for what he can't
  quite remember, but he's sure it will come, just the same.
  And then, a biting draft swirls around, cutting through the warmth Harry is
  huddled in, carrying with it an even colder voice. "Miss Granger," whispered
  in the oh-so-familiar frigid tone, strips away the queer comfort Harry has
  buried himself in and replaces it with clear and unavoidable awareness and
  numbing fatigue.
  His waiting over, Harry shifts, lets the blanket slide down his shoulders and
  the hood fall back from his face. "Snape," he says, leaving off the
  "Professor," not out of disrespect, but because he's not sure how many words
  he'll have before exhaustion claims him entirely. The ever-constant pain in
  his head flares, the blinding pressure of so many lives, so little time, so
  little hope, tied in a knot around the brilliant searing of his scar. The
  burning centered there never stops now, always shrieks with the intensity of
  freshly branded skin - like the time Aunt Petunia had thrown a hot iron fry
  pan at him and he'd not dodged fast enough, and his skin had pulled away
  where the scorching edge of the pan caught his arm, and the pain had boiled
  straight from his spine and down to take the place of his missing flesh - and
  sometimes Harry wonders how he can even stand anymore, let alone continue to
  fight. And because his mouth has always, always been like this, he speaks
  before he can stop himself, "How much can any one person take?"
  Snape looks at Harry hard for a moment and Harry is surprised to see how
  utterly bad the man looks, skin no longer sallow but parchment pale. And
  looking parchment thin, too. His eyes, though, his eyes burn with the same
  black, inescapable intensity Harry remembers from Snape and it's a brief rock
  of familiarity to cling to in the wild rapids life has become. The moment
  shifts when Snape's eyes do, and he slumps in a chair across the table in a
  display of fatigue that echoes in Harry's soul. "As much as he has to, I
  would suppose," Snape finally answers and they let the words and sentiment
  die between them as they both grasp onto the mugs of steaming tea Hermione
  places in front of them before taking a seat at Harry's side.
  The china is hot under Harry's fingers, unpleasantly so until his nerves
  deaden to it and the heat spreads out to his chilled hands. He loses himself
  in the sensation while Hermione questions Snape, but brings himself back to
  the unrelenting reality of the table as maps are spread out between the three
  of them. Snape speaks low and quickly, fingers stabbing out strongholds and
  positions of weakness. The grid on the papers look like a chessboard, and
  Harry once again hopelessly wishes for Ron by his side. But there are things
  in life one simply cannot have, Harry knows, so he throws himself into the
  planning and strategizing as best he can. Snape has brought with him many of
  the puzzle pieces Hermione needs, and Harry does not allow himself to think
  of the cost. Every plan, every tactic, every battle won comes at a price, and
  they'll all have paid far too much by the time it ends.
  Slowly, their talk becomes circular, filled with too many "what-ifs" and "if-
  onlys" to be useful. Harry grips his forehead in frustration, trying to force
  the pain and inadequacy out by squeezing. Harry feels Hermione's hand on his
  arm, "Is it your scar again?" and he tries to respond in affirmation but only
  manages a strangled groan.
  "I suppose you've been long without adequate potions."
  Harry drops his hand to stare at Snape, and laughs with a bitterness that he
  knows is far too sour for any 16-year-olds mouth. "There never has been an
  adequate potion."
  "Perhaps not," Snape agrees mildly. Harry can feel those eyes on him again,
  the cool assessment and weighing of things he imagines only Snape can see.
  "Perhaps," and there is a pause as Snape begins searching his robes, "Perhaps
  this shan't help, either. But neither do I believe it will hurt." He holds a
  small metal box in his hands, and flips the lid before he lowers it to the
  table and busies himself with its contents, a smallish heap of greenery. The
  smell of the herb tickles Harry's nose with its familiarity, but does not
  reveal its identity.
  "Marijuana, Professor?" Hermione asks in her should-have-been, would-have-
  been Head Girl's voice.
  "Cannabis," Snape corrects. "An ingredient, which I'm quite sure, you, Miss
  Granger, will recognize as being a component in several potions, particularly
  those of the healing variety."
  "Oh! And in Dreamless Sleep, as well!"
  Harry smiles to himself at the excitement in Hermione's voice. Nothing, it
  seems, can kill her passion for learning. He listens with half an ear to
  Snape's further lecturing on the plant and its properties and Hermione's
  eager questions, not giving his attention to the facts, but to the warm,
  fuzzy feeling of familiarity the exchange brings. For a moment, he can almost
  slip mentally back to Hogwart's, can almost hear Neville's stuttering voice
  in front of him and Ron's sardonic comments from his side, can almost smell
  the noxious ingredients and taste them in the acrid dungeon air. He snorts in
  brittle humor, in disgust with himself - how has he come to a place where he
  could feel such a deep longing and nostalgia for the Potion's classroom?
  Snape's eyes pin him again, and Harry meets them, allowing a trace of his
  traditional Snape-fueled impudence to shine through in a shallow smile. Snape
  lights a small hand rolled cigarette with his wand and inhales deeply before
  offering it to Harry. "Inadequate, most likely, but one must make do..."
  Harry grins now; feeling recklessly heartened by the small artificial sense
  of home generated between the three of them, and brushes Snape's fingers as
  he slides the cigarette between his own. He smokes from it, and then holds
  his breath in as Snape had done, before attempting to pass it to Hermione.
  She pushes his hand back towards Snape. "No, I'm not in any particular pain,
  and I've things to see to."
  She leaves them then, and for several long minutes, the only sound between
  them is the rustling of sleeves, and the slow inhale and extended exhale of
  breath. The thing has almost half burnt-away before Harry thinks that he
  feels nothing from it, no different. But by the time it rests, a small, spent
  cinder between them on the box top, he knows different. Everything's still
  there, the pain, the desperation, the death, the despair. But it can't touch
  Harry; it's no longer rubbing against his skin like a hungry cat, clawing and
  yowling at him, no longer trying to consume him. It is there, and Harry is
  here, and for the moment, for however long it lasts, Harry feels good.
  "Oh," he says, looking at Snape in an entirely new way. And because that's
  inadequate, and there's one thing Harry knows Snape hates above all else -
  inadequacy in himself and others, Harry expands, "Thank you," and smiles in
  the most sincere and simple way he can.
  Snape stares back with a total lack of expression, but his tone is a few
  degrees warmer than usual. "Ah, then, you're welcome, I suppose."
  Harry beams at this, and catches the smallest fleeting glimpse of something
  in Snape's face. Their gazes lock for an endlessly long moment, and Harry
  knows his expression is fatuous as he ponders the intricacies of Snape's, but
  he doesn't care, he's just happy to be in this time of now, where nothing
  matters but the strange thoughts swirling through his head and the blessed
  feeling of disconnectedness from it all.
  Hermione is at his side again, murmuring things about sleep, an empty pallet,
  extra blankets. Her chatter rushes by too fast for him to catch more than one
  word in three, but Harry can't find the energy or focus to care. He vaguely
  hears her arguing with Snape, something about too many Apparitions in too
  short of a time, about how he looks worse than Harry, and how she'll not let
  him go to splinch himself. And then they are in a long, darkened room with
  the late afternoon sun peeking in around heavy drapes and vague, colorless
  heaps of cloth around the perimeter marking the location of other sleepers.
  "You'll have to share," Hermione tells them before weighting Harry's arms
  down with blankets and scurrying away.
  Harry doesn't know about Snape, but this pitiful excuse for a bed is the most
  luxurious thing he's seen in ages. He quickly spreads the blankets out on the
  few already there and then adds his cloak and outer robe to the pile. Harry
  fingers the waistband of his jeans briefly in consideration; he hates to
  sleep in them, wakes up feeling wrinklier and grubbier every day, and decides
  any propriety in their situation disappeared long before this point was
  reached, so he sheds them, leaving them in a crumpled heap with his boots on
  the floor. The air is cold on his bare thighs, and he crouches down to slip
  into the bed, but Snape grasps his wrist. "I'd prefer to sleep against the
  wall, if you don't mind," Snape says. So Harry waits, shifting from foot to
  foot in his holey socks as Snape adds his outer garments to their coverings,
  slipping off his trousers as well, but neatly folding them and dropping them
  on the foot of the bed before snaking under the blankets and holding the
  edges up in invitation.
  And numbness was good, but this, this is bliss, each laying on their side,
  Harry's back to Snape, a mountain of blankets over them. Snape's arm
  cautiously comes around and his hand rests softly on Harry's abdomen, and the
  air in the scant inches between them becomes supercharged with heat. It's so,
  so good, and Harry cannot begin to stop the little noises of contentment he
  makes as he snuggles back, cannot stop the small sigh of pleasure as his back
  connects with Snape's chest and the heat between explodes and melts into each
  neglected and frigid part of Harry's body. "Never knew," Harry mumbles,
  feeling both incredibly stupid and enlightened, "Never knew sleeping with
  someone could feel so bloody good."
  "Hmm, yes. Be that as it may, I will have to ask you to stop wriggling so."
  And Snape's hand stilling the restless twitching of Harry's hip in a
  desperate attempt to get closer, to burrow into the warmth, brings with it
  the realization Harry has been rubbing his arse on his potion master's barely
  clad groin.
  "Oh." And because this is weak, he adds, "Didn't mean to make you
  uncomfortable, sir." Harry puts his hand on Snape's and squeezes lightly to
  show he means it, and is allowed briefly before the hand slides away, glides
 between his jumper and t-shirt, and settles there, fingers tracing
  undecipherable hieroglyphs across his stomach. Harry wonders hazily at the
  ease of this movement, but is much too warm and cozy to care.
  "Not uncomfortable," Snape whispers into the fine hairs on Harry's neck,
  sending small shivers skating across his skin. "But I'm far too exhausted for
  the appropriate response, and you, for the same reason, have no idea what
  you're doing."
  Before Harry can puzzle out the appropriate response, if there is one for the
  circumstances, he feels the currents of sleep pulling at him, and so simply
  breathes out, "Mmm-hmm," before he allows himself to be swept away.
  When he wakes with the suddenness of falling down a flight of stairs, Harry
  has no idea how much time has passed. Darkness has swallowed the room; only
  the faintest outlines show the others present. As he wonders what woke him,
  he waits, tense with held breath, for any signs of danger. Snape is awake as
  well, Harry senses it in the stiffness of the body behind him and the clench
  of the fist twisted in his t-shirt. And there comes a noise from across the
  room - a voice moans quietly, and another joins it, not in the sighs of pain
  Harry knows so well by now, but a call and response with deeper and richer
  intent, along with a slow slide Harry knows, in his bones, must be flesh-on-
  flesh.
  He listens, feeling trapped in his voyeurism, and his flesh responds to the
  promise of pleasure the voices carry. His mind provides him with a scattering
  of flashing images, the half-formed fantasies that had kept Harry's hand
  company as it worked his cock in the stillness of the dormitory nights before
  hell came to earth, before Hogwarts fell. Harry's internal pornography had
  changed between 5th year and 6th, fleeting glimpses of Cho, of Ginny, of
  Hermione were replaced with images of Ron in the shower after Quidditch, of
  columns of pale, wet flesh, of Harry finding the courage to sink to his knees
  and worship with tongue and lips, of three Weasleys in the shower instead of
  one, and Harry, naked and kneeling before them, breathing out, "Use me," and
  having hands and cocks and tongues on him, in him, around him. It has been so
  long, so long since he's thought of or felt any of this, and the sensation
  overwhelms Harry, moves him involuntarily, pushes him back against Snape.
  Hot and hard and alive behind him. And responding in the same way. Thought
  becomes action before Harry finishes thinking, and his hand surrounds
  Snape's, drags it down as Harry turns to bury his moan in their shared
  pillow. Snape's fingers spasm before firmly grasping, and Harry rocks,
  driving himself into motion, losing himself there before he can stop to think
  this is never what he wanted. What he wants doesn't matter anymore, because
  it can never be had. Snape's earlier words about making do echo in Harry's
  mind, and it's suddenly more important than anything to feel this now, while
  it's here, available. Harry counts his lifespan in weeks, not years, and
  knows this opportunity may never come again.
  Snape, who can never leave well enough alone, who must always question his
  good fortune, pants in Harry's ear, "Is this truly what you desire, Mr.
  Potter? Do you even realize who you're rutting yourself against?"
  Harry grinds back harder in retaliation, and hisses, "I don't want to die a
  virgin," and the truth of it is enough for both of them. Snape's hand tunnels
  into his pants as the other comes up from underneath to catch Harry's
  stuttering moan before it can leave his mouth.
  Harry writhes, and his boxers are around his knees and then gone as he
  suckles the saltiness of Snape's palm. He can't stop moving now, for
  anything, for anyone, the nerves in his cock sparking under Snape's fingers.
  He can't stop moaning and whimpering, and he clasps a hand over Snape's to
  muffle the noise better, to anchor himself in the maelstrom of sensation
  burning through him. As the pressure builds, Harry grasps Snape's forearm,
  digs his nails in, but it's not enough, so he fumbles back to the hip rocking
  against him, tears at the cloth separating them, desperate to feel more skin,
  more heat.
  Snape stops for a brief but painful moment, and then the hot, damp cock
  pressing into the cleft of his arse warps Harry's wail of disappointment into
  one of hunger and need. Harry sways back again; it's all at once both
  something he's never felt and all he'll ever need, someone else's flesh flush
  against his own, burning against him in feverish delirium. "So...
  responsive... so very... hot... eager..." Snape pants out bitingly,
  grudgingly, into Harry's ear. Harry rocks his hip in agreement and parts his
  legs so Snape's hand can slip between them; so madding fingertips can spider
  along his inner thighs and brush across his balls.
  Harry literally shakes in Snape's arms, his movement entirely uncontrolled,
  fueled by touch and taste and heat. Harry burns, oh he burns, for something
  hovering at the edges of his imagination, something just beyond his reach.
  But surely, surely, Snape must know, and he proves it as his hand moves down
  and back, circling and pressing until each nerve ending sends flares up
  Harry's spine. And he's sure he'll burst, simply combust when the touching
  stops. He whines his frustration into Snape's hand and dances it out against
  his hips.
  "Hold still!" Snape commands. "I need - "
  But Harry can't hear what he needs, because Harry is all need, now, and the
  rush of it through his body fills his ears with the hammering sound of his
  pulse and drives the cadence of his body against Snape's.
  Snape draws him in tight. "Do you wish to continue, Mr. Potter?" he asks in
  the soft, cutting tone Harry knows so well. Harry nods desperately against
  Snape's muzzling hand. "Then do still yourself, I must have something to ease
  the way." And Harry tries; he truly tries, but cannot entirely contain the
  undulations of his body as Snape fumbles in his cloak.
  Snape makes a small, triumphal noise, and presses Harry hard down into the
  bed, jerking against him, and the sweat between them lets him slide deeper
  between Harry's cheeks. Just as Harry catches the rhythm of their movements,
  Snape rolls slightly back and away. He grabs Harry behind the left knee and
  forces his leg further up and tighter to the bed, and Snape's other hand
  leaves Harry's mouth to push his shoulder down.
  Harry turns his face into the pillow only moments before slick, cool fingers
  breach him, and he forces his stunned and grateful exhalations into it. Harry
  knows now he never could have come close to imagining anything remotely like
  the reality of this, of fingers buried and twisting within him, of every
  nerve-ending at attention and hovering between pleasure and pain. And just
  when Harry thinks he understands the dichotomy of sensation, the fingers move
  this way instead of that, and Harry rubs himself desperately against the
  rumpled sheets and cries out something he cannot understand but knows is
  vital to repeat into the pillow over and over again, his voice throbbing in
  time with the waves of fire rolling over and through him.
  Snape understands though, and the fingers disappear, give way to something
  harder, heavier, hotter. Harry rises onto elbows and knees to meet the
  invasion, and as he stretches, fills, gives way and takes in, he fractures;
  he cannot take this, it's too much, too much, the pleasure razor-edged with
  pain and the feeling of fullness, of someone else's fullness, and he's
  submitting to it, welcoming the strangeness, embracing it with his flesh.
  Nothing to Harry has ever felt so inescapably tangible as this, another man's
  cock buried so tightly in his body that he fancies he can feel Snape's pulse,
  and Harry knows that whatever else he is at this moment, he's alive.
  Each in-and-out wears away the strangeness, and Snape strokes longer, deeper,
  and sometimes this way instead of that so the flashpoint in Harry's body
  flares again. Little grunts and groans spill directly into Harry's ear from
  Snape's humid mouth, and to Harry these sounds are the most sublime thing
  he's ever heard Snape voice. And a hundred times more erotic than what he'd
  overheard earlier, because these are Harry's noises, only Harry's, for him
  alone.
  Harry curves his back to the extreme, pushing his arse further up, body
  begging for more, more. And he gets it, and it overwhelms him, but Harry
  takes all Snape gives, and he still wants, and so spreads, and tilts further
  back. Snape's hands dig in, one on Harry's hip and the other pinning his
  shoulder, and his pace becomes brutal, primal. Harry feels as if the world is
  rocking with the force of Snape's thrusts and then he claws the bed, and
  bites his arm as his orgasm is battered out of him with blinding intensity.
  Harry comes hard, harder than he's ever guessed possible, and he wonders
  disjointedly if he'll find blood or come if he were to reach his hand into
  the warm mess coating his stomach and the bed.
  The last of Harry's shudders wane and Snape still uses him, pace frantic and
  furious, and Harry begins to numb under the onslaught. He aches as Snape
  sinks in; he aches when Snape recedes. And after Snape stiffens above him
  fractionally and rolls off with a low rumble, Harry can still feel the
  missing cock working inside him, can still feel the blaze deep within. A hand
  hesitantly stokes the stiffness in Harry's unnaturally bent lower back, and
  he slowly flattens himself under it, turning one way and then the other to
  work out the kinks.
  A series of pops as Harry twists draws a dark sound of amusement from Snape,
  and Harry turns to face him. The low light only reveals an imprecise slice of
  patrician profile, but it's sufficient guide for Harry to rise up slightly
  and brush his mouth across Snape's. Lips slide under his in negation of the
  action, but Harry pursues, pressing Snape to the wall and working his tongue
  through the gate of crooked teeth. They both taste of stale tea and smoke,
  but Harry wants this as well, takes intimacy where he can find it. As is the
  nature of kisses, it ebbs and flows between them, Harry's arms around Snape's
  neck and twisting in his hair, and Snape's hands firm against his backsides.
  When they drift out of it, Harry drops his head to Snape's chest, breathes in
  the ghostly scent of home, and gives himself to sleep.
  The room is brighter when Harry wakes next, pre-dawn light sneaking in to
  highlight the weary lines of Snape's face. Harry guesses he himself looks no
  better, even after their rest. He pauses briefly before leaving the bed,
  looking at the man he'd known in such a different life, so far away from here
  and now, a man he suspects he never really knew at all. And most likely never
  will. There is no time for such luxuries, and Harry understands, in his
  marrow, that for himself and Snape, there never will be time.
  Harry slips from their nest, before bitterness can overwhelm the warm
  sanctuary they've built there. He leaves the room, Snape, the only bit of
  peace he's felt in forever, without daring to look back. If there's one thing
  Harry has learned from the blood, the battles, the failed plans, it's that
  looking back never helps, never changes anything. But now he knows that
  making do sometimes can.
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