So. I started writing this straight after Unrestrained. I needed something very different and very light, something fun and entertaining, something not at all serious and preferably something short. Well short didnt really happen for sure, (18 chapter and still going) and i'll leave the judgement on the rest for you.

Editing done by Sexy_Lil_Emo as always. Love you darling!

Happy Valentine's Day, Lovelies!

Chapter One: If Awkward Had a Definition

It's another cold night Harry spends in the dim kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He's holding between his rigid fingers a cup of tea, hoping that the feeling of comfort will eventually overrule the other sensations in his body. If previous nights are anything to go by, no warm tea will be any help here.

What he needs is a wank. He knows that, all too well. He's been waking up hard for weeks now unable to do anything about it. This has never been an issue before. Not the morning wood itself, but that it's not willing to go away is the source of all Harry's problems. That and Voldemort, of course.

Thanks to Voldemort, he's stuck at Grimmauld place, mostly alone, sometimes with Snape. He hasn't seen Ron or Hermione in weeks, but no other soul has graced his new home either. Which is a problem, because there's no one he can ask for help.

Previously, back in Hogwarts, when something like this happened, he slipped away to have a shower and things just sorted themselves out. Nowadays, the shower doesn't help. Lying in bed half the day doesn't help. And apparently sitting in the kitchen with a mug of tea doesn't help either.

Harry tried dealing with it in the beginning, he did hear a thing or two about what a healthy boy of eighteen was to do in a similar situation but apparently his knowledge in the art of self-pleasuring is severely lacking. Things just don't seem to work how they should. Instead of pleasure, there's only discomfort and even some pain.

The main door opens and closes softly, footsteps are approaching that Harry only hears because he expects them. Soft thuds on carpeted floor, then a sharper click on stone signals the arrival of the other occupant of the large house.

"Hello there, Professor," Harry greets the man before he would be hexed into oblivion. That had happened before and it had been a harsh lecture that taught Harry two important lessons: one is to never surprise Severus Snape, because the consequences are unpredictable. The other is that Snape always attacks first when seeing a dark silhouette where it ought not to be one, and only starts asking questions if the person survived his spell.

Snape stops at the doorway, lights up his wand. Its strong beam blinds Harry for a moment and he looks away.

"Would you mind?" He hisses feeling his eyes bleeding.

"Good –" Snape seems to try to remember what time of day it is, still night or morning already, but in the end, he just shakes his head, and lets the greeting slip away unfinished. "What are you still doing up, Mr Potter?"

"I was anxious for your news. What's going on?"

"You haven't been anxious to hear anything I had to say in the past seven years. What miraculous change..." Snape drawls, but there's no real bite behind the words anymore.

"You never said anything worth listening to," Harry tells the man, then grinning, he adds, "Professor." For the sake of pretence.

As he walks past him, Snape gives a light slap to his head with a rolled up parchment, then drops it on the table in front of Harry. "A letter from your friends."

"Oh, and you bring me a gift, too. What did I do to deserve this?" Harry unrolls the letter and lights a candle to read it.

"Your wand, where is it?"

"My room," Harry mumbles, enraptured by Hermione's words already.

Snape slams two hands on the table, one goes straight down the letter and would tear through it if Harry had held on to it any stronger.

"What did I tell you?" Snape sneers, a glimpse of his old self back for a moment.

Sheepishly, Harry sweeps the long fingers away from his letter, weirdly aware that his cock twitches interested at the touch, then looks at Snape.

"I know, I'm sorry, sir."

"Keep your wand on you all the time, how hard can that be?"

"Given I'm wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt, very hard at the moment." Harry flares.

Hands still on the table, Snape leans into Harry's face. "Do you want me to show you a place where you can secure it even if you're stark naked?" He snarls.

Harry feels the heat rising in his cheeks. His cock twitches again and it's high time he stands and goes back to bed, but he can't, at least not while Snape's here to bear witness to his current state.

When no smug response comes from him, the professor shakes his head and pulls back. He goes to the counter and taps his wand to the kettle. The water starts boiling and to Harry's horror, Snape sits down next to him with a mug that's soon filled up with tea.

"What does she write?" Snape nods towards the letter Harry has completely forgotten about.

"Oh, nothing much." He says.

"She must have written it yesterday then." Snape sighs and lifts the mug to his lips.

Dread twists Harry's stomach. "Why? What's going on?"

"The Dark Lord is on the move again. No one knows where he is. You haven't had any visions of him lately, have you?"

Harry shakes his head. "No."

"You're not lying to me, are you, Mr Potter?" Snape asks, suspicious.

"To you, sir?" Harry chuckles. "As if you wouldn't see through me right away." Harry has to admit that Snape has always been good at that, among other things.

Snape eyes him for a long moment, and if he sees any dishonesty, he ignores it for now. "He killed someone before he went away. Professor Burbage is dead."

"The Muggle studies professor?" Harry asks with concern. He seems to recall a blond head and a kind smile, but nothing else about her.

"Yes. She was a Muggle born. Minerva tried to hide her. There was a fight."

Harry's hand shoots forth, grasps Snape's wrist. "Oh please, not her!" He gasps.

"Professor McGonagall is not dead, but injured. She's being treated at Hogwarts. She will survive, don't worry. She's a tough old cat, that one."

"God dammit," Harry murmurs. "I hate being stuck here."

"You know it's better this way. We agreed." Snape reminds him.

"I know," Harry says, then deepens his voice to mimic Snape's. "You're being hunted, and there's a traitor among us, you'd be found too quickly." Snape just raises an eyebrow at the slight jape, and Harry's shoulder slumps defeated. "But I still feel useless."

"We've started spreading the different possibilities of your location. We'll know who betrayed you and the Order when they make a move."

"It could be months from now."

"Or it could be tomorrow. We need to be ready, Mr Potter. Which is why I don't understand why you're up this late. Don't tell me you're standing guard while I'm away."

"I told you, I was wai –"

"Rubbish," Snape interrupts him. "What's wrong, Potter?"

"Nothing," Harry says, letting his head drop down. He fakes a yawn. "I should be heading to bed." He says, rubbing his eyes.

"Rubbish again, but you are right, you should go."

Neither of them moves. Snape sips his tea, and Harry keeps reading the letter Hermione has sent. They are at the Burrow, both of them. There's a lot to do, she says and they miss Harry terribly. A strange sensation settles in the pit of Harry's stomach. He touches Hermione's words, caresses her and Ron's name on the bottom of the page, feeling suddenly empty without his friends.

"What did you tell Hermione and Ron?" He asks quietly. There is nothing in the letter that would indicate they knew anything about Harry's living arrangement.

Snape has whispered seven different locations to seven different people. Whichever location will be attacked, they will know who the traitor is.

"Do you doubt their loyalty?" Snape asks in an equally soft voice, as if betrayal could only be talked about in a low tone.

"No," Harry says and he means it. He trusts Ron and Hermione with his life. Literally.

"Well, neither do I." Snape says and Harry looks up surprised. The admission that Snape trusts his friends with his own life, too, warms Harry's heart. "They know exactly where you are and with whom, Mr Potter. I am your Secret Keeper and those two are the only ones I told about this place. The new Fidelius overwrites the old one, so no one can find the house, as long as I'm alive. When I die, your protection rests with them."

"I know you're trying to scare me, but actually, that's quite reassuring."

"Is it? I myself would rather have an army of Aurors protecting you, but if the great Harry Potter finds two teenagers and a Death Eater enough to guard his life, who am I to disagree."

Harry fakes a dramatic gasp. "A Death Eater, you say? And who's that?"

"Potter!" Snape chides, but there's a curve to his lips. "Alright, I've had enough of you for today. Off to bed, go on."

Suddenly, Harry's attention returns to his previous problem that brought him to the kitchen in the first place. Unbelievably, that problem has not changed, it is still just as hard as it was when Harry woke up from his wet dream.

"Yeah, I don't think I'm tired."

"It's two in the morning." Snape tells him and it is a valid argument.

"You're still up."

"Not for long." Snape downs his tea and stands. "Good night, Mr Potter."

He walks to the door and Harry finally stands as well. Boxer shorts do nothing to hide his problem, and even walking feels awkward, but then Snape stops and turns around, and awkward gets an entirely new meaning.

Harry grabs Hermione's letter from the table and tries to hide his erection behind it, but he's not quick enough, of course. Just for a single second he sees Snape's gaze flicker down to the way too visible bulge underneath his pants, then black eyes are on his face again, as if nothing has happened. Snape's expression betrays no emotion either, only Harry's cheeks burn in his stead, as well.

"I almost forgot; Albus sends his regards. And with it," he reaches into his pocket and when he pulls it out, it's fisted around something, "A family heirloom."

He holds his hand out and Harry walks closer, his curiosity overcoming his shame, which still burns his ears.

He's clutching Hermione's letter in front of him, but holds out his right hand, palm up.

Long fingers open and a gold ring with a black stone falls into the middle of Harry's palm. The stone is cracked in the middle. "One down." Snape whispers and Harry knows what he means. This was a Horcrux, Slytherin's ring.

Snape jerks his head towards the stairs and Harry starts walking with quick steps, he's almost running. Snape's right behind him, he can hear the gentle swish of his robes, the soft thud of his shoes on the carpeted stairs.

Harry's almost at the door, relieved that he gets to hide at last, as the professor walks past him, but then he stops and calls his name.

"Potter," he says in a firm voice, as if he has decided to address some issues, issues Harry will most certainly not talk about.

"Good night, Professor Snape," Harry says quickly and he's almost inside, when Snape's next words stop him mid-motion.

"Is that what's not letting you sleep?"

He doesn't have to say what, Harry knows all too well. Another spike of heat shoots to his face and his heartbeat quickens. Oh yes, this is exactly what he wanted, a late-night talk with Snape about his erection. Yeah, just perfect.

He considers for a second how easy it would be to simply Apparate into Malfoy Manor and end this misery, but then decides otherwise. Hermione would bring him back to life and kill him all over again.

"So what?" He asks back defiantly.

Snape looks the other way, but holds out his hand to Harry. There's a small vial between his fingers. "Just a sip will be enough."

Hesitant, Harry looks at the man, who still relentlessly faces the other way, then slowly reaches out and takes the potion. "Thanks, Professor," he says quickly, then he's in his room, door closed behind him.

He leans against it, almost panting with his whole face flaming red no doubt, and listens to the sounds on the corridor. He hears retreating footsteps and a door closing and only then, when he knows Snape is far away does he let out a shuddering breath.

"Fuck my life…" He grunts then falls on his bed. He hides the black ring in his drawer then, without even looking at it, he drops the little vial in there as well. He unrolls Hermione's letter, and reads it over again, trying to pay attention this time, but, once again, his mind is elsewhere.

He's down in the kitchen again, reliving that insanely awkward moment, over and over. Now, it seems even longer and he feels his cheeks burn with heat.

Suddenly, he has the vial in his hand once more. It's plain, there's no name on it, it's just a simple green little glass vial, with a cork in it. He takes out the cork and sniffs the liquid inside. It has a pleasant herbal scent, flowery sweet.

Harry doesn't want to think of anything, not the dead professor, nor McGonagall lying injured at Hogwarts, or his friends, his abysmal luck regarding pleasure, or even that Snape's now aware of that. He just wants a few minutes of sleep, so he takes a quick sip.

He barely puts the cork back, when he's fast asleep already.