He wakes up to the scent of sweat, burning the insides of his nose with its salty odour. The man beside him is unmoving except for the steady rise-fall of his chest. He doesn't know if he wants to stay. He doesn't know if he wants to pretend to be asleep when the other inevitably opens his eyes, or if he wants to pick up his clothes and disappear.
His fingers fumble for a cigarette in the pre-dawn light. He finds one, hidden between the folds of the bed sheet, and lights it with a match found in the same place. He doesn't know what else is scattered on the off-white sheets. He doesn't want to know.
He trembles slightly as he lifts the cigarette to his lips. His left hand is beside him, supporting his weight unsteadily. His right hand is falling back onto the bed, the nail of his thumb scratching at the skin of his second digit - a habit that he has picked up over the years.
He trembles.
Suddenly the familiar cigarette smoke isn't as soothing any more.
--
He's barely fourteen when they find him.
"Mister Potter."
He almost mistakes it for a client's voice, authoritative and stern. It's the kind of voice he associates with soft leather bindings and the gentle feel of whips sliding over his skin.
"Potter."
This is a voice that he connects to the heat of fingers squeezing at his throat.
"Yes," he replies. "Though I haven't been addressed as such for quite a number of years. Who are you? You aren't clients, are you?" He knows that they are not, but he adjusts his collar just in case. He's met rather a lot of odd clients over the years.
"No, we are not," the first voice says. It belongs to an old man with a long beard, dressed in eccentric robes. "We're here to bring you back to the Wizarding World. My name is Professor Dumbledore." He attempts a smile, but it is unseen in the dim lighting of the club.
"And you?" He tosses the question at the old man's companion. "You're a professor too. Aren't you?" He knows professors. He knows all about those who work as educators. He's just the right age to be a student. Just the right size to pass for another student. He has just the right shape to fulfill certain requirements.
"I am Professor Snape," the man glowers.
He thinks that perhaps he wouldn't mind taking the dark-haired man into his bed.
"Mister Potter," the older man continues, "We're here to invite you to attend the Hogwarts School or Witchcraft and Wizardry. We have sent you a letter -"
"The parchment," he interrupts.
"Yes. However, we have not received a reply."
"I thought that maybe you would give up if I ignored you for long enough. Apparently not." He stands up slowly, running a hand over his neck. "What if I'm unable to pay the tuition fees?"
"You need not worry. A trust fund was set up for you by your parents before they passed away."
"I was supposed to go to Hogwarts at eleven, wasn't I? How does this work out, then? It's been three years, I didn't expect you to be this persistent." The cigarette dangling on his lips is promptly discarded.
"You still remember the letter clearly, Mister Potter. I think that this will work out fine. There is half a year before the new term begins; we have arranged for extra tuition for you to make up for the lost time."
He nods, absentmindedly crushing the cigarette under his shoe. "One more thing, Professor Dumbledore," he murmurs. "My name isn't Potter. It's Harrison Black now."
--
"It's not that bad," Daphne tries to convince him. "Hogwarts is a pretty good school."
Harrison raises an eyebrow, closing the Dark Arts book on his lap. "It's not," he says so softly that Daphne can hardly hear it. "It's boring. It's stagnant. I can feel it dying. Can't you? The castle stinks of death."
"Still, Harrison - "
"I will not. Stop trying to convince me. It's a waste of time," he sighs, "Hogwarts holds nothing for me."
--
Professor Snape leads him down the stairs, pausing every minute or so to send a glare behind at the boy. "This is where you will livefor the duration of your stay," he says sourly when they reach a small corridor in the dungeons. "It will not do for the other students to see you; they will become unduly excited and disrupt classes."
He makes an ambiguous noise and shrugs in reply. "Will I see you often?" he asks, sending a sly look up at the professor from the corner of his eye. "I'm afraid that I might not be used to such a sudden change in the environment."
"Stop lying, Black," the man tells him vehemently. "We both know that you feel no such insecurity about changing residence. I am unwilling to listen to your meaningless excuses for conversation; I have no wish to make conversation with you."
There is silence in the narrow corridor for a few moments. Then Harrison strikes, sliding his slim fingers up his soon-to-be professor's chest.
"I'm not making conversation, Professor," he purrs, pressing himself closer to the man. "Not at all. Why talk when there are so many other interesting things to do?" A wicked grin makes its way onto his lips, slowly turning the youthful face seductive.
Professor Snape stops walking, and turns to look at Harrison. "If I had known, back then, that you would be this kind of person," he says deliberately, looking down his long, hooked nose at the boy, "then I would never have agreed to bring you into the school." He brushes Harrison's hand off his robes dismissively. "People like you do not belong in schools."
--
End
Also school is bloody depressing.
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