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"Now add three drops of rose oil."

Harry grabbed the small bottle of oil, unscrewed the top, and filled the pipette. He moved closer to the bubbling cauldron, wiping at the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand. It was blisteringly hot inside Snape's private lab, and he felt as if he were slowly being cooked alive.

"Three drops, Potter. Not two, not four. Three."

"I know how to count to three," Harry said, sending an annoyed glare in Snape's direction.

He'd been following the instructions perfectly so far. It was the fourth afternoon in a row he spent here, sequestered in a small room with Snape, working on the potion. That reluctant team-up was McGonagall's idea. Harry would be teaching Defense under Snape's supervision come September, and the Headmistress wanted to ensure they could cooperate without butting heads.

"You'll be helping Severus with his potion," she had told him, without leaving him much of a choice.

Snape hadn't gotten a choice either, which explained his foul mood. Harry had overheard him arguing with McGonagall, with increasing volume, until she had snapped at him that it was either that, or she would send them to meet the Muggle parents of the new first-years, to give them the "magic is real and your child is a witch/wizard" speech. Snape had chosen the potion. Harry would have preferred the kids.

One, two, three drops of rose oil. The surface of the potion became smooth, the bubbles settling, while the liquid went from blue to a deep purple.

"Good," Snape said. "Now add two ounces of moondew nectar."

Harry picked up another small bottle, carefully measured the dose, and poured it into the cauldron. Meanwhile, Snape was stirring continuously. The potion wasn't terribly complicated, and of course, Snape could probably have brewed it with his eyes closed, but Harry appreciated that Snape had given him the task of adding ingredients instead of stirring. He hated stirring.

They'd been civil to each other so far. Yeah, Snape was sneering, but when wasn't he sneering? And he had only called Harry a dunderhead once or twice, which was a definite improvement. In return, Harry exercised patience, tried to listen to and follow Snape's instructions to the letter. They could work together—he would prove it to McGonagall.

"Next, the pickled slugs," Snape said.

Harry grimaced as he opened the large jar. A few slugs floated in a congealed liquid that looked like blood.

"Two," Snape reminded him, which was a good thing because even though they had gone over the recipe at the start, Harry had forgotten that part.

"He's gonna drink this?" he said, dropping first one slug into the potion, then the second.

"He will, unless he'd rather stay stuck as a cat for the rest of his life."

"I didn't even know Animagi could get stuck."

"There's a great deal of things you don't know, Potter. If you start listing them, we'll be here until next year."

Harry generously ignored the jab. He watched Snape stir, wondering how come the man was barely sweating. Harry had discarded his robes and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and he was still well on his way to liquefaction, while Snape remained in his full teaching robes, buttoned up to his throat, cool as a cucumber.

Probably a Cooling Charm directly woven in his clothes, he decided. Maybe some type of Charm to always keep them tidy, too..

He had never seen Snape with a stain on his robes or any kind of rumple. That had to be magic.

"Focus, Potter," said the owner of the most rumple-free clothes ever.

"I am!" Harry protested.

He was so focused. On the potion, yes. Because the potion was the important thing in the room. Not Snape, or his clothes.

"This is important," Snape said. "You can't afford to be distracted."

"I'm not."

"I need you to add one drop of rose oil every third stir."

Harry gave a brisk nod. He grabbed the rose oil bottle, stood at the ready, and counted Snape's stirs.

One, two, three, drop.

One, two, three, drop.

Easy.

Nothing to worry about, everything was going fine. He was a moderately skilled potioneer when he put his mind to it.

One, two, three, drop.

Snape was stirring in fluid, precise motions, keeping the stirring rod steady, both his hands wrapped around the wooden handle. Pale hands with long, slender fingers stained from years of handling potion ingredients and impeccably filed nails. Hands that flexed and tightened as Snape adjusted his grip.

Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from them.

It struck him as a very odd thing to get fixated on—Snape's hands.

He certainly had never paid any attention to Ron's hands, or Hermione's, or anyone's hands, really. Well, except Ginny's hands, but that was because they were slim and freckled and lovely, and because he had pictured her fingers wrapped around his cock more than once.

Why would he admire a bloke's hands? And Snape's hands, to boot? He didn't want Snape's fingers around his cock.

That mental image hijacked his train of thought, and something jerked in the pit of his belly, hot and heavy. He gulped.

"Potter!"

Oh, no.

No, no! He'd been so distracted he had lost count of the one, two, three rhythm. Cursing himself, he dropped one bead of rose oil into the potion and hoped he hadn't fucked up irremediably.

Hoped the potion wouldn't explode.

It did not explode.

It lit up.

White light bloomed from its surface, and a misty, opalescent cloud burst into being all around them as if someone had dropped a bag of flour on top of their heads. Harry inhaled by reflex and regretted it immediately. The tainted air itched in his throat, tasting of chalk and something floral. He coughed, his eyes watering, a sneeze building in his nostrils.

"Don't breathe it in!" Snape said, but going by the raspy sound of his voice, he had made the same mistake.

The sneeze wouldn't come. He staggered, reaching for his wand, vaguely aiming to clear the cloud with a spell. Snape was a dark blur through the fog. Harry blinked, trying to think. Dizziness had him teetering, his lungs begging for hair, the inside of his nose itching terribly.

He tried to say something, but the room turned sideways, and the ground hit his head in a very unfair sneak attack.

Then, darkness.

*

His nose itched.

It was the very first information his brain carried to him. Itchy nose. Better scratch it, then, said his reflexes, which had done wonders for him over the years, allowing him to catch the Snitch, saving him from deadly spells aimed at his head, and presenting him with witty answers that he could volley at his opponents.

So, he raised a hand and scratched his nose.

Except something furry touched his nose, which was definitely not his hand.

He opened his eyes to elucidate the mystery of just who or what was touching him, and his confusion increased tenfold. The colors were all wrong. Everything was muted as if someone had draped a veil over his eyes. To make things worse, there appeared to be a cat paw in front of him. When he moved his hand, the cat paw moved, following his instructions, and it felt like he was making it move, but he knew this to be patently impossible because, well, he wasn't a cat.

He looked at himself to confirm that fact.

At his... tail? And a small body with sleek black fur, and four paws, and—

"Uh," he said.

It came out as a meow.

Alright. Maybe he was a cat, after all.

He got to his feet—to his paws—and looked around. His clothes were on the floor, with his wand next to them. There was a black wall right in front of him, which he deduced was the cauldron. Though the air had cleared., pale mist still frothed at its lip. He took a sniff and nearly recoiled at the wallop of smells that assaulted him. Burnt wood, heated metal, floral scents in a confusing bouquet (rose, jasmine, lavender, others he didn't know), something rotten and sour, sweat, some hints of citrus soap and minty toothpaste, and more: it was a technicolor tableau of scents, and he didn't know how to parse through it.

One smell stood out among all others, musky and pungent.

It was the smell of another cat.

Just as Harry reached this conclusion, the other cat stepped into view, rounding the edge of the cauldron. He was black as well, with a thicker and longer fur than Harry and stunning amber eyes.

He was also sneering quite spectacularly.

"Potter," he hissed. "What have you done, you utter fool!"

"Snape?"

Admittedly, this was a rather stupid question, but Harry's brain cells were still reeling from the revelation that he'd been changed into a cat.

"Of course it's me," the other cat said, his long, fluffy tail lashing the air. "I'm aware your brain has just been downsized despite not having much of one to begin with but do try to keep up."

It was strange because the cat was meowing, and so was Harry, and yet they could understand each other clearly.

"What happened?"

"You added the rose oil on the wrong stir, and the potion reacted badly."

"And changed us into cats?"

"Your talent for stating the obvious continues to astound me. Any more redundant remarks?"

Harry scowled. The tip of his tail twitched independently of his control.

"How could a potion do this? Neither of us are Animagi."

Snape sighed, which looked particularly strange on his cat self. His face scrunched up, and his eyes narrowed. Harry recognized it as his I am displeased face.

"As with all antidotes, the potion we were brewing contained shades of the affliction we were seeking to cure."

"You're saying it was a cat transformation potion?"

"No. You're being ridiculous, Potter. No such thing exists."

"But it turned us into cats."

"Only on account of your quite frankly extraordinary talent to bungle everything up," Snape said with visibly thinning patience.

An angry Snape usually meant you should shut up and make yourself scarce, but Harry couldn't take him seriously while he was a cat. He looked kind of cute like this. If Harry had been human, he would definitely have tried to pet Snape the cat.

"Well..." he started and found he couldn't finish the sentence.

Snape was right. It was his fault. He'd been distracted. And worse, he'd been distracted by Snape's hands. Not that he would admit to that. He didn't think Snape would appreciate that little detail.

"But it's not permanent. right?"

Snape gave him a steady glare. It wasn't as scary as his standard glares—not enough eyebrow action.

"It can't be permanent," Harry said. "We can't be stuck like this!"

He imagined himself changing back to human. That was how Animagi usually did it. They pictured their human selves, and poof, they transformed. Harry waited for his body to start changing, confident it would work.

Nothing.

"Yes," Snape said. "It is permanent, and the only way to reverse it is to drink the potion you so carelessly botched."

"Fuck," Harry said. (Apparently, 'fuck' in cat language was a tiny, somewhat pitiful meow.)

"Indeed."

"Okay... okay... we'll go get help, then. People won't understand us, but if you do the scary glare, they'll know it's you. No ordinary cat could glare like that."

"While I am glad you're putting so much trust in my abilities, there is a glaring flaw in your plan. The castle is empty, Potter. Filch is off on his annual vacation, and Minerva left yesterday to visit a witches' coven near Aberdeen for a week-long retreat. We are the only two souls left."

"Easy," Harry said. "We'll just Apparate."

He had never seen a cat attempt to facepalm before. It was quite something.

"No, we won't. Animagi cannot use magic while in their animal shapes, and for all intent and purpose, we are currently Animagi."

"They can't? That's rubbish! Why not?"

"I lack the time to educate you on the matter, and frankly, I lack the inclination as well. Besides, everything I said would go in one ear and out of the other."

"No, it wouldn't," Harry protested. "I'd listen!"

"When have you ever listened to me, Potter?"

It was said more wearily than it had any right to be said. Harry hadn't been such a terrible student, and he had learned from Snape, even if it might not have been obvious. The man had taught him his favorite spell, albeit indirectly—the sight of Lockhart flying through the air and landing on his arse, humiliated, wasn't one he'd soon forget. And the Half-Blood Prince had taught Harry nifty Potions tricks and a whole host of clever, custom spells.

He had learned so much, though not by any standard means. Snape had also taught him bravery could be found anywhere, even in the unlikeliest of places, and that things were not always what they seemed.

His thoughts swirled. The words accumulated on his tongue until they turned sour. He didn't want to say any of them. He knew that if he tried to defend himself, Snape would attack him without bothering to listen to what he had to say. That was how things had gone since Snape had opened his eyes in the infirmary, found Harry at his bedside, and thrown his offered thanks back in his face. Every conversation devolved into petty squabbling.

So, instead of laying his heart open, Harry made a show of looking around the room.

"We need to get out of here."

"Finally, something we agree on," Snape said.

The door of the potion laboratory proved no obstacle. It was enchanted to open for Snape on its own, should he have his hands full or require a quick exit, so there was no need to touch the handle. They emerged into Snape's office and now faced the true problem.

Harry had often stared at the door of Snape's office, usually before detention. He had hated that door and what it represented.

He had never imagined the door would one day take its revenge.

"Merlin's sagging bollocks!" he swore when he failed to open the door after his fourth jump.

The door handle stood at several times his current height, but his cat body was a ball of nimble energy, and reaching it was easy. However, the handle needed to be held down at the same time as pulling the door, and he just couldn't manage it.

"You get points for a colorful curse, but otherwise, a pretty poor performance," Snape said.

He had been watching him while sitting in a regal pose, his long, fluffy tail tucked over his paws.

"It's a door," Harry said. "I killed Voldemort. I can manage a door."

"Can you?" Snape said, with such smugness it was dripping off his whiskers.

Being a cat really suited him on that point. He was all smooth arrogance and haughty allure, a prime specimen of feline refinement, and Harry was a little jealous because he was sure he didn't cut such an elegant picture. He must have looked like the runt of the litter instead.

"I need to climb on you," he told Snape.

"Pardon me?"

"I'll be able to reach the handle, and then you'll have to step back, and that'll work."

"You are not using me as a footstool, Potter."

"Fine. You open the door, then."

Snape got off his cat's arse and approached the Enemy. The door stood strong, unmoved by the withering stare Snape sent its way. He jumped. Once, twice, a third time. He jiggled the handle on each attempt but failed to pull the door.

Finally, he turned to Harry, his ears flicking back and forth.

"Why wouldn't I climb on you?"

"I'm smaller and lighter. Look at you, you're like a miniature panther. You'd crush me."

Something passed in those amber eyes of his, a flash of emotion that was gone before Harry could identify it.

"You won't tell anybody about this," he said, threats of bodily harm woven into his tone.

"Not a word," Harry promised.

With a huff, Snape positioned himself at the bottom of the door, offering his back as a stepping stone. Harry carefully climbed on top of him, then extended his front paws to reach the handle. Gripping it firmly, he pushed it down.

"Back up."

Snape stepped back while Harry held onto the handle, and the door swung open. Victory! Harry jumped to the floor, immensely pleased with himself. Snape pushed the door open wider and slunk out of the room. Harry followed.

"Regular Floo entrances won't work for us in this state," Snape said, "but there is an emergency Floo on the sixth floor that might function, depending on how it's been set up. I'll go check on it. You will stay right here, Potter."

"But—"

"You will stay right here," Snape repeated, with such force the words ought to have flattened Harry to the ground.

"I don't think we should split up, that's all."

"We're alone in the castle. There isn't any danger as long as you don't go wandering around triggering catastrophes."

"That's not what I do! I don't trigger anything. Catastrophes just find me."

That earned him a very skeptical side-eye.

"Fine," he relented. "I'll stay here."

Snape departed with a flick of his tail, trotting down the corridor. Left alone, Harry lingered outside the room they had just escaped. He couldn't believe he was a cat. He'd lived through many fantastical events throughout his life, and this one might just be the most bizarre of all.

"I'm a cat!" he exclaimed.

He stretched out his right paw and unsheathed his claws. Hissing, he slashed at the air. Then he bounced up and down, testing the limits of his new body. Oh, this could be fun. Now, if only he wasn't stuck with Snape, and if he knew for certain he wouldn't stay like that for the rest of his life...

What if the emergency Floo Snape had mentioned didn't work either? How could they contact the outside world? McGonagall would eventually come back from her retreat and find them in this state, and she'd understand, but Harry didn't want to wait one week.

Oh, wait...

Hagrid!

Hagrid was still there! He hadn't been taking his meals in the Great Hall with them, but Harry had seen him outside yesterday. And Hagrid knew animals—he'd realize Harry was no ordinary cat, and then he'd alert everyone, and the problem would be solved.

Giddy from the sheer simplicity of the solution, Harry took off at full speed. As a human, he was fast. He had to learn to run from an early age to escape Dudley and his goons. And as a cat, he was faster.

He flew down the corridor, the speediest feline that had ever walked across those flagstones, rushed up the winding stairs and came hurtling into the side passage leading to the main hallway. A blur of black fur zoomed past the Great Hall. He reached the entrance of the castle. The great oaken doors were closed, and there was no way he could open them as a cat.

He took a sharp turn right, down a shadowed archway. The door of Sprout's office wasn't locked, thank Merlin. He ignored the various plants vegetating in the dark, his cat nose twitching from the damp, earthy scent that suffused the space, and headed straight to the window. It pivoted open at the base with a push of his paw. It made for a very narrow space, but he cleared it and found himself in a small garden surrounded by a high iron fence.

Not a problem either, that fence. He reached the top in a single jump, remained balanced there for a heartbeat, and landed on the ground as gracefully as, well, a cat.

Then he was running again, out of the courtyard, down a covered bridge, and along the dirt path to Hagrid's hut. Above him, the sky was a mottled gray, little wisps of clouds trailing white fingers across the horizon while the heat of the August sun bore down implacably. A dizzying array of smells hung in the air, a complete olfactory tapestry. There was the general scent of a summer's day, hot and honey-sweet, and flowers in bloom, and fresh grass, and something mineral coming from the very earth itself—and beyond that first simple, crisp layer, another one, deeper, darker, speaking of damp moss and decaying leaves and stale pond water, the scents of the forest carried to him by the breeze that was blowing west.

He inhaled big lungfuls of air as he raced down the path. In the distance, the lake sparkled like a jewel. His paws hit the sun-warmed ground, kicking off small puffs of dirt in his wake.

He reached the hut in no time at all. Meowing loudly, he paced back and forth, waiting for Hagrid to come out. When he had reached a disturbing decibel level—just how loud could he scream as a cat?—he eyed the door and decided to attack.

He threw himself at it, one packed ball of determined cat. The handle gave way under his weight, the door squeaked open, and he went head over heels into the hut, rolling on the floor a few times before he came to a halt. Blinking, he gathered his paws and righted himself.

Immediately, the situation became evident.

Hagrid wasn't here.

But Fang was.

The big dog had been sleeping, and Harry's entrance had roused him, and now he was definitely awake. Very, very awake. He stared at Harry with startled yellow eyes and took a tentative sniff. His head cocked to the side.

Fang was the gentlest dog alive. He loved everyone, and whenever he saw Harry, he'd greet him with several licks to the face and then happily slobber all over his trousers, his head in Harry's lap.

Fang also thought all cats were toys, and his mission in life was to catch them and see if they would squeak when he chomped down on them.

Harry remained stock-still as the dog rose and approached him. He didn't even breathe. Fang was a large dog, which was a fact Harry had well in mind. In normal circumstances, his head was level with Harry's waist.

Those were not normal circumstances.

Fang towered over him like a mountain made of death and fur. Drool was dribbling off his jowls, and when he bared his teeth, a wet, fetid wave of air wafted over Harry, heralding doom. The inside of the dog's maw looked like the pits of hell.

Oh, Harry thought, which was promptly followed by, Fuck.

Fang barked once, loud and booming.

Harry ran.

In his flight, he broke speed records, careening back toward the castle and sprinting as if demons were after him. Fang chased him, barking madly. Harry was fairly certain he was making noises, too, some inarticulate sounds of terror flowing from his open mouth, but all he cared about was getting away.

Away, away, please let him get away! Please, please—he couldn't end up as dog food, not after everything he'd been through. Survived Voldemort, killed by a dog: what kind of epitaph was that?

He reached the main courtyard, remembered too late there was no way in through the front gates, and ended up being immensely thankful Godric Gryffindor had elected to have a lifelike statue of him put right there. Claws out, he struggled to climb it, finding difficult purchase on the marble. He slipped back once, felt something graze his flank—teeth, teeth, sharp fucking teeth—and scrambled up with desperate energy.

Clinging to a perfect marble replica of the Sword of Gryffindor, which Godric brandished point-forward, he hissed at Fang.

Bad idea.

Fang replied with another bark, then lunged.

Lunged high.

His teeth snapped inches away from Harry's tail, nearly catching it.

Harry had had a tail for all of ten minutes, and already he had almost lost it. Backing away, he tucked it close to his body, hugging Godric's chest as best he could. Fang growled. He tried lunging again and came up short. After a third unsuccessful attempt, he began prowling around the statue, keeping his gaze on Harry.

Harry made himself smaller, thinking about his options. They were rather limited. He was stuck here, perched on the statue, with a hungry, determined dog who really wanted to check if he would squeak when chewed upon.

He could wait, or... nope, no 'or'—just wait.

Being a cat was fun, except when it came to dogs. Harry suddenly had a whole lot more respect for Crookshanks.

"Go away!" he told Fang, which had limited success (precisely zero).

He was considering unleashing a piercing cry for help when he spotted movement at the edge of the courtyard.

Snape didn't walk. He stalked forward with such poise and gravitas, Harry was struck mute for an instant. Every inch of his feline body exuded predatory focus as if he were on a mission from Merlin himself.

"Don't come near!" Harry warned him.

Snape could look cool all he wanted, but he still wouldn't be a match for a gargantuan dog.

Fang turned and sniffed the air.

With a happy, joyous bark, he launched himself at Snape, probably delighted to have not one but two toys to play with. Snape didn't blink. He kept moving forward, seemingly oblivious to the canine missile hurtling his way.

Fang reached him and—yelped? He made some kind of unhappy noise, definitely, and recoiled, while his tail, which had been frantically wagging, went rigidly still. Harry inched forward along the sword, trying to see what was happening.

Snape's fur had fluffed up, doubling his size, and he was emitting a low, angry hiss, teeth bared. Fang whined, then circled him hesitantly. He barked and put a paw forward as if to poke the strange cat that wasn't running. Snape replied with a swipe of claws. The hit connected right across Fang's nose. The dog jumped back with a startled bark.

Snape attacked again, moving so fast that Harry missed half of it when he blinked. He saw Snape move away from Fang's flank, saw Fang flinch, and then back away, whining. Snape hissed again, ears flat against his head.

Fang turned tail and ran away.

Oh.

Really, was that all it took? Treating him like an enemy? That hadn't occurred to Harry because, well, Fang wasn't an enemy. He was a friend, and if he currently wasn't able to recognize Harry, it wasn't his fault. Harry didn't attack his friends, even when they were confused. Snape, however, didn't share the same qualms. He did what was needed, always—and right now, Harry was really glad for it.

"Why am I always coming to your rescue, Potter?"

"Because you're good at it?" Harry offered.

He climbed down, shaking himself once he reached the ground. Snape gave him a look that was half-annoyed, half-something Harry couldn't identify. His fur was still fluffed up.

"What were you doing outside?"

"I wanted to ask Hagrid for help."

"And you forgot he owned a dog?" Snape said, with a touch of disdain in his voice.

"No! I didn't forget, I just... I didn't take it into account."

Snape sighed, a quick exhale through his nose that made his whiskers vibrate.

"He's probably out in the forest. There's a lot to do this time of the year, and he might not come back for days."

With a flick of his tail, he headed for the side of the castle. Harry followed.

"And the emergency Floo?"

"Inoperable in our current state."

"So..."

"So, our course of action is obvious," Snape said. "We're going to have to brew the potion again, starting from scratch."

"But we're cats."

"And? Do you think being a cat will stop me?"

This wasn't arrogance. If Snape said he could brew the potion as a cat, then he could. This was pure competence, and it was a little bit attractive. Harry wondered if his brain had been scrambled by the adrenaline rush or if changing into a cat had modified his threshold for what he usually found attractive. Snape had never been anywhere near that realm so far.

"I won't be able to do it alone," Snape added. "We're going to have to work together."

He said it with all the warmth of a funeral.

"We can work together," Harry said. "And anyway, I don't have a problem with you. You have a problem with me."

"Yes, I do."

And what is it, exactly?

But he didn't ask. Snape had just saved him, and throwing gasoline onto the fire was a bad idea, even if Harry was feeling belligerent at the moment.

He held his tongue as they climbed over the fence, went through the garden, and re-entered the castle by the open window.

"How did you know I was in danger?" he asked.

"My Potter alarm went off."

"Your Potter alarm?"

"It rings in my ears when you're being imbecilic."

"Isn't it always on, then?"

Snape glanced his way, his amber eyes particularly vivid. They were the opposite of his usual black eyes, and yet Harry could never have mistaken them for someone else's eyes. They were pure Snape—intense, sharp, infused with wry intelligence.

"To my great dismay," he said and did something with his feline face that looked suspiciously close to a smile.

Before Harry could start analyzing that odd smile, he was being given orders. Snape wanted to use his laboratory to brew the potion, taking advantage of the second station where everything was already set up. The cauldron was smaller, and according to Snape, controlling the intensity of the flames would be easier. However, they first needed to light the fire and obviously couldn't do so with an Incendio. Both their wands had been left lying on the floor, useless.

As a result, Harry found himself ascending to the sixth floor, holding a large stirring spoon between his teeth.

Professor Binns was a strange professor by many metrics. For one, he had died one morning and had failed to notice, showing up to teach his classes as usual. Second, he never gave less than an A on an essay, unless you were to literally turn in a blank parchment. And third, there was always a fire burning in his classroom. It could have been the heights of summer, it didn't matter. There'd be dancing flames in the hearth, as surely as two plus two made four and Snape hated Harry.

He set down the spoon to get the door open. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. He trotted into the room and found, as expected, a great big fire going in the hearth. He stuck the large end of the spoon into the flames, waited until it was glowing red, and pulled it back. Smoke rose in tiny wisps from the slowly consuming wood.

Harry began making the trip back with his trophy.

He didn't run. He didn't want to risk dropping the spoon, and his grip on it wasn't the most stable. His jaw ached from the strain while he kept drooling over the wood. Another thing cats lacked— opposable thumbs.

He was halfway to the dungeons when he heard someone hum right behind him.

"Mmm-mmm-mmm, and what have we here?"

Peeves hovered by Harry's side, lips stretched into a wide grin. Bad news. The poltergeist took pleasure in tormenting everyone, and the fact that Harry was currently a cat wouldn't make a lick of difference.

"Is that a little kitty-cat being naughty-naughty? Where are you going, kitty?"

Harry walked faster, ignoring Peeves. He turned a corner, descended a flight of stairs, arrived on the second floor, and was forced to stop as Peeves' ghostly head popped out of the floor.

"Not so fast, my furry friend!" Peeves said, cackling.

Harry jumped.

From a dead standstill, he soared through the air, above the poltergeist, and landed neatly on the other side.

"No, no, no! Peeves will not let you get away!"

Cats had incredibly finely tuned senses, so Harry was aware of the projectile thrown at his back well before it made contact. He dodged left, and the water balloon died a very wet death on the flagstones instead of on him. Another followed, which Harry also evaded.

He sped down the corridors and then stairs after stairs, running in zigzags.

Left, right, left—oh, that one had been close. Droplets of water sprayed his left flank. He shivered but didn't stop. Behind him, Peeves howled.

"Run, run, kitty!"

A deluge of water balloons descended upon him as if the heavens had opened up and dropped an inverted minefield onto him. He wove a sinuous path between the projectiles, managing fairly well until he ran into an incoming wall of water, and he had to choose between himself and the spoon.

So, of course, he sacrificed himself.

He jerked his head, tossed the spoon up in a curved trajectory, and accepted the collision with the water balloon. It broke over him, drenching him from head to tail. Oh fuck, that was cold. Where did that water come from, the bottom of the Black Lake?

The spoon was coming down, safe and dry. He snatched it in mid-air before it hit the ground, and he kept running, skidding the next corner.

He made it to Snape's office with a smoking spoon and a wet everything else. He probably looked like he'd gone and taken a dip in the lake.

"What happened?" Snape said, giving him a critical look.

"Ran into Peeves. He decided to bombard me with water balloons. You know, the usual."

His words came out a bit muffled because of the spoon. He stuck the glowing end into the stack of wood sitting beneath the cauldron and stepped back. A few moments later, flames crackled to life.

"He didn't follow me into your office," he added.

"He knows better than to bother me," Snape said. He jerked his head toward the door. "You look like a drowned rat. Go dry yourself."

Harry glanced around for a towel,but didn't find any. Come to think of it, they never used towels when brewing potions. At Snape's insistence, they relied solely on cleaning spells, which was how every single one of his students could do the Cleaning Charm wandless by their third year.

"The bathroom, Potter. Through my bedroom."

"Okay," Harry said.

Snape's bedroom was more or less like he had imagined it: black and green and spotlessly clean. Shelves stuffed with books hugged the walls, a large four-poster bed dominated the room, and a smattering of ebony furniture completed the picture.

Harry opened the bathroom door with a precise jump. It smelled overwhelmingly of citrus soap, the same scent he had noticed earlier, just after being changed into a cat. Snape's scent. It was more pleasant than it had any right to be.

He jumped on the sink, looked in the mirror, and was faced with the most miserable-looking cat he had ever seen. His fur stuck to his body, highlighting how skinny he was, while it clumped unevenly all around his face in ugly, misshapen lumps. He looked completely bedraggled—and much like himself, with green eyes and a white lightning bolt on his forehead.

Locating a large towel over a rack, he tugged on it to pull it down. It fell on him. He spread it on the floor as best he could and rubbed himself against the soft fabric. A couple of minutes later, he was mostly dry. He also smelled like Snape now. Trying to ignore that point, he returned to the potion lab.

He was greeted by the strange sight of a cat stirring a cauldron.

Snape was gripping a wooden stirring rod with his front paws, claws out, stirring clockwise in slow motions. Harry jumped on the station, joining him. In the cauldron, the water was boiling. Snape stirred for a long time while Harry watched in silence. He remembered that part from three days ago. They'd been arguing, then. Snapping at each other about something Harry had done or said—he couldn't even remember.

At length, Snape instructed him to add the dried nettles. Everything had been prepared, so all Harry had to do was grab some nettles from the basket, weigh them, and put the correct amount in the potion. He did this again and again, between bouts of stirring.

Silence held as they worked together.

There was something different about the moment. Last time, Harry had been bored and annoyed, and adding the dried nettles had been a chore. Right now, it was pleasant. He was in sync with Snape, and he knew they were making progress.

Eventually, they stopped and allowed the potion to simmer.

The Great Hall was as empty as during previous meals. Two plates had been set at the High Table, and a copious dinner awaited them. Harry jumped on the table and started on the chicken, ignoring the potatoes. They didn't appeal to his feline taste buds. The meat, on the other hand, tasted even more delicious than usual. He held the drumstick down with his front paws and ripped big chunks out, scarfing them down. A glance to his right revealed Snape was doing the same.

He paused for a moment, watching. As a man, Snape ate with calm, meticulous precision. He cut his food symmetrically as if he was dealing with potion ingredients, and he would never have been caught gorging. As a cat, Harry was witnessing the opposite. Snape ate much like him, sinking his teeth into the meat and tearing pieces out, quickly swallowing them.

It was sort of fun to watch. He hadn't been aware Snape had wild side, that he could indulge in the pleasures of life. It felt like a glimpse into the man's privacy.

I saw his bedroom and bathroom... and now I'm seeing him enjoy his food.

They both ate until there remained only bones. Harry nibbled on the end of the biggest one on his plate, trying to get every ounce of fat. He was still hungry. Oh, but he wasn't done! There was still dessert.

He lunged at the piece of chocolate cake. A paw swatted his dessert away.

"Hey!"

"No chocolate, Potter!"

"What? Why?"

"It's toxic to cats," Snape said.

It was the most devastating news of the week.

"I can't have chocolate? At all?

"I just said that."

"I don't want to be a cat anymore," Harry bemoaned.

"We're working on it," Snape said.

"Yeah..." Harry said miserably.

He lifted a paw and absently licked it because it was dirty, stained with chicken grease, and his cat brain wanted to clean it. He stopped mid-lick, a bit confused at what he was doing. He knew that sometimes, Animagi got carried away, their animal instincts taking over. He hadn't been prepared for it to happen to him. He was still there, and still Harry, but there was also a feline mind with him that insisted he had to clean himself, and now.

He could ignore it, sure. Should he? On second thought, he couldn't go back to the potion lab like this. He resumed licking his paw. Snape was doing the same, and yeah, maybe it was a little weird to be watching Snape lick himself, but they were cats. It was entirely normal for cats to lick themselves.

Then the image of a human Snape running his tongue across his long, slender fingers popped into his head, and it made him feel strange and somewhat uncomfortable. Why was he even picturing it? And why did it become more and more enticing as he dwelt on the thought?

He told himself to stop. Thankfully, Snape didn't seem to have noticed he'd been distracted.

They went back to brewing. There was nothing else to do. Harry minded the flames while Snape stirred.

"You know, it's impressive," Harry said. "Brewing as a cat."

"Mh."

"I bet no one has done it before."

"Mmh."

"You could write an article about it. Publish it in the Quarterly Potioneer."

"Perhaps I will," Snape said. And then, wryly: "A quote from the famous Harry Potter would have copies flying off the shelves."

Harry snorted.

"Come on. You don't need me. 'I brewed a potion as a cat' is a pretty good pitch on its own."

Snape gave him a long look before focusing on the potion once more.

Evening turned into night. They left the potion to simmer and prepared to sleep. If he were still human, Harry would have headed for the Gryffindor dormitories to find his bed, but the Fat Lady wouldn't understand him at the moment, so that option was out. Besides, Snape insisted he had to sleep close by.

"So that I can keep an eye on you, Potter. We have no idea of the potential long-term effects of this disaster."

He imparted this comment while jumping on his bed, where he proceeded to scratch at the sheets, bunching them up.

"Erm," said Harry from the floor.

"You're not sleeping in my bed, Potter."

"I wasn't—I don't want to be in your bed!"

"Good," Snape said in a flat tone.

That was followed by an awkward silence. Harry tried to clear his throat but discovered that it didn't work as well as a cat.

"When you said 'close by', does that mean here in your room, or can I sleep in your office?"

"Either is fine."

Would he dare? Sleep in the same room as Snape... Well, if he was invited to do so. And that way, McGonagall wouldn't be able to say they hadn't made any efforts to get along.

He went to fetch the towel from the bathroom, made himself a little nest on the chair facing the hearth, and curled up there. His cat body generated warmth easily, and in no time at all, he was swaddled in a little cozy bubble.

"Good night," he said to Snape.

It wasn't the first time he wished the man good night, but it was the first time he did it while being in his bedroom.

"Good night, Potter," came the reply.

Harry fell asleep quickly.

He dreamed they were in the Headmistress' office, him and Snape. She was glaring at them imperiously.

"I want you to be more friendly to each other."

"We're making efforts," Harry said.

"Yes," Snape said. "We're sleeping together."

"Well, I hadn't expected it would go this way, but you have my blessings," McGonagall said.

"Wait, no, he didn't mean it like that," Harry said.

But already, the scene had changed. He was standing in Snape's bedroom, and Snape was lying in bed.

"Come, Potter," Snape said, lifting the blanket to invite him in.

And Harry slid in, and they were both in bed, both humans, but Snape's eyes were amber, so vivid that as his face got closer to Harry's, the color occupied more and more of his world, until everything had turned a rich, golden amber.

Harry woke briefly panicked, convinced he was in Snape's bed. He floundered around for a moment and realized he'd mistaken his dream for reality. He was on the sofa, face pressed into a towel that smelled like Snape. Still a cat, alas.

He rolled over and peeked at the bed. Snape was awake, amber eyes watching him. A shiver went down Harry's spine. He really hoped Snape couldn't do any Legilimency like this.

"Morning," he said.

"Good morning," Snape replied.

They went to get breakfast. The table was once again set for them, offering a full English breakfast. They both ate the bacon and the sausages. Harry also licked the yolk of the large egg on his plate and, out of curiosity, tried lapping up some pumpkin juice. It tasted too strange to bother with it.

With their bellies full, they worked on the potion.

The second day called for nightshade petals and Flobberworm mucus. Harry added the necessary quantity under Snape's supervision. The mucus was particularly unpleasant to handle, and he had to wipe his paws on another towel he'd gotten from the bathroom, but there were no incidents.

They took a break for lunch. Harry wandered around the castle to stretch his legs and didn't cause any catastrophe despite Snape's insinuation that he'd have to come to his rescue again. The afternoon's brewing was more relaxed, as the potion only needed to be stirred every half hour. Harry lounged on the countertop, watching Snape.

His cat brain kept suggesting he should jump on him or swat him with a paw, bump his head, and generally be playful. He had no idea where that came from. Snape would also skin him alive if he tried.

Settle down, he told himself, his tail twitching.

"Could you stop that?" Snape said, with a cold glare at Harry's tail.

"I'm trying! I'm not really in control of it... It's strange."

More minutes passed. His tail didn't stop twitching.

"What is it, Potter? What are you annoyed about?"

"I'm not annoyed. I'm restless." He couldn't very well admit to Snape he wanted to poke at him, so he racked his brain for another excuse. "I'm not used to sitting around all day. I need to do something. Hey, do you think I could fly a broom as a cat?"

"No," Snape said emphatically.

"If I was really careful. And don't cats always land on their feet?"

"With your luck, you'll end up stuck fifty feet in the air, and I would have to save you again."

Most likely, yeah. Harry thought it would have been worth it just to see Snape the cat riding a broom, but Snape looked ready to physically restrain him if necessary, so Harry remained put.

There was fish for dinner, which Harry loved, and green beans, which Harry hated. He wished the house elves had known to give them cat food. He tried going to the kitchens afterward, holding vague hopes that maybe he would be recognized. However, he couldn't even get in. He kept jumping to reach the pear in the painting, tapping it with his paw in his best approximation of tickling, and the fruit refused to laugh. It didn't even acknowledge him.

Defeated, he wandered back to the dungeons, his mood foul and his spirits low.

He was about to descend the stairs when his cat senses blasted an alert into his brain.

MOUSE!

His nose twitched as the scent of prey flooded his nostrils. The mouse was skittering along the wall, darting glances here and there, his nervous little beady eyes glinting in the torchlight. Harry froze. Every inch of him went still, except... oh, except for his tail and his butt, which were swaying back and forth.

The mouse was right here!

Mouse, mouse—and he was such a good hunter, oh yes, and he was gonna get that mouse, get it, get it, catch it and eat it—now—soon—yes, yes—oh, very soon... now, now... now!

He jumped.

The mouse squeaked and scampered away. His claws grazed the furry flank without sinking in. The mouse disappeared into a crevice in the wall.

No more mouse.

The prey had escaped him.

He wasn't a good hunter. He would starve, and his kittens would starve, and his line would die out. Life was so cruel!

Oh, wait.

He didn't have any kittens. And he didn't have to hunt because food was provided to him. He was still a bad hunter, though. That part remained true.

Shaking his head to clear his mind from the feline instincts that clogged up his thoughts, he went down the stairs.

"I saw a mouse," he told Snape as he walked through the door.

"Is that what took you so long?"

"No, that was because I tried to tickle the pear to get into the kitchens. But a mouse, Snape! It was right there, under my nose! And then it got away."

He sighed and flopped down onto the countertop.

"I'm a bad hunter..."

"You're good at other things," Snape said.

Harry gave him a pondering look.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course."

"You didn't inhale fumes or anything? Or fall and and hit your head while I was away?"

"The potion is proceeding exactly as planned, and I didn't suffer any fall."

"Well, it really sounded like you were paying me a compliment. On the scale of 'should I worry', that would rank up there with the end of the world."

Snape made a sound that resembled a sneeze but couldn't be one. Was it—could it possibly be—Merlin's lacy knickers—a laugh? Yes, it had. Snape had laughed, properly, and no one would ever believe Harry.

"What are those other things I'm good at?"

"Now you're fishing for compliments," Snape said.

"Yeah. We can trade. I'll start. You have very nice fur. Sleek and glossy."

Which were very normal words to say to Snape, oh yes. Harry wondered if becoming a cat had somehow altered his brain chemistry. Or perhaps this was all some kind of fever dream, and he was actually lying on a bed in the Hospital Wing, still unconscious after that potion mishap.

"My fur," Snape said, with a hint of incredulity in his voice.

"Yep. And of course you'd be a black cat. Okay, now your turn."

He braced himself for something mean. Something like 'you're exceptionally good at getting in trouble', or 'you're slightly smarter than the average Flobberworm'. But Snape surprised him.

"You're handling this better than I thought you would."

"Uh, thanks?"

Snape nodded in a very un-cat-like manner. He turned to grab the spoon, plunged it into the cauldron, and began stirring.

"I believe it is your turn now, unless you're unable to come up with more than one compliment for me."

"Oh no, I have more," Harry said.

Was that surprise flitting over Snape's face? Damn it, Harry had no idea. Snape wasn't easy to read as a human, and as a cat, well, it was worse.

"You're very competent. I didn't see it at first, and then I hated you for it. Last year, when I thought you were on Voldemort's side, I came up with a dozen plans to take you down. I wanted to do it myself. When I visited Grimmauld Place, I was hoping I'd find you there, hoping to catch you by surprise and—"

He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly embarrassed by how quickly the words had spilled out.

"That would have been very unwise," Snape said in a low voice.

"Well. I never claimed to be wise. The Hat never considered Ravenclaw."

"But it did consider something other than Gryffindor?"

"Yeah," Harry said, trying to shrug, finding it a bit awkward as a cat. "It told me I'd do great in Slytherin."

Snape was silent for a while.

"The Hat told me Gryffindor would suit me," he eventually said.

"He was right. You're the bravest person I know."

"We agreed on compliments, not mindless flattery."

"We did," Harry said.

The conversation lapsed after that.

They went to sleep early. Harry was actually tired, despite not doing much of his day. When he remarked on it, Snape said cats needed more sleep than humans. For that reason, they slept in the next morning and only got up for lunch.

Harry was disappointed today's meal was an omelet, roasted potatoes, and spinach. None of it was appetizing. He poked at the omelet and took half a bite, chewing unenthusiastically.

"You need to eat," Snape said.

He had already eaten his entire omelet, and was now watching Harry.

"'m not hungry," Harry muttered, in an obvious lie.

He left the table with not much food in his belly.

He was distracted all afternoon, hunger gnawing at his patience. Fortunately, there wasn't much to do today, so he lounged around, dozing off while Snape kept an eye on the potion.

When it was time to add one rat spleen to the brew, Harry grabbed it with his paws. It smelled so good. He gave it a little lick furtively. Snape saw him.

"Potter! Do not lick the ingredients! Honestly, that's something I usually only have to say to first-years."

"I'm hungry."

"You should have eaten the omelet."

"It wasn't good."

"It was a perfectly fine omelet."

"Well, not to my cat brain," Harry said grumpily.

He dumped the rat spleen into the cauldron, sad to see it go.

Dinner wasn't any better than lunch. He refused to eat the fish stew, which was packed with too many spices to be edible, and couldn't bring himself to taste neither the grilled asparagus nor the Brussel sprouts. It would have been a very good meal if he'd been human, but as a cat, he had a finer palate, and he was unable to eat a single bite.

Snape wasn't happy.

"You can't go an entire day without eating. You'll end up fainting."

"I know," Harry replied morosely.

"So eat."

"Can't."

"Are you being difficult on purpose, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry said. "My secret plan to annoy you is coming along swimmingly."

Snape shot him a withering look.

"Stay here," he ordered.

He walked out of the room, his tail held high. Harry sat in front of his soup, sad and forlorn—and so hungry.

What if they stayed cats forever? Snape seemed confident the potion would fix them, but they hadn't ended up in this situation via the same method their initial patient had. Sure, the potion would cure a stuck Animagus... but what if it did nothing for them? And Harry could never eat chocolate again? What if he had to resign himself to leave his life as a wizard behind and be a cat for the rest of his days?

At least I won't be alone, he thought begrudgingly.

He'd have Snape to keep him company. He could conceive of worst fates.

Five minutes later, Snape was back.

"Is that a mouse?"

"It would appear so," Snape said after depositing the dead mouse he'd been carrying in his mouth in front of Harry.

"A mouse you hunted and killed."

"It certainly didn't drop dead of a heart attack when it saw me."

"A mouse you're now giving me?"

Snape's tail quavered with a little flick.

"Yes. Now stop asking questions with obvious answers and eat."

So Harry did, biting into the mouse. His little cat brain exploded with satisfaction, and every single instinct screamed at him to keep going. Intellectually, he knew what he was doing should have disgusted him. He was eating a dead mouse! A raw mouse! But his cat self was in heaven, and that mouse tasted better than anything else he'd eaten as a cat so far.

There was no stopping him, no matter how messy and strange it got.

He ate everything and was in a much better mood throughout the evening. It seemed to be the same for Snape, who didn't snap at him once. They chatted as they worked on the potion.

"You're positive it's going to work?"

"Yes. Properly prepared, it will return us to our human forms."

"Okay. Will it hurt?"

"The initial transformation didn't, so no, it won't."

Harry rolled over onto his back, watching a now upside-down Snape.

"Why are we both cats?" he said. "Yes, yes, you said the potion contains traces of the thing we're curing, but is it specifically about cats or a general anti-Animagus magic potion?"

"The latter."

"Uh. So does that mean we'd both be cats if we were to become Animagi?"

"Yes."

Harry pawed at the air, catching a floating mote of dust.

"Mmm... it's alright, I suppose."

"You were hoping for something else," Snape remarked.

"A bird. I think it'd be wicked to soar through the air without a broom. Just fly free whenever I wanted."

"You don't need to be a bird to fly without a broom."

It wasn't that Harry had forgotten Snape had the power of flight. He had witnessed it himself, seeing Snape glide in the air along the castle's ramparts, his cloak flapping behind him, but that particular day had been so eventful the scene had since recessed into the depths of his mind.

"Is it hard to learn?"

"Very."

Harry huffed.

"But I believe you could master the skill," Snape added.

"You'd teach me?"

"Yes."

"I'd like that," Harry said, a bit mystified that Snape hadn't immediately shut the idea down. "And, hey, that'll give you more reasons to complain that I'm a terrible student."

"You were a terrible student in Occlumency, a middling one in Potions, and an adequate one in Defense. I am confident you will be a competent one in this venture."

"Why?"

"Because you belong in the air."

Harry had no answer to that. No human answer, at any rate. He made a feline noise, something he meant as an acknowledgment, but then it so closely resembled a purr that he was instantly embarrassed and pretended the noise had been entirely unrelated to him. Snape mercifully ignored that Harry had purred (because of him!) and went on to talk about the potion.

They turned in early again when the sun hadn't even set.

As he patted and arranged the towel so it'd be more comfortable, Harry realized that he hadn't thanked Snape for getting him dinner.

"Thank you, by the way. For the mouse."

"Don't mention it. And I mean it, Potter. Do not tell anyone I hunted a mouse for you."

"I won't," Harry promised. "No one would believe me anyway..."

He curled up on the towel, closed his eyes, and fell asleep within minutes.

He was dreaming of chasing flying mice when a noise woke him. Blinking blearily, he poked his head out from the side of the chair and looked in Snape's direction. He couldn't see the other cat, but the blankets were twitching, and weak mewling sounds echoed through the bedroom. A sour smell hit Harry's nostrils.

He got up and went to check on Snape, jumping onto the bed to get a better view. Then he realized he was in Snape's bed, but it was too late to back away. Snape was lying on his side, breathing heavily, his eyes closed, and his paws spasming and jerking. Harry really hoped it was a simple nightmare and not a side effect of the potion.

He nudged him with a paw.

"Snape?"

Yellow eyes snapped open.

"Harry..."

The shock of hearing his first name from Snape was great.

"Yeah, it's me," he said dumbly. "Uh... should I be worried?"

"No. It was merely a nightmare, Potter," Snape said, putting added emphasis on his name. "Go back to sleep."

"Do you get them often? The nightmares."

Still being dumb. Oh, well. He would rather be stupid and care than be smart and not care at all.

Snape looked at him with those vivid yellow eyes for a long, silent moment. Harry waited for him to speak. For some strange reason, he wanted to purr.

"Sometimes," Snape finally said, unblinking gaze set on Harry. "I take Dreamless Sleep to help. Unfortunately, one of the ingredients in the potion is toxic to cats."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Everything will soon get back to normal."

"Yeah, but it's my fault we're cats."

"It's not completely unpleasant," Snape said.

There was another long silence. Harry felt it was heading somewhere but was at a complete loss to guess where exactly.

"I'll just, uh. Go back to the chair."

He jumped off the bed without waiting for Snape's answer and was soon back to the familiarity of the towel and chair. As he tried to go back to sleep, he had to confront the fact that he had been in Snape's bed and that he had wanted to curl up next to him and purr. He told himself those desires stemmed from the cat's instincts.

Definitely just the cat, yes.

Nothing to do with him.

Couldn't be.

(He slept well, dreaming he was snuggling with a warm, furry companion.)

***

The fourth day was the day of pickled slugs and rose oil.

They quickly ran into a problem. The jar of pickled slugs was closed, and no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get it open. The lid appeared to be stuck.

After fifteen minutes of unproductive attempts, Harry announced he had the solution.

Then he did what cats did best and toppled the jar off the counter.

"Potter," groaned Snape right as the glass jar hit the floor and exploded quite spectacularly.

"It's open," Harry pointed out.

Pickled slugs slid everywhere, and the gooey substance contained in the jar made a large puddle on the floor. Harry jumped down, picked up a slug, and threw it up. Snape caught it. They added the required two slugs to the potion.

Now came the tricky part.

Snape would stir, and Harry would add one drop of rose oil every third stir. He prepared the pipette, hugging it with his front paws.

"What do you think would happen if I made the same mistake?"

"Nothing good," Snape said.

"Yeah, but we can't be turned twice into cats..."

"For the love of Merlin, just focus this time."

"No problem."

He wouldn't fuck up again because, this time, Snape's beautiful hands weren't here to distract him.

One, two, three, drop.

One, two, three, drop.

And again and again, and everything went fine. The potion frothed gently and Snape stirred for ten minutes in total before he finally set the spoon down.

"Good," he said. "That just leaves the hard part left to complete."

"That was easy so far?"

"Yes."

"Mmph," said Harry. "Alright, what's the hard part?"

***

The Forbidden Forest was dark at night, Harry found

The good news was that cats had excellent night vision, and therefore they didn't need a Lumos to see where they were going.

The bad news was that cats had excellent night vision, and that he'd see the monsters coming at his face in glorious high definition.

"Do we have to venture that far?" he whispered to Snape, who was prowling ahead.

"Moonberries only grow in one specific clearing. We don't have a choice."

"Okay, but we're approaching Acromantula nesting grounds..."

"I'm aware, Potter."

All around them, the forest was alive with scents and sounds. Multiple layers of smells were fighting for Harry's attention while branches creaked overhead and leaves crunched underfoot. Small prey skittered in the undergrowth, communicating in muted squeaks.

MOUSE! MOUSE! screamed Harry's cat brain.

He ignored it, following Snape. They were both carrying small baskets, which must have made for quite an absurd scene. Harry wondered what his friends would have said if they could see him now, a cat with the handle of a wicker basket in his mouth, strolling through the forest with Snape.

("Typical Harry," Ron would have commented, while Hermione would have told him to be careful.)

They reached a lake, its surface smooth and glassy like black marble. The air was colder in this part of the forest, and strange whispers reached Harry's ears, eliciting a shiver down his back. From the far side of the lake, a flight of birds took off in a flurry of silver wings and pale underbellies. Their white feathers glowed in the moonlight as they crested high.

A few minutes later, they arrived in the clearing. It offered a checkered tableau of light and shadows, while dense bushes crowded the ground, each one bearing numerous berries. Harry set down his basket and began picking berries from the thorny bushes. They resembled blackberries and were plump and firm, though a few overripe ones stained his paws purple.

Snape had said they would only need a handful for the potion but that they could stock up while they were here. Harry's basket was a third full when his senses issued a sudden alert. His fur fluffed up, and he glanced around, wondering what was happening. Ten meters away from him, Snape had also noticed something wasn't right, black pupils blooming huge, leaving only a thin amber ring around them.

It came as a shadow.

From the far side of the clearing, silent and huge—and it came swiftly—much more swiftly than any creature this size should have been able to move. In the blink of an eye, it was standing over Snape, towering on eight massive, fuzzy legs, its multitude of eyes reflecting the dark sky, its pincers opening and closing with a soft click—and then it attacked.

It shot a long stream of silk toward Snape, who tried jumping out of the way and didn't quite manage it. The web caught his back legs. The spider quickly produced more, weaving a tight cocoon around the rest of his body as he howled and struggled.

Harry howled, too.

He spat and hissed and cursed, and then he jumped on the spider's face. Terrible idea on paper—he was approximately ten times smaller than the spider and weighed virtually nothing compared to the beast. But Snape was in danger, and that was his first instinct: defend him all claws out. Perhaps his cat form was magical to some degree because when he raked said claws across the spider's numerous eyes, they sank in easily, and the eyes burst open, oozing great gouts of black ichor.

The spider emitted a series of pained, angry clicks. It swung one of its hairy legs, impacting Harry across the flank and sending him to the ground. He landed in a bush, the thorns prickling at him through his fur, burrowing lines of pain along his back, wrenching a yelp from him. Twisting to his feet, he immediately lunged forward again, throwing himself at the spider.

In the meantime, it had turned away, so Harry's claws sank into the side of the big, bloated body. He climbed, up and up, scaling the massive black wall as he'd scale a cliff.

The spider was moving through the forest, ignoring Harry. It skittered on its eight legs, heading into deeper shadows, no doubt back to the Acromantula nests. Harry walked across its back, finding his balance on the precarious, swaying surface. He reached the head, and got a look at Snape's situation: still trapped in the silken cocoon, which the spider was holding between two of its legs.

The cocoon wiggled weakly. Snape was entirely encased in the spider's web, including his head. He likely couldn't breathe like this.

Harry jumped.

He nearly missed his target, caught himself by one paw, claws out, back legs swinging in the air, and scrambled for purchase onto the cocoon. Once on top, he scratched at the silk wrappings, desperate to free Snape. One diagonal slice cut into the cocoon and Snape's head emerged, his fur ruffled, his eyes blazing.

"Potter—"

"Yeah, I know. Working on it."

Another slice along the side. This one was less successful. The silk was much thicker there, and his claws failed to pierce all the way through. He retracted them and let them out again, trying to get a better angle.

The spider set the cocoon on the ground, which was very good because now Harry wasn't in danger of falling off, and very bad because—

A glance up told him the Acromantula was preparing to strike. One black leg loomed over him, tipped with a wicked, spiky claw. Sharp and long enough to impale a cat clean through.

"Move," Snape rasped.

Harry didn't move.

If that was how he died—shielding Snape—then it was worth it. He didn't regret it. He didn't regret anything that had happened in the last four days.

"Potter, move!"

He set his head against Snape's chest, closed his eyes—

"Foolish—"

—and wished they were elsewhere, safe and sound, elsewhere, now—

The world folded in on itself.

They tumbled, squeezed through a dark, narrow space, bodies compressed together, and then reality was back, with a loud pop, sound and air and colors rushing to him. They landed on a soft surface, which Harry first identified as bed, before his brain fully caught up with the situation and was able to produce a much more accurate deduction—Snape's bed.

No forest.

No spider.

No terrible claw about to impale him.

Snape wriggled under him, and together, they freed him of the cocoon. A handful of berries rolled out of the limp silk wrappings, some crushed, some intact, staining the bed sheets. They looked at each other, both breathing hard.

"Are you hurt?" Harry asked.

"No. You?"

"No."

There was a pause. Harry's keen ears could hear Snape's heart pounding as quickly as his own.

"It's impossible to Apparate as a cat," Snape said.

"Mmm," Harry said.

"And it's especially impossible to Apparate directly inside Hogwarts."

"Well. Must be a dream, then."

"You're unbelievable," Snape said in a tone of soft wonder.

Then he bumped his head against Harry's, which was such an open show of affection that Harry was stunned for a couple of seconds. He let his feline instincts answer and licked Snape in return, swiping his tongue across pink nose and dark fur. It didn't feel odd or out of place. They'd been willing to die for each other. What more could be said after that?

Together, they gathered the moonberries and carried them into the potion lab. They added the berries to the brew and watched the liquid ripple before turning a deep purple with a glowing sheen.

"It's ready," Snape said.

He collected two doses, ladling the potion in identical cups. Once it had cooled enough, they both drank their fill. The taste was awful—Harry could definitely discern the pickled slugs in there—but he forced himself to finish his dose.

"It will take effect during the night," Snape said.

They went back to bed. Neither of them acknowledged it out loud or asked what they should do next. They both exited the lab, rubbing flanks as they walked, their tails twining around one another. They jumped into bed and settled close, head to head, their legs entangled.

Harry licked Snape—his chest, his head, the sides and front of his face—cleaning him of the last remnants of the spider's silk. There was something deeply soothing in the act. Harry became aware he was purring, and didn't seek to stop it, instead purring harder. Snape had closed his eyes and was purring as well.

"Miss Weasley will be jealous," he said, as Harry focused on the top of his head and thoroughly licked the sleek fur there.

"We're not together anymore."

"Why? She's a pretty girl, and you made a nice couple of hot-headed Gryffindors."

"Not sure if that's a compliment or a criticism," Harry said, "but in any case, we had a talk and agreed we were better as friends. Besides, I've recently discovered a side of myself that merits exploring."

"With me."

"Yep."

"Are you sure? Miss Weasley would offer you something uncomplicated."

Harry swiped his tongue across Snape's nose.

"I don't want uncomplicated. I want you."

Yellow eyes opened and pondered him.

"You may come to regret that decision."

"I don't think so."

He set his head against Snape's. The bedroom echoed with the sound of two cats purring in sync. Relaxed and swimming in languid warmth, they fell asleep together.

A while later, Harry woke with his nose itching. He lifted a hand to scratch himself, noted he had a hand instead of a paw, and smiled. An equally human Snape was sprawled on top of him, his head resting in the crook of Harry's shoulder, nose squished against his throat. Mm, what else? Greasy hair tickled his collarbone, a lean chest and bony hips pressed against his own, and long legs tangled with his.

Oh yeah, very important detail: they were both naked.

"Hi," Harry murmured when Snape stirred.

"Good morning," Snape replied, lifting his head.

Black eyes, now. Harry smiled. He felt so warm, his chest light and filled with diffuse joy. Snape's weight pressed him into the bed, pleasantly so.

"So, the potion worked," Harry said.

"Brilliantly observed."

"And there were side-effects."

"Such as?" Snape said, raising an eyebrow.

"It also made me horny."

He had an insistent erection, one he was sure Snape could feel.

"Are you sure it's the potion?" Snape said in an unctuous, positively delicious voice that sent frissons down Harry's spine. "Might it not be the effect of my close proximity?"

"Nope. It's the potion. You're not doing nearly enough to justify my cock being this hard."

"And what should I do?" Snape asked, still in that voice that teased Harry's nerves until he wanted to squirm and rub himself against Snape like some kind of animal.

"Kiss me."

He only had to ask, and Snape was doing it. Was it that simple, really? Kiss me—and Snape's mouth was on his, thin lips molding to his own, an invading tongue sliding in. Oh yes. Harry moaned and surrendered, letting Snape have everything he wanted. The man sank a hand into his hair—a firm, commanding hand—and slowly forced Harry's head back, changing the angle of the kiss.

Their tongues slid against one another. Heat spread in Harry's lower belly in forceful jolts, each one caused by the motions of Snape's tongue as if the man were directly licking his cock. His hands were gripping Snape's hair now, large, solid handfuls of it, and he was delighted to find the strands silky and sleek, much like his fur had been.

They kept kissing.

Harry knew that there had been a time when they hadn't been kissing—when their mouths hadn't been locked together, sharing hot, damp breaths, when their tongues hadn't been diving and licking, when Snape hadn't been sucking on his swollen lips, growling as he claimed Harry's mouth for himself—but it was a distant memory, remnants of a hazy past receded into the fog of his mind.

The present consisted solely of that kiss and the stark reality of Snape lying on top of him.

His cock throbbed between them, begging to be touched. He arched up, hips bucking shallowly, and oh, fuck—Snape was hard, too, and Harry might just lose his mind and come like that, artlessly rutting against the older man, whimpering into his mouth, and needing, needing—

Snape pulled back. The storm of unchecked lust that had engulfed Harry abated a little. He inhaled a strained lungful of air, blinking up at Snape. His eyes were the darkest Harry had ever seen, two pieces of the sheerest, blackest obsidian imaginable. Harry wouldn't have minded looking into them for the rest of his life.

"And now?" Snape said.

"Could still be the potion. We need to experiment more."

"What do you want?"

The deep rasp of Snape's voice made the question sound obscene. A flurry of images just as obscene descended upon Harry's mind. He settled on one thing in particular.

"Your hands."

"My hands?" Snape said.

He lifted his right hand, rotating his wrist and flexing his fingers, all but flaunting it. Harry bit his lips.

"Your hands were the problem, you know. I was too fascinated by them. That's why I made a mistake with the rose oil in the first place."

Snape smiled a very smug smile.

"And what should I do with my hands now, Potter?"

"Cock," Harry said.

His brain wasn't functioning properly. He felt like he had been lit on fire from the inside, and Snape was continuously feeding the flames.

"Well, your meaning is easily extrapolated, but I'd like a full sentence all the same."

"Wrap your hand—around my—cock."

And then Snape did, and Harry's toes curled as he produced a rather embarrassing sound, all whiny and breathy. Snape watched him with half-hooded eyes, that smug smile still on his lips. His fingers were wrapped around Harry's shaft, his palm cradling him, and that was already more than Harry could handle. That was—that was—

"Yes, yes, please—"

His hips bucked up on their own. Snape moved his hand up and down, adding some sort of lubricant with a whispered spell, and Harry was fucking into a tight, wet fist, trembling and gasping.

"Be as loud as you want," Snape said, mouthing the words at Harry's jaw. "There's no one to hear you but me."

Which was a disturbingly arousing thought.

Harry could feel his end fast approaching. His thigh muscles were straining, his chest heaving, and pressure was gathering at the base of his spine, unforgiving heat building in his pelvis. He couldn't last. Couldn't delay his orgasm one second longer, no, he couldn't, not when Snape was so close, so focused on him, not when he offered Harry such a tight fist to rut into, and—oh God—not when he swiped his thumb over the weeping tip of Harry's cock.

It was his undoing, that thumb.

He emitted a strangled cry, arched up, and came, coating Snape's fingers with his release. Snape kept moving his hand, pulling more twitches out of Harry, more moans, squeezing his cock until he had wrung the very last pulses of come from him. Trembling all over, Harry sagged into the bed sheets with a vague, contented whine.

Snape was smiling.

It was a strange sight and one that promised to be burned into Harry's brain forever—one he would see at night when he'd close his eyes. Snape's smile. It filled him with a giddy joy that made no sense at all, but Harry wasn't in any kind of state to start thinking, anyway.

He was a nice little puddle of happy goo.

Then Snape brought his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers—the very fingers covered with Harry's come—and Harry's insides clenched strongly, his cock twitching eagerly.

"More," he groaned.

"More?" Snape said. "And what do you have in mind, Mister Potter?"

Harry groped for Snape's cock, found it, and began to pump the unfamiliar length.

"Inside."

"Do you usually only communicate in single words during sex?"

"Yes."

Snape's smirk ladled more heat into his belly. He briefly worried about the future. Would he get hard every time Snape would smirk at him now? Eh, it was a problem for future Harry. Present Harry had only one thing on his mind (and it was the cock in his hand).

"I presume you haven't done this before?" Snape said.

"Haven't."

A lubed finger circled his hole. Harry spread his legs further apart, anticipation burning white-hot in his veins.

"And you're sure you want this?"

"God, Snape, if you don't put your cock in me right now—"

He broke off as the finger breached him. Oh, well, that felt... different. He hadn't touched himself like that. Snape went slowly, withdrawing his digit, then inserting it in again.

"Alright?" he asked in a soft tone.

"Yeah."

Harry kept playing with Snape's cock, exploring it at his leisure. Snape was bigger than him and thicker as well, but Harry was confident he could take it.

"I wonder if we could have done this as cats," he said, voicing the first thought that flitted through his head.

"That would be an emphatic no."

"Because we would have lacked lubricant," Harry said, as Snape was spreading said lubricant around his insides, two knuckles deep.

"Partly. Also because cat penises are barbed, making intercourse painful for the receiving party."

"Oh," Harry said, wincing reflexively. "Okay. No cat sex."

Snape hummed. He took more time preparing Harry until Harry ran out of patience. His own cock was hard again, and his body vibrated with tense need.

"Fuck me," he said, a whiny, panting demand.

"If you insist..."

Harry watched him slick up his cock. The hot head nudged at his entrance, and Snape pushed forward. It burned. Harry breathed through it, focusing on Snape's face, on the gaunt features taken over by an intense expression, on the dark, dark eyes. Snape emitted a faint groan once fully sheathed inside him. Harry bit his lips, his muscles fluttering around the thick length buried in his arse.

"Good?" Snape breathed.

"Yeah."

They moved.

It took some time and a few false starts before they found a rhythm that worked. Harry didn't want to lie there and let Snape do all the work, and Snape apparently liked to take things slow, fucking into Harry with long, deep strokes. Harry rocked back against the motions, his cock rubbing between their bodies.

Everything was very slick and very hot. He could feel Snape's balls press up against him whenever the man bottomed out, and each thrust was angled to hit his prostate, which meant that very soon, he was ready to come again. His hands were grasping at Snape's hair, wheezing gasps leaving his open mouth, his thighs shaking.

"You can scream," Snape reminded him.

"Mmm—ah, you could—could keep me in your bed—and just—fuck me all day long—"

"Is that an offer, Potter?"

Harry replied with a garbled moan. His world was made of heat and pleasure and Snape. The man drove into him repeatedly, with low, rumbling growls of satisfaction, his nostrils flaring. His black eyes were blazing, twin wells of lust. When the edges of his teeth started to show, Harry tipped his head back, offering his throat. Snape dove onto it. Thin lips met the sweaty skin, and he licked a path of smearing heat upward. His tongue brushed along Harry's jaw, followed by a scrape of teeth that wrenched a blissful cry from the depths of Harry's chest.

"Ah, ah, Snape!"

"Scream," Snape said, nipping the side of his jaw.

Harry did. He wailed in pleasure, his cock spurting bursts of slick come all over his own chest. Snape buried his face into Harry's neck and delivered hard, short thrusts that made the bed creak. He slammed into Harry without finesse, all rhythm forgone, a simple, raw fucking that was going to leave Harry completely wrecked.

"Yes, yes, yes—"

And judging from the babbling issuing from his lips, he was very fine with that. His hands were somewhere on Snape's back, nails digging into skin—his lungs fighting to get more air—and he wanted Snape—wanted Snape to—

"Come—"

The rest of the sentence would have been "in me", but that single word alone caused Snape to emit a choked sound as he went rigid on top of Harry. His hips flexed a final time, and he pulsed hot come into Harry, who moaned happily.

In the aftermath, sweaty and sated, they smiled at each other.

"I've never been happier to fuck up a potion," Harry said.

"An excellent mistake."

They spent the next two days in bed, discovering each other's bodies, taking occasional breaks for basic physical needs. They also had sex everywhere—in the shower, on Snape's desk, and once, right in the Great Hall, Harry bent over the professors' table while Snape pounded into him from behind.

On the third day, McGonagall came back from her retreat. She found them seated at the High Table, discussing the Defense curriculum for the next school year.

"Gentlemen," she greeted them. "I expect you followed my instructions and played nice with each other in my absence."

"We completed the potion," Snape said. "I sent a dose to the patient by owl yesterday morning."

"Well, that's sorted, then. And what about the two of you? Any problem?"

"Oh no," Harry said, grinning. "No problem at all."