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Pairing: HP/SS Feedback: If you wouldn't mind!! Summary/Author's notes: Based loosely on one of the old challenges.
Harry Potter gives Rita Skeeter an exclusive. Warning: MPREG and
clichéd fluff!
"There are times Mr. Potter, that I really do wonder what I have done to deserve you." His eyes are sparkling and I feel like a silly school boy, "After all, you really are the most insufferable brat I have ever had the misfortune to meet." Just like being back at school, although at school I didn't have to contend with strange cravings and mood swings. "OK, Sev, what have I done now?" "If you don't know then I'm not going to enlighten you!" He storms out of the living room of his private chambers and into the bedroom slamming the door; moments later the 1812 symphony erupts from within. I know I'm in trouble now. My friends will tell you that dealing with Snape is never easy, but dealing with a six month pregnant Snape is nigh on impossible. I really can't think ('you do surprise me, Potter' I hear him snipe inside my head) what I've done this time. I collapse on the sofa and pick up the copy of the Daily Prophet which Sev had been reading. "Oh shit!" Now I swear the whole incident was perfectly innocent. We, and by we I mean Ron, Fred, George and Bill, were out on a pre-wet the baby's head event. I believe that when the time comes for the official event I will need to be word perfect and of course practice makes perfect. Unfortunately, as these type of evenings progress, things become blurred and I'm not one hundred percent sure why Ron was sitting on my chest and I'm lying on my back on a pool table, but I do know nothing happened. Mainly because I don't fancy Ron, and Ron, who even if he wasn't as straight as a roman road, would not be up for...'Snape's sloppy seconds.' 'Urgh, no offence mate.' However, from the picture on the front of the Daily Prophet I can understand why Sev may have the wrong idea. The music has ceased; tentatively, I knock on the door to our bedroom, "Honey?" The door jerks open and he scowls at me, "Unless I am very much mistaken, Mr. Potter, I am not a secretion of Apis Mellifica." "You know nothing happened." I stare imploringly at him, doing my best 'I really am a good boy' face. I slide my hand over his swollen belly, "I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise this." Dark eyes flicker dangerously, hormones in full swing, "It seems I am fit enough to be the vessel to carry your child and keep your bed warm, but only as long as it is behind closed doors." I start to speak, but he silences me, "Don't give me any of that bullshit about my privacy. You know damn well this is because you don't want me sullying your reputation." The door slams shut again and I hear the cannon revelry begin. Well, I'm gob smacked. Sure we've kept the relationship out of the public domain; after Voldemort's defeat I have kept my private life private trying to avoid unnecessary publicity, the odd slip allowing, bloody Daily Prophet. Our friends know, which includes the rest of the teaching staff at Hogwarts and my coach (although not the team), but as for anyone else it's not their business. He has always had self worth issues but the last few weeks have been particularly difficult. The charm he uses to disguise The Bump is tiring, and if our relationship was out in the open it would be unnecessary. Maybe it is time, soon there will be a baby Snape and I would be lying if I truly believed I didn't want to world to know I was the father. It is time I decide to finally let Rita Skeeter have the exclusive interview she has been so desperately longing for. I grab a quill and some parchment and the hastily scribbled lines are soon winging their way with Hedwig. For some strange reason I have agreed to let the interview take place in my flat, we get the necessary photos out of the way and then I insist the man leave. I try, although I think it is in vain, to set ground rules on this interview as I am sure the annoying woman will ask what ever she likes, although I do not have to answer. I do, however, insist that I check the final proofs before publication including last minute editing rights. "Firstly, congratulations on being selected as England's seeker, I believe you've had a serious shoulder injury, could you elaborate, maybe say a little about the cause and recovery?" she simpers. It's as good as anywhere to start, I suppose. It was the reason I now have a rather grumpy bed mate. I'd taken a nasty fall and had landed badly during a practise session. It had been healed but my shoulder was still stiff and too tender to fly so the coach sent me to sport specialist healer. She had prodded and poked at my shoulder, not the most reassuring experience I've ever had and suggested a course of treatment involving the Deliga potion that required multiple topical applications by a qualified potion master. For those of us without the benefit of a medical education, this meant if I wanted full movement back in my shoulder I needed someone to massage me with a prescription strength ointment. What did surprise me was who needed to do it; she had seen my puzzlement. "Sometimes the application of a potion is just as important as the potion itself." She explained that she had a colleague who was currently renewing this area of his training. Apparently qualifying as master was just the start. Every ten years the individual had to revisit their training, especially the administration of potions, as this was similar to rules governing healers. As she believed this person was a mutual acquaintance and was in need of a test case to re-qualify, she thought he'd be more than willing to carry out my treatment. And that was the reason I found myself half naked on the bed of one Severus Snape, potion master extraordinaire, groaning happily as his amazingly talented hands roamed all over my body. His bed side manner was atrocious, curt and sarcastic as ever, but my god, the way he touched me; I had real trouble keeping my composure. We had long settled our differences, and although we were not bosom buddies we could be civil to each other. If the truth be known, I already had quite a soft spot for the greasy git who had saved my arse on more than one occasion. He had brewed the terribly complicated potion at my request and was had pummelled my shoulder with grim abandon. Once finished, he left me alone to dress. I found myself staring around his bedroom. The bed was a four poster complete with black out drapes and a mound of pillows. The few pieces of furniture present were mahogany and looked like well built family heirlooms. Realising that I was lingering in his private space I hurried out to be greeted with the offer of a glass of single malt. It was still relatively early and I smirked, thinking that for once he has no detentions to supervise. I accepted his offer and settled myself down in a leather arm chair by the fire. We whiled away a very pleasant couple of hours chatting about the last couple of years, and I arranged a time for my next appointment. There were to be six of them spaced two days apart which would allow the potion to enter my system and then be kept at a consistent minimum level. So I endured a further five appointments. I'd arrive and he'd greet me with some such beguiling remarks as 'managed not to get lost Potter' or 'punctual as ever, I see' then I'd strip, he do things to my body I would pay good money elsewhere for and try not to cum in my boxers, then we'd enjoy a couple of drams of his best malt. On the evening of my last appointment, he slid a piece of paper over to me to sign. "Sign this please Harry, it just says that my talents are as good as ever," he smirked. I added my signature to the bottom of the sheet and handed it over; he nodded his thanks and stood. I held out my hand and he shook it, "Thanks again." "Pleasure's all mine Potter." He didn't let go of my hand; his dark eyes widened and flickered. I felt my erection stir again. "No Severus, it was mutual." To this day, I'm not sure who kissed whom first, but I felt his warm lips against mine. With no further encouragement needed, we made for his bedroom. He muttered a locking spell and I a silencing charm. Then, I dived as if I had caught sight of the snitch for the four poster bed. All I will say is that if he is a master of potions, then he is a god in the bedroom. I hope I have his stamina at his age. God, I wish I had his stamina now, and I'm the one who is supposed to be the professional athlete. Mind you, if there was a sport that would require the ability to breathe through your ears and hum at the same time, then Sev would have every gold medal going.
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