Dedicated to my best friend, Cindy.

Day 15 of the advent calendar of love and happiness- Enjoy some Ellie-written Snarry love.

My name is Harry. I consider myself a rather unremarkable man, to whom many remarkable things have happened. The most outstanding of which would be a brief but life-altering affair with a man I shall refer to simply as Mr. S.

My parents were killed when I had just barely turned one year old. I wouldn't want you to feel sorry for me, as frankly I barely knew them. It's just that a lot of people treated me differently when they found out. I didn't particularly like that distinction, because I never felt any different from other people my age. I was raised by my mother's sister and her husband. It was not a loving home, and as soon as I was old enough they rid themselves of the burden of me by sending me off to boarding school where I met my two dearest friends who became the only family I ever needed.

At seventeen, I survived a second run in with the man who had killed my parents. He was a particularly crazed sort of mad man, who came after me and all of my friends and their families... the authorities were never able to tell me exactly why but they deduced that he became obsessed with the fact that I was the only victim ever to walk away with my life (though you could argue that as I wasn't quite walking yet, I had crawled away- sorry, I've always had a terrible sense of humour) and was determined to see it through. After many failed attempts at my life, he finally took it a step too far in my senior year and ended up getting himself caught and incarcerated where he perished in a prison riot shortly there-afterwards (or so I thought).

So, to recap, orphaned as a toddler, I spent the majority of my teenage years being stalked by a serial killer before entering into an affair with my male professor in my early adulthood. Not exactly a normal life, when you add it all up, but for all of it I still consider myself a rather regular joe. Short, average build, messy hair and rather un-stylish glasses. Standard personality, a bit funny but not a comedian, nice but not too nice, normal intelligence... you get the idea.

Now, that's quite enough about me. Let's talk about Mr. S. He was the professor of Chemistry at the university I attended in my youth, and in many people eyes possibly the most repulsive man they'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. In my eyes, however, he wore any number of hats. Starting as an irrationally tyrannical professor with a vicious and arbitrary marking system, transforming into a voraciously erotic sexual partner (if 'partner' was even the correct term to apply to our carnal relations, but I'll that when we get to it) with an insatiable, oft bizarre, and never disappointing libido, and finally ending a bitterly short stint as my dearest, though most disagreeable, friend.

I could probably write a encyclopedia sized novel about all of my experiences in life, but there is only one that has stayed with me throughout the years, one that so significantly altered my perception of myself and others that I have yet to go a day without thinking on it, fifteen years later. That is my time with the widely misunderstood Mr. S, who's real name I shall never reveal. I'm not a writer, and have never found any desire to try my hand at it. But this damned man refuses to get out of my head and this is likely just my last attempt at affording myself some peace in life. Thus, the story shall be widely glazed over, save for those moments- the ones that play over and over in mind's eye, sometimes wondering if they could have gone differently, sometimes just wanting to relive them.

Mozart's Requiem Mass in D Minor, K. 626, VIII: Lacrimosa Dies Illae was left unfinished at the time of his death on December 5th, 1791 and finished by his student, Franz Xaver Sussmayr. This was the song that was playing after I had finished my final exam in Chemistry and been called into Mr. S's office. I found out later he listened exclusively to classical music, and imparted a great deal of his knowledge on the subject to me (certainly more than I ever learned about Chemistry). The translated lyrics always struck a cord with me.

That day of tears and mourning, when from the ashes shall arise, all humanity to be judged.

Not being a religious man by any means, I won't be able to explain to you exactly why these particular lyrics were so meaningful. Perhaps it was in the word judged- for never had I met somebody so commonly misjudged as Mr. S.

But let's move on with the tale.

Mr. S called me into his office, small, dark and stuffed to the brim with vials, jars, books and dust. A lone record player sat in the corner, playing the aforementioned requiem. He sat behind the crowded desk, leaning back in his chair and eyeing me as I entered, down the length of his long hooked nose. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair as his hands came together to create a steeple, joined at the tips of his abnormally long, thin fingers.

"Mr. Potter," he drawled in his deep, slow baritone. It had always sounded to me like the voice you might hear from a deep sea creature, living so deep beneath the surface that it had never seen the light of day.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" I asked.

"You have failed my class," he announced, breaking the steeple of his elegant fingers and leaning forward so that a tendril of greasy black hair slid free of it's fellows and landed un-courteously into his eyes, "Does this surprise you?"

"Not really, sir," I answered. I wasn't, in fact, surprised. I was terrible at chemistry, always had been. Though, I might have been able to pass if he hadn't singled me out from day one as his most hated student and continued the entire semester marking me accordingly. There was no point in taking it to the dean, many had tried and failed, Mr. S had some kind of unknown resistance to repercussions from that quarter.

"I do not suppose you fancy taking it again next semester?" he asked with distaste.

"About as much as I'd fancy sharing my dorm with a bed of snakes," I told him.

"I have a proposal then, Mr Potter," he said, "That will rid you of the need."

"An extra project?" I asked.

He laughed humourlessly, "Oh no, I could not bear to read another one your so called 'essays'. Before you agree to hear me out, know that you have every right to refuse this offer, take my class again on the off chance that you stand a good chance of failing a second time."

"Okay," I said curiously.

"And if you tell a single soul about this offer, whether refused or accepted," he said threateningly, "I will ensure your immediate expulsion from this institute, we both know you last essay was copied nearly word for word from a certain bright young lady who took my class the semester before yours. Plagiarism."

"Are you blackmailing me for something?" I asked, more surprised it had taken him this long to comment on that essay than the fact he had noticed.

"Of course not," he said dismissively, "I am simply ensuring your discretion."

"You have it then," I said, impatient to know what this was about.

"I have your word?" he asked again.

"You have my word, sir," I insisted.

"I want to take you to bed," he announced, without so much as flinching.

This was exactly the last thing I ever expected him to say. I blinked at him, "I'm sorry, what?"

"You are an attractive young man... with tastes that run similar to my own, I've heard. I am offering to let you pass my class if you let me fuck you."

The expletive sounded incredibly wrong coming from his haughty, conventional, ritualistic mouth. He watched me predatorily as I considered his offer, mostly to determine if I had in fact heard him correctly.

"You want to sleep with me?" I asked finally, needing more confirmation.

"I think I have successfully indicated as much," he replied sharply.

"Isn't this... against the rules?" I asked.

"On many levels," he agreed.

"Do you do this often?"

"Never."

"Don't you hate me?"

"Hatred is a strange thing, Potter," he offered, "Can you not desire something you hate, simply because you hate it?"

"Apparently you can," I said, stunned.

"I will not be gentle," he said, "But I can promise you that you will enjoy it."

My body stirred at this. At nineteen, it was loathe to refuse any offer made to it, even from this most unexpected and slightly repugnant source.

It took me nearly three days to convince myself the scene in his office had actually occurred. And nearly another three to decide if it was worth it. My hatred for chemistry ran deep, my love for sex equally so. Over the course of this week before I laid my decision on the table for him, he transformed slowly from the stuffy, lanky, greasy, hook-nosed, cruel professor into a tall, exotic, dangerous, experienced man in my mind. A man who promised dark, humiliating but deeply erotic delights.

In the end I came to the conclusion that it was sex, one time only. Even if it was awful, my nineteen year old body was certain to get something out of it, not being too hard to please. Looking back, I'm not really sure how I came to the 'yes' conclusion. I wasn't in the habit of sleeping around or using my body to further my goals... the only thing I can deduce is that I must have had some deep-seeded attraction to him that my mind had yet to acknowledge.

He took me on his desk the first time. I did say this happened more than once, didn't I? Books, pens and late submission essays were thrown to the floor and he bent me over the creaking, decrepit piece of furniture. His fingernails clawed sharply down my back as he entered me, slowly. It was the only moment of gentleness, that initial entrance, everything afterwards was as promised- decidedly not gentle, and I did enjoy every second of it. I enjoyed it more than any sex I'd had previously or since. As refined and as precise as he was in the lecture hall, he was equally as wild and unhinged in the carnal intimacy of our mutual desire.

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter," he whispered throatily into my ear afterwards, as he pressed my face into the desk with a hand on my neck, "You have just passed my class."

The second time was only three days later. Three seemed to be the magic number for us because we fucked three times that day. I marched forcefully into his office, slamming the door behind me. He look up from the stack of papers he was brutally attacking with a red pen in surprise.

"What can I do for you, Potter?" he asked, recovering quickly with a suggestive look in his eye.

"Stand up," I demanded.

To my shock, he complied easily, sliding around with a feline grace to the same side of the desk as myself.

"Well?" he asked, crossing his arms smugly.

I ran my eyes down his long form, rendered irrevocably different in my eyes from the man who stood at the front of the Chemistry class. Inky hair, obscenely large nose, thin lips, long neck, slender torso, spindly arms and legs that went on for miles. I knew from experience now how pale his skin was underneath all of the black he wore. Pale, skeletal and nearly hairless. The most alluring thing I'd ever seen, somehow.

"If you want me to fuck you again, Potter, I understand," he said with a superior look that might have been a smile, were he capable of such a thing, "But I have no more classes to pass you in."

"Shut up," I said, having no witty repartee for him.

He stared at me expectantly. I had no idea how to put what I wanted into words, so I stepped forward, gripped his greasy hair as firmly as I dared, stood on my toes and kissed him solidly.

His pushed me away almost immediately, black eyes wide. They narrowed as quickly as they had opened as he shoved me backwards into the door of his office. My head hit the solid wood with a crack, stars danced across my vision. He was ruthless as he pressed his entire body against the length of mine, and kissed me roughly, forcing entry into my mouth and plundering mercilessly.

He didn't even of our clothes off the first round. He simply spun me around, pulled my jeans down low enough to slide himself inside with only his saliva and a bit of pre-cum for lubrication.

"Harry," he grunted once fully sheathed. I didn't even realize he knew my first name until that moment, never had he called me anything but Mr. Potter.

Neither of us last long this round. Nor the second. The third round was a slow, lazy thing, both of us physically spent but both requiring more. It could almost have been described as gentle, if Mr. S had been capable of such a thing.

The affair continued every few days for the entirety of the next semester. I could sit here and describe to you in detail nearly every encounter, so ingrained they are in my memory, along with every object, scratch, ding, and dust molecule in that office that became my secret sanctuary. Some things, however, are to remain private. As strong as is my desire to share the delicious contradiction that was Mr S., so is my eagerness to protect the memory of the person who became so dear to my heart.

Did I love him? Oh, I loved him. Did I hate him? Absolutely. Did I respect him every bit as much as I disdained him? I felt every single emotion another person could make you feel at one point or another in his presence.

Gradually, we learned that we enjoyed each other's company. I'm not sure exactly when it happened, probably one of those times when we were both to exhausted to move, either to go around round or simply clean ourselves up and part ways. I started asking him questions in these moments. Why did he listen to classical music? It aided focus. Did he have family? None worth mentioning. Could he help me with a problem from my mathematics class? Absolutely not, what did I think this was.

Single questions turned to conversation. As much as he seemed to despise every student that walked into his classroom, and had a strong aversion to correcting tests and marking essays... he loved to impart knowledge to others.

Conversations about music or philosophy or science turned into something deeper and more intimate. I shared with him the circumstances of my growing up, and he in turn opened up about his own personal life.

He had loved once- a smart, kind woman who had been his childhood friend. A childhood in which he was mercilessly bullied. She did not return his affection, married another man whom Mr. S bitterly hated, and he never moved on. She had been the only person to accept his... well, his varying eccentricities. Her acceptance had meant the world to him and he hadn't ever found anything remotely like it since. He'd had his fair share of sexual partners, unsurprising to me now that I knew exactly how sensual of a being he really was, but nobody had ever liked him as she had.

Speaking of eccentricities and sexual partners... I slowly grew to learn exactly how deep his perversions lay. He did things to me and asked things in return that I never in a hundred years could have come up with on my own. Pain in some form or another was a feature in nearly every one of our rendezvous, that came to feel normal to me, among other standard BDSM things- restraints, hot wax, whips, blindfolds, etc. It was the other things like his arousal to being cold or watching me feeling cold, he liked to run ice cubes over my skin and follow it with his fingers and lips just to feel the cold flesh. Probably the strangest thing he ever asked me to do was give him a hand job, but to pull my hands away just at the point of orgasm, ruining it for him. We did that several times, until finally, curious I asked to try and quickly determined I never wanted that experience again.

This is why I say he grew to be my closest friend. He knew me in a way nobody else ever will again, something about the depravity of our intimacy and the depth of the ensuing conversations connected us together with an undeniable, inextinguishable strength.

It is with a heavy heart that I now acknowledge the emptiness in my chest that has lingered there, festering for the last fifteen years. Remember I mentioned that mad man who made frequent attempts on my life and how he had died in a prison riot? Well, I had been misinformed.

The semester had just come to a close. Mr. S and I had begun discussions on what was to happen during the summer. It was impossible to consider ceasing the affair, that was no more feasible than ceasing to consume food or water, such was our need. He offered me the spare bedroom in his summer home, and I was quite seriously considering it. The question was, how could I explain to my friends were I was going? I had told them nothing about what was happening in my life the last few months and felt immeasurable guilt because of it.

I delayed giving him my decision for days. His office was all packed up and covered in plastic as it was to undergo a fresh coat of paint in his seasonal absence- our usual meeting place was out of the question. Still unwilling to acknowledge our relationship in any sort of public manner, even though it was far from against the rules now, I had requested he meet me on the roof of one of the campus buildings for one final conversation before I gave him my answer.

"You are ashamed," he accused me, squinting in the sunlight. I had never seen his flesh in the sun before, it occurred to me. I wondered when was the last time anyone else ever had? He was even more pale than I previously thought, his hair and eyes even blacker. So black they seemed to absorb all light as it was reflected off his skin.

"Not ashamed," I argued, "I just don't think they'll get it."

"Who?" he asked, making me feel guilty.

"Everyone!" I said louder than I intended.

"Then why are we bothering?" he raised his voice as well.

"I don't know," I said, angry.

"I will save you the trouble then, Mr. Potter," he said coldly, narrowing his eyes, "I rescind my invitation."

"Don't be petty," I I snapped, "You're not five."

"Potter..." he said, trailing off, his eyes wide, looking at something behind me, "Is that..?"

I had never seen that look in his eyes, it was fear. Whipping around, I spotted the source of his concern. It took me a long moment of staring at the terrifyingly familiar face of the mad man, my own personal stalker who would stop at nothing to see me dead, to finally comprehend what I was seeing. He was dead, wasn't he? Yet here he stood, gun pointed at my head, safety disengaged.

"Harry Potter," the mad man said, "Come to die."

The events that followed happened in slow motion. This is the scene that replays every night, behind my eyes as I try to sleep. How could I have changed the outcome of this moment? Every single night I see the mad man's finger as it closes in on the trigger, I hear the explosion of the bullet releasing from the chamber. I see a flash of black in front of me, dashing towards the attacker, then stumbling back towards me as the bullet made impact.

I caught Mr. S as he nearly falls, leaning back heavily on me. Comprehension dawned on his face as he looks from me to the growing wet stain on his chest. His hand, with it's long elegant fingers reached up to stroke my cheek tenderly.

"Harry," he said with such softness as I've never heard in his voice.

We both heard the mechanical click of the gun as a second bullet is positioned. Decision overtook over his expression and he stood up straight, removing his weight from my arms.

"Her name was Lily," he said simply, "Lily Potter."

He launched himself forward before I have a chance to react. Suicidal idiot! I screamed inside my head as I watched him latch onto the mad man, the strength of the impact forcing both of them over the edge of the roof, eight stories above ground.

They had already hit the ground by the time I reached the edge to look over. Dead on impact, the paramedics later informed me, and the bullet surely would have killed him if the fall had not. He knew he was going to die, so he used his last seconds on earth to ensure my continuing life.

That day of tears and mourning,

when from the ashes shall arise,

all humanity to be judged.

The gift he gave me was greater than just his life for my own. He gave me a connection to my mother, an understanding of the kind of person she was. He gave me a better understanding of myself and what I wanted out of life. He gave me an appreciation and passion for learning that ensured I remained in school and finished out my degree.

Eventually, I did tell my friends, many months later, when I finally found the strength to talk about him again, to speak his name. The very last thing I wanted anybody to think is that I was ashamed.

Fini