Author's Note: Ever read a Snarry fanfic and think to yourself, "this is exactly the same as the ten other Snarry fics I've read before?" Well, I've saved you a TON of trouble. Just read this and you won't even NEED those other fanfics. It'll have you completely absorbed and on the edge of your fucking seat. Don't believe me? Oh well, your fault; your insignificant review meant very little anyway.

As an adolescent, you expect your first real insight in life to happen at a spectacular moment, at the height of a battle, covered in blood, a masculine cut sliced across your chest. You expect your lover, the heroine of your life story, to walk up and kiss you passionately as your fans watch in awed amazement. She'd kiss you with a strength so powerful you'd stumble, and you'd just know that later that night she's going to whisper in your ear to fuck her brains out, and you know you're going to oblige, going to say yes, going to do it because you're just fucking like that.

But could this be accurate? Could your life, your fucking life, be like that? Theoretically it could, but the doubt would cause most people to falter. Most people would drop their head, mutter a few words and just move along back to their quarters. Most people wouldn't blink to take the easy way out; it all comes so natural, so smoothly. What else could you expect, living like that their whole life? Nothing, that's what.

But this story isn't about people like this. It isn't even about you. It's about Harry fucking Potter and his first insight to life. You think your life is simple? Look at Harry Potter: Eat, Sleep, Quidditch. Eat, Sleep, Quidditch. I could make pages of those three words, but by now you should get the damn point.

Harry Potter is the Boy-Who-Lived. The boy Voldemort couldn't kill with the killing curse because Lily's love protected him. The boy that's best friends with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, the boy who went to the Yule Ball with someone he wasn't even jizzing over, the boy whose patronus is a stag, like daddy, and whose wand is the brother of his greatest enemy's.

So Harry Potter, with his black hair, green eyes, and lanky teenage body sat numbly on his bed at 12 Grimmauld. He was only fifteen, woe was him! No one could ever compare their tragedies to his, how sorrowful was he! Your parents are seizuring in Mungo's, you're bullied in school, and you're supposed to be in Hufflepuff? How terrible! Unlike you, Harry has real problems. How would you like being the best Quidditch player in a century, have two great friends, be the headmaster's pet, and have people around you who love you? Yeah, I thought so.

But those problems were not the ones that plagued Harry at 12 Grimmauld. It was night time; he was supposed to be sleeping, as that was what he told the Weasleys he was doing. They were hosting a small, quiet party downstairs, as everyone was leaving for Hogwarts soon. All was well, but Harry had begun to feel lightheaded, and he left the party almost at once.

Why does this happen to me when… Harry refused to complete the thought, instead picking up his pillow and shoving his face into its comforting softness. His legs dangled on the side of the bed, and he kicked off his shoes and crawled under the bed covers, clothes still on. Gah! Bloody hell, I'm not even tired and I have nothing to do but think.

The party went well for the first few hours; people were actually smiling. Harry was just about to tell Hermione his unicorn joke when it all went to shit.

"Why was I not invited?" An angry voice said at the doorway, and everyone turned to see a skinny, shaking Snape standing there, legs slightly parted, his arms folded across his chest. Ron gulped beside Harry, and Hermione picked a nonexistent piece of fuzz off her coat pocket.

"Why Severus," Lupin said casually, drink in hand. "I would not think a person such as yourself would be interested in parties such as this."

"I'm not," Snape responded coolly, walking up a few paces and letting his gaze sweep the room with a small sneer. "This is all child's play. Perhaps you would prefer to end it before a headache strikes me." Remus dipped his head politely and turned back to the party, whispering to a few people as if telling them to talk quieter.

"That's not fair!" Ron said furiously, swearing under his breath, just loud enough for Snape to hear. Ron turned to Harry, fists clenched. "The greasy git can't just stride in and take over and ruin all the fun! It's his bloody fault if he invites himself to a party he doesn't want to be at!"

"I know, I know," Said Harry quietly, avoiding Snape's eyes that were burning holes into him from above Ron's left shoulder. Harry dropped his voice to a low whisper, glancing around. "We just gotta deal with it; it's all we can do. You know Snape, if we argue now he'll make us miserable when he can back at Hogwarts. No sense making him mad."

Ron just muttered a few more curses under his breath and began ranting to Hermione, who wasn't looking him in the eye. Harry wasn't sure what to do, so he walked over to the couch and sat down, scratching a small zit on his chin with feigned interest. He watched as Snape strode over to Mr. Weasley, conversing with him for a few minutes about something before walking into the kitchen. Harry watched his dark form until it vanished from his sight. His hair didn't look as greasy as it usually did, but his skin was blotchy and pale and his eyes were as hard as stones.

At that point Harry excused himself to go to bed.

Maybe I should take up smoking. Harry thought, rubbing his temples as he turned around in bed. I hear that's relaxing.

Hours passed, his body still not succumbing to sleep. Ron had long since entered their room, rolling into his bed and beginning to snore loudly. Harry took no notice, instead opting to gaze at the paint chipped on the wall. The clock on his dresser ticked on, and Harry felt his eyes get heavier and heavier. As he closed his eyes, Harry was surprised to feel a single tear fall down his left cheek, the bead of liquid stopping at the edge of his mouth.

What is going on? Why the fuck am I feeling this way? He clutched his side, rolling into the fetal position and biting his tongue. He couldn't deny his thoughts any longer, and with a great sigh he opened his mind and let his thoughts run freely.

This, pay attention, is when Harry experienced his first insight into life. As he laid there, blankets rolled up around his feet, the bed frame squeaking from age, the mattress sagging against its support rails, Harry thought of the one thing he had been hiding from himself for months. It ripped him apart, and he knew that if it was ever uncovered he wouldn't be able to live with himself. Silent tears started to slowly stream down his face, passing the first one with ease and collecting in his jutting collarbone.

Harry knew what love was. He knew what it felt like, how it wrenched your heart tubes apart and squeezed your stomach, wringing out your organs and stopping your lungs. He knew how it felt like a thousand butterflies and caterpillars were crawling inside your chest, how it felt like someone was stabbing him in the side with a dull blade. Harry knew all of this, and he knew all of this for one reason.

With a final tug the dirty little secret he'd been hiding for months and knew he would have to hide for months more came out, screaming at his mind and writhing against his throat. With a gasping breath of air Harry's limbs shook and he fell out of his bed, the blankets falling over him.

He didn't know a lot of things, but of one thing he was certain.

Harry Potter was on his bedroom floor, shaking in a dull yellow blanket, eyes crammed shut, and Harry Potter was in love with Professor Snape.