Snape's voice is as cold as it has ever been.
“Today we shall begin a new lesson on control. Strip.”
Harry obeys immediately because he knows the consequences if he doesn't; the tips of his ears heating as he follows Snape back into that sparse bedroom where there's furniture and colour but no feeling, no emotion.
Snape tells him to lie down on the bed, but makes no move to remove those over-buttoned black robes. This is new: Harry is taken by surprise when Snape whips out his wand and cries “Legilimens!”
Snape enters his mind almost immediately. He flicks though Dudley hits him in the Cedric's books spilling out his hand clutching a fluttering Snitch as the Dementors closed in and he heard his mother singing Christmas carols in the Great Hall and pumpkin juice and flying keys and Hagrid and spiders and Ron after Quidditch and Hermione in the library — as though he is looking for a particular set of memories.
He finds them soon enough. Hermione in the library researching Polyjuice Potions steal ingredients from Snape's sneer, Snape's hands running over Harry's bleeding back, the rod in his hands still dripping, and Snape reaming Harry, his tongue creating a vaguely ticklish sensation and two dark heads clashed violently together and they pull back so Harry can see it's his godfather and Harry screaming, writhing with his cock in his hand as he imagines it is Snape's, and Snape's tongue on his own, velvety like porridge as they chatted peacefully over coffee, early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows of the Burrow and-
He pulls out. That is a little more personal than necessary.
Harry stares at him, the taste of the now-obsolete counter-curse lingering on the tip of his tongue. He wishes Snape hadn't seen any of those things, those private pieces of himself that scream “you like it” accusingly at him every morning — but especially that last one. This is much more a romantic fancy than one of his obscene daydreams. “I-“
“You know the rules of this room, Mr Potter,” says Snape. “Do not speak until spoken to. Ten points from Gryffindor.”
Harry wonders if he can get away with 'replying' to that, however decides it would be best not to risk it. Snape has an ugly look on his face, and his thoughts seem to be far away from here.
Perhaps Snape is thinking about a recurring vision Potter seems to have. He would not be surprised to see himself the star of Harry's wanking fantasies, however the presence of Black, the godfather, would more than disturb him — it would sicken him to his stomach. The image of Harry groaning as he palmed an eager, erect cock; of him spelling Severus's name into his pillow with his tongue; of him keening lightly and licking precome from his fingers, all as he imagined Snape and Black... well.
How much of those thoughts had trickled in from Snape's mind, and how much was imagination? Harry recoils when Snape turns a dark gaze upon him. Not since the beginning of these lessons has he felt so defiant and vulnerable: he knows the bastard of a Potions Master longs to hurt him, like he would kick a wounded puppy. Harry waits to be taken over a knee and spanked until he bruises.
“Potter,” he hears instead. “That will be all for today.”
“I said, that will be all. Put your clothes back on.”
“That was the lesson, sir?” asks Harry, incredulity clear in his tone.
“Do not ask questions,” replies Snape automatically.
Harry looks at him, and Snape seems to understand his confusion. “There is always some madness in love, but there is reason in madness,” he quotes, as though that vindicates his actions appropriately. “Get out of my sight.”
Harry stands, still naked, and glowers at Snape, who matches his gaze with an equal measure of righteous fury — a technique which usually throws Harry off. Not, however, on this occasion.
“I don't have to do this, you know,” sneers Harry, drawing himself up to his full height (which is still under Snape's chin) and tilting his head defiantly. Snape frowns.
“May I remind you that you do have to do this, Mr Potter; in fact, you need these lessons not only for your own protection, but also to pass the imminent exams.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “I have to learn, but not from you.”
“Then from whom?” Snape 'tut tut tut's condescendingly. “Mr Potter, you are not running an ordinary curriculum. The magic we are practicing is a sacred and forbidden art. Although I do know two other wizards who have mastered it; the Dark Lord and our very own Albus Dumbledore. Would you prefer to ask their help?”
Harry thinks for a moment that he will say yes, just in a wild act of anger and frustration, to get a rise out of the old bastard... but instead he deflates, sinking in on himself. “Fuck you, Snape,” he mumbles, barely audible — but Snape hears.
“That will be ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter. I am afraid I must be going. I shall make it another twenty if I don't see you at the stroke of midnight tomorrow evening. Dismissed.”
Harry nods, clenching his fists and jaw tight, not wanting to explode right now. If he has to learn control, then he's going to sodding well show he's got the basics down. He stomps out, shoes echoing sharply on the slate.
Midnight rolls around and Harry lolls in the archway of the library, entertaining thoughts of refusing to go, of heading back to bed and rolling up his invisibility cloak and having a nice long wank before drifting back to sleep.
But he knows he will only think of Snape, so he descends the stairs to the dungeons once again. Snape meets him at the door.
“Mr Potter,” he says. “How good of you to turn up. I'm pleased to see that you may be curbing your addiction to defiance.”
“I'm not addicted to anything,” Harry shoots back.
“Oh? Not the crowds at Quidditch, screaming your name? Not the feel of being a hero as a Hall filled with students applauds you? Not the feeling of the Headmaster's hand on your shoulder as he commends you for breaking the rules and coming out unscathed?”
Harry shakes his head. “You never understand me.”
“I understand you better than you think. You string yourself up, lynch yourself in front of the cheering crowd. And you think you're a martyr for it.” He shook his head, in sadness, in amusement. “But you're just another whore.”
Then he's on the couch and ohgod Snape's fingers playing with his balls and ohfuck Snape's hair brushing his stomach and ohyes Snape's lips around his cock. Harry almost laughs because Snape can't sneer now, but the humour in that is abruptly strangled by another moan, mixed with garbled obscenities. He's tightening his fingers around Snape's shoulders and he's coming, he's coming, he's—
“If I hadn't expected as much, I would say you were a disappointment, Mr Potter,” says Snape, and now that he can sneer he does so, down the nose and straight into Harry's cock which — embarrassingly enough — is already demanding more attention.
When Harry doesn't reply, Snape backhands him.
“Control, Potter!” he shouts as Harry clutches a bleeding nose, the pain putting paid to any glimmer of a new erection. “You must learn to control your desires as much as you must learn to control your anger, your fear; these other emotions that can be used against you by anyone with a penchant for mind control.”
Harry stares up at him. “I can't-“
“Never say you can't, Potter,” hisses Snape, his entire stance taking an abrupt about-face from the spitting maniac he had been mere moments before. His face is pressed right up close to Harry and he flicks out a tongue to catch the red droplets that are raining from between his fingers. “Because you can. People have died to make sure you can. Sirius Black has died.”
There is a silence, and Harry can barely suppress the feelings of hate. “You bastard,” he mutters. “You bastard! How dare you refer to his death as though it was just another lesson to turn me from the path of juvenile fucking delinquent? How dare you say his name as though you can make it mean something?”
He glowers at Snape with unrepentant eyes, and Snape just shakes his head. Harry's given up stanching the blood, and it dribbles over his chest in an indecipherable scrawl.
“You think you can provoke me,” says Snape.
Harry doesn't reply.
“You think you can break me,” says Snape.
Harry doesn't reply.
“You think you can hurt me,” says Snape, and there is a mad glint in his eye: not of anger or fear or anything decipherable but as though he isn't here, as though he is standing over a Muggleborn and watching his friends rain Cruciatus down upon her; waiting to be the next to cry Crucio and plunge himself into her writhing body.
He looks like he's going to fucking kill (fuck and kill?) Harry, who begins to back away.
The single syllable shatters the silence. Snape turns and strides away, shutting the door softly behind him. Harry is left in these dismal quarters with no instructions and it hits home that he's here as a student, not as a lover, when he doesn't know what to do.
The most obvious option seems to be to go after his Potions Master.
The congealing blood pitter-patters on the stone as he leaves.
Snape doesn't apologise when next they meet, just ties him to the bed with Slytherin scarves and decorates him with slim silver chains. “This, Potter, may seem like your typical bondage scenario: however a learned wizard can use the pattern of chains to form an almost unbreakable bond. Any student worth his salt will never let his master bind him in this way.”
He says all this in a matter-of-fact tone, as though Harry is sitting in front of him in a classroom, and not lying naked and spread-eagled on the bed.
“Quick, Potter,” he says, “Recite the three main ingredients used in sex magic.”
“Blood, silver and s-semen, sir.”
“Exactly,” says Snape forcefully, ignoring Harry's embarrassment. “And already we have the presence of silver, with the other two ingredients easily attainable. Do you know what this pattern symbolises?”
Harry looks at the chain; it runs from his ankles to his groin, where it splits into three; to his neck, and his spread wrists. “Er... no, sir?”
“Ten points from Gryffindor,” says Snape. “You are bound using the alchemic symbol for 'silver.' He traced it over Harry's chest, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his long fingers. “This in itself makes the spell potent enough to cause fatality. However, not binding. What does the binding, Potter?”
“My blood?” says Harry, more a question than an answer.
“Indeed. And once bound, the effects of the spell depend upon the use of the ingredients.” He flicks his wand and the chains vanish. “You will find more about the alchemic symbols and their uses on page three hundred of the textbook. I expect you to be able to bind someone for three different purposes by the next time we meet.”
Harry groans inwardly at how much time he'll have to sacrifice from his other subjects to get this done, and tries not to think what Hermione will say.
(“You're falling behind in Charms, Potions... even Defence Against the Dark Arts! Harry, is there something wrong?”
“No, Hermione, it's-“
“Look, you can tell us. Who knows, we might even be able to help!”
“It's not Voldemort, Hermione,” he says heavily, but she nods her head.
“Then what is it? Professor Snape's Occlumency lessons?” Harry had told them he'd been assigned to McGonagall, like every other boy. He didn't want Hermione, let alone Ron, to find out what he'd been doing with Snape in the dead of the night, even if it was a prescribed class.
“Yeah,” he said. “Something like that. I'm just really... tired all the time.”
Ron winked. “Minnie getting too much for you, Harry?”
Hermione blushed. “Really, Ron.”
“Isn't it obvious? The boy's absolutely worn out; can't concentrate; just wants-“
“Can we drop this please?” Harry asked waspishly. Every student was embarrassed about what they had to do. Even the former students didn't like talking about the 'fucking exams'. Even bookish Hermione wasn't as enthusiastic about this part of their education. So they changed the subject.)
Harry pulls his robes back on, barely bothering to do up all the buttons, but Snape is inspecting him from the high-backed chair and he suddenly has an urge to look something other than a slovenly teenager, to present himself in a manner more befitting the adult he mightn't survive to be.
Instead he slings his tie around his shoulders, stuffs his socks in his pocket, and pads out.
“Sex magick” says the book boldly, every time Harry opens it, and he can practically hear the Crowleyan 'k'. “A chaotic and unstructured look at the influences a wizard's passions may inflict upon the every-day and sometimes uncommon life of-“
Harry turns the page. He can practically recite the spiel by heart, now. The book has a high, breathy voice as though it's just on the edge of coming — and Harry supposes that if his pages had chapters headed “when punishments aren't punishments” he might be in a perpetual state of orgasm, too.
The lessons are always erratic, not like Potions where everything is a building block and you need to understand the properties of base solutions before you can even dream of moving on to the advanced stuff. Snape tries to be methodical, and assigns assignments and designs lesson plans continuously, but even the textbook seems to switch from BDSM to lubricating spells to asphyxiation, and Harry can see it's an attempt to reign in chaos and line it up all neatly.
Control seems to be the key to the entire puzzle, and it is also the only thread holding the lessons together of late. One day Snape might take him backwards over the desk just because he feels like it, the next he'll give him the Kama Sutra and leave him alone in the bedroom to read. The point of the lesson only seems apparent when he stalks back in while Harry's having a subtle masturbatory session; he looks at the precome splattered on Harry's fingers and rolls his eyes.
“Disappointing,” he intones solemnly, and goes back to his desk.
“Not up to standard,” he says later when Harry's trembling beneath his fingers, white-hot come shooting onto his chest.
“You're a failure Potter,” he shouts as Harry comes before he's even three quarters of the way in Snape, the blush on his cheeks matching the one on his cock.
Harry doesn't know what to do. “I'm a teenage boy,” he says. Snape ignores him. “I can't help-“
“You can help it and you will help it because I am not sullying myself with your adolescent body for nothing.”
“Fine then,” shrieks Harry, hurt and angry with himself for hurting and angry with Snape for hurting him and just one big broiling pot of teenage angst. “Fuck you! As though I need to be here anyway...”
“And we come back to this again.” Snape is scornful of his eruptions. “Can't even control your temper, much less your prick. I should fail you now. Why waste the examiner's time when I can give you a T and be done with it?”
Time shudders to a halt for Harry. “No. You wouldn't. You couldn't.”
“I could,” says Snape. “Of course, I would have to continue tutoring you. As the Headmaster has most likely explained, your progress through this course is necessary; however I can ensure that none of this counts towards your N.E.W.T.s”
Harry thinks of the course requirements. “But- I need this,” he says. “I need...”
“Me?” Snape finishes for him, the hint of a smirk curving his cruel lips.
“No, you bastard, the marks! I need the marks to become an Auror!”
“Just like your father,” spits Snape. “Wanting to play the good guy. Aurors kill innocent people too, Potter.”
“I'm going to be an Auror,” yells Harry. “You can't take that away from me. I'm going to be an Auror and I'm going to kill her. Because some people,” he thinks of a hand disappearing behind the veil, and his blood boils. “Some people could never be innocent.”
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster,” quotes Snape, his face as impassive and immovable as the frozen surface of the Great Lake. Harry longs to search for hidden depths.
“I never understand you,” he cries, and perhaps in a less impassioned moment Snape would have responded with something like tenderness, but Harry flings it at him as an accusation. As though it is Snape's fault for not being open for all the world to read and tear apart.
“I understand you all too well, Potter,” whispers Snape. “Leave.”
Snape holds up one hand when Harry turns up the next night, scuffing his feet against the slate. “Don't apologise, Potter, I don't think I could stand it.”
Harry's neck just bows further. “I wasn't planning on it,” he says in a low and venomous voice.
“Why am I not surprised?” Snape seems to ask he empty air. He goes over to the cupboard in the corner and inwardly, Harry is whimpering because it deserves capital letters: The Cupboard In The Corner; it always contains instruments of immense pain... and immense pleasure.
Snape takes out the whip. It's not a proper leather whip; more a lithe willow switch, but it's been charmed to have just as much flexibility as rubber. It has a silver grip — of course, everything in this room is bloody silver, as though if they include enough magical theory it'll stop being a mere parody of a lesson.
Harry wordlessly drops his trousers and goes to lean over the desk. There are essays on it. Ron's, he can see, from yesterday's Potions class — the essay he'd never really had time to do. He's spent five years doing his homework in his bed after dark, and now even that time has been taken away from him for the Greater Good.
He's so busy being bitter about his status as Saviour of The Wizarding World that he isn't expecting the first stroke.
“Oh, fuck,” he yells, and loses ten points from Gryffindor.
The second stroke is just as even handed as the first: hard, but not hard enough to break the skin. It creates a neat stripe along the crest of his buttocks which he can feel even if he can't see. This one, however, he bites his tongue for and takes it as penance. It doesn't hurt so much when he justifies it.
That one was for calling out after the first one, he tells himself.
This one is for not handing in my Potions assignment.
This one is for leaving one shoelace undone (he can see it if he tilts his head an awkward angle).
This one is for not brushing my hair this morning (or ever, really).
This one is for copying the last three inches of Hermione's History of Magic essay.
This one is for thinking about boys in the shower this morning.
This one is for forgetting Sirius is dead.
This one is for being five minutes late to Charms.
This one is for telling lies.
This one is for telling lies.
This one is for telling lies.
(Once he runs out of excuses, he usually just pretends it's Umbridge. She needs no excuses, after all.)
Fifty strokes later, he has progressed from wincing, to sobbing, to heartfelt screaming each time Snape brings down the whip to crack it across his buttocks, which feel like a thousand ants have decided to sting their way through it.
He knows that if Snape wanted to, he could make it feel good. He's done it before; just the right mixture of caresses and rubbing mixed in with the sharp sting and Harry would wiggle and spurt against his hand, the blood throbbing in his temples and his fingertips.
But he doesn't, and Harry's secretly grateful. At least when he's in pain, Harry can hate Snape.
Weeks pass by in a blur of “I'm coming, I'm coming” and almost-saying-Severus-instead-of-sir.
Then it is time for exams. Everyone's studying, scurrying from classroom to classroom, but Harry's dangling from the ceiling in the dungeons. Snape's teaching him Japanese rope bondage, and they slither around him like snakes. Harry wishes he could talk to them, tell them to loosen just a little; all the blood is rushing to his cock without any stimulus other than the way in which he's being held.
“I hope my friends aren't wondering where I am,” he says aloud. No-one responds, and that's a nice feeling, so he continues to mutter to himself. “After all, Snape's hardly going to take me out of class time for Occlumency, is he? And they're in Transfiguration, so McGonagall can't be doing anything — not that Ron even knows what rope bondage is. I've seen their textbooks; they're a lot slimmer, and quite a bit more chaste. More insert Tab A into Slot B sort of stuff. Hermione's been practicing with him, I reckon. It kind of makes me sad — not the fact that they're together, but the fact that they haven't told me yet. Then again, it's not like I've exactly told them about Snape...”
“But what is there to tell?”
Harry would have jumped at any other time, but as it is he's strung so tight he can't scratch his nose. “Sir?” he says, keeping the stammer from his voice. “I didn't know you were still here.”
“There are a lot of things you don't know, Potter,” Snape snaps. “Are you feeling suitably fuckable yet?”
Harry blushes, but doesn't ask to get down.
“You will have two examinations, Potter. One will be at the same time as the other students, where you demonstrate to beautiful young examiners your understanding of — how did you put it again? Ah yes — 'Tab A into Slot B.'” His lips twich as though he's trying not to laugh. “Your second examination will take place with me, in this dungeon, at midnight tomorrow evening. You must pass both in order to quality for your N.E.W.T.s.”
He holds his face very close to Harry's, and Harry (despite being upside-down) is reminded of Uncle Vernon's intimidation tactics. He wonders idly what it would be like if Snape wasn't a horrible, greasy, sadistic wanker. Perhaps they could take tea together, laughing over Hermione and Ron, Snape swearing that if he had to teach another Weasley, he'd quit...
With an abrupt start, Harry realises Snape is still watching him, an almost curious look upon his face. “'Love is a state where man sees things decidedly as they are not'. Is that who you think I am, Potter? Who you think I have the capacity to be?”
Having no freedom of movement, Harry makes sure to choose his words wisely. “I'm not in love with you, if that's what you mean. It's just a daydream of mine, sir.”
“Daydreams are weakness!” snaps Snape. Harry wonders if that's hurt flickering in the steadiness of his hands. “Haven't I taught you anything about control!? If I can see that, others can also. And they will not be as merciful as me in using it against you, do I make myself clear?”
“Yessir,” responds Harry numbly, and Snape severs his bonds with a flick of his wand and watches him crash to the ground.
“Now that you are back in reality, Potter, I will remind you again. Midnight, tomorrow evening. Be there or work for the Knight Bus.”
“It shouldn't be a question of our grades.” Harry's voice isn't scornful, or angry, or whining... it's just blank. “It's not fair to ask people to- people to-“
“Everyone has to,” Snape says matter-of-factly. “I had to, when I was your age. Your father had to. The bastard godfather you idolise had to. Everyone does, and we're wizards, we're strong, we get used to it.”
Tears prick the corners of Harry's eyes, but he will not let Snape see him cry. “But not with you,” he says. “Why with you? Why does everyone else? And I? And we-” he gestures helplessly.
“Midnight tomorrow, Potter,” is all Snape says, and Harry barely has time to gather his clothes around him and rub his chafe marks before he's booted into empty corridors.
Harry arrives already panting and half-hard — not due to any stray encounter in the hallway, but purely because he is running late, and the thought of what Snape might do to him for the indiscretion bypasses his brain and goes straight to his groin.
But Snape's voice is sweet as honey as Harry neatly arranges his clothes on the straight-backed chair.
“I have spent quite a few hours brewing this potion,” he says, holding up a glass vial filled with viscous translucent liquid. “It is to be the core of today's work, which shall be a test on the nature of and your mastery of control.”
Harry nods, not trusting himself, or Snape's seeming good mood, to speak.
“I have prepared a small portion for your study. By tomorrow night, you shall be able to tell me its ingredients, its properties, and hopefully its name. I am going to assume your honesty and — as much as it pains me - trust that you will not ask Granger's advice.”
Harry blushed as he imagined it.
(“Hermione, what does this do?”
She looked at it, and her cheeks coloured slightly. “I-“ she said, and at first Harry thought she didn't know. But then he realised she was just hesitant about telling him.
“Don't worry,” he said reassuringly, “I know it's probably Dark Magic. Snape gave it to me.”
He regretted the slip as soon as her eyes widened. “Snape gave it to you? Harry, this isn't Dark magic, it's Sex magic... and much more advanced than anything Ron and I have done...”)
Harry starts and looks up at Snape, feeling like a deer trapped in headlights. That was the giveaway; for all his kind noises, Snape is play-acting, because he didn't say 'Harry', he said 'Potter' in that same annoyed, nasal way of his.
“I shall assume you were not listening and reiterate myself. Your testing time is exactly one day. By nine pm tomorrow evening, you will come to me and tell me what this is.”
“Sounds more like Potions to me.”
Snape drops the saccharine sweetness. “Blood and silver and semen, Potter. Nine o'clock this evening isn't twenty-four hours away. Just because the research revolves around a potion, doesn't mean the practical will.”
Harry gapes at him a little, and Snape rolls his eyes. “Why are you still here? Every minute is one less thing you've found out. Now go!”
Scrolls and scrolls land before Snape. Some bounce off the desk and onto the uncarpeted floor. “That was all I could find,” Harry says wearily, the time it took evident in the dark shadows under his eyes.
“Barely good enough, Mr Potter,” says Snape. “Now, quickly, what did you discover the potion to be called?”
“It's a Tangerus Exchange potion,” sayes Harry.
“And what does it do?”
“That... well, I'm not quite sure, at first I thought you switched bodies, kind of like a Polyjuice potion, but it said you exchanged... skin... I don't know, it was badly translated.”
Snape nods. He doesn't seem angry. “As it happens, there are no books you could acquire legally that could tell you exactly what it does do. I am surprised you found the ingredients-” his obsidian eyes snap up to meet Harry's. “You did research the necessary ingredients?”
Harry waves a hand at the scrolls. “It's all in there,” he says. He may not be amazing at Potions, but every year seems to involve going through the library so he has become good at finding things out — even without Hermione's help. “How did you get my. Um.”
“Your semen, Potter? It's not as if you don't leave enough of it lying around. I'm surprised; most teenage boys learn good cleaning charms almost as soon as they learn how to masturbate.” Snape's tone is clinical; Harry blushes anyway.
“I didn't think I'd have to-“
“Clean up after yourself? Of course not. Why should the Great Harry Potter stoop as low as the menial tasks of a House Elf?” Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Snape cuts him off. “Enough of this talk. The examination is in progress, Potter. You are going to demonstrate your knowledge of the body-compass and the five key alchemical signs.”
Snape unstoppers the bottle, and pours some of it (it looks like that liquid soap Aunt Petunia used to have in the guest bathroom) onto Harry's quickly cupped hands. Then he begins to neatly, efficiently, remove his clothes.
Harry realises what Snape wants him to do when he prostrates himself on the table. It feels strange; it isn't the first time he has been the one clothed and Snape helpless before him, but it is the first time there haven't been instructions barked in his ear, or muffled commands issued around moans. For once he is in control, and he's not sure he likes it.
He starts at the shoulders, and the shock of the cold and the unusual feeling (not quite liquid, and definitely not oily, more like silk or satin being trailed over the skin) causes Snape to gasp aloud. He continues downwards, making sure to make the massage completely impersonal, or as much as it can be — and indeed, this is not for Snape's gratification, but for a demonstration of his own knowledge.
The patterns he strokes along the skin are ancient and magical.
“Sir,” he says. “Turn over.”
Snape does so, but Harry is still at his feet, sliding smooth fingers between each long toe. He runs his fingers down the arches, and Snape practically pulls away from him.
“Watch your mouth Potter,” grunts Snape, his voice hoarse. Harry is reassured because Snape is still in control, even while Harry's fingers are dancing up his legs towards his half-mast cock.
He doesn't linger there for long, however, just moves up and out, little fish-scale patterns traced around the nipples, signs of lust and fertility from the navel to the neck. When Snape's body is completely coated, he rises from the table — still as ugly and hairy as ever, but with a sheen more oily than his usual skin tone. Harry would like to be able to compare him to a Greek god, but it is only his demeanour that reflects power — with his sunken chest and crooked teeth, Snape is not a pretty man.
Harry doesn't mind. He's had months to get used to it, after all.
He guesses correctly what comes next, and is down to his underwear practically before Snape has to say anything. Snape is a master masseuse, though Harry's mind does not linger on how or with whom he learned, just the fabulous sensations running from every pore of his body all the way to his prick.
“Please,” he says, when Snape has turned him over and his rubbing his buttocks in big, slow circles. “Please, I want you inside me.”
“There will be time enough for that, Mr Potter,” Snape says, and runs tiny spider-fingers down the back of Harry's thighs, brushing over the sparse hairs that grow there and pinching his way up and down the calves.
Harry's a little too dazed to get up himself; he feels like that time Lockhart spelled all his bones away, except all over his body (except, perhaps, his cock). “I-“ he says, and the rest sounds vaguely like “Mnmnnmm.” Snape snorts and grabs him roughly by the forearm, tugging him to his feet.
“If you wish to pass your practical, Potter, you had best be awake for it,” he snaps, and Harry allows himself to be led over to the couch, its stiff fabric rusting against the smooth feel of his body. Harry had shaved half his leg once, on a dare from Seamus, and Hermione had put moisturiser on the red lumps that had formed afterwards. That was what his skin felt like; hot and cold and itchy and smooth and oily. It was crawling all over him, the potion — dipping in and out of his flesh as effortlessly as a needle through cloth.
“I think it has had time for the effect to register,” says Snape, as clinical as ever. “Sit on the rug.” Harry sits on the rug and it rubs against his bare arse tantalisingly. The fire is not lit — this is not, after all, a romance novel — but he's getting more aroused every second Snape's eyes rest hungrily on him.
“You will come when I tell you,” says Snape, “And not before. This is a lesson in control. Remember that Potter, and keep your wits about you.” And then he touches himself, long fingers wrapping around his long cock — and Harry is startled as the pleasure shoots through his own and it begins to stir. He throws his head back and moans as somehow Snape begins to find all of Harry's sensitive places, on his own cock — and abuse them mercilessly.
Then Snape pulls back — just for a moment, but it is a mistake, for it allows Harry to regain his senses. His jumbled mind pieces together the meaning behind these sensations, and his hands jump to his own, now straining, cock, running a thumb over the head and watching the other man's shudder.
It's strange — he's finding more pleasure in watching Snape's reaction as his head rolls back and his muscles clench, than he is from his own hand. Likewise, the Potions Master is leering at the sight of Harry fondling himself.
Snape leans over then, pushing the pleasure aside and kissing Harry on the lips — and it is the strangest experience, like feeling the ghost of his own lips as an echo. Then Snape reaches for his cock again and they begin to send each other into spasms of ecstasy.
But the best and worst is still yet to come. Still rubbing himself, Snape pushes a whimpering Harry onto his back and leans down to take the erection, still wrapped tightly in Harry's hand, into his own mouth. He gasps, and almost bites down, and then just as suddenly doesn't, and Harry is groaning and speaking incoherently, pushing his hips up and his cock into Snape's warm, wet mouth. It only takes a few minutes of this, and Harry begins to feel himself tightening; he reaches down to tangle his fingers in greasy black hair-
But Snape draws back, wiping his mouth off with an already sticky hand. “Now, now, Mr Potter, I haven't wasted my time teaching you control for nothing. Have patience. You only get to take the exam again... if you pass.”
“Then go slower... please...” whispers Harry piteously. Snape rolls his eyes and acquiesces, returning to a gentle, slow hand rhythm that only serves to drive Harry wild. He watches — and feels it — as Snape traces every ridge of his cock, first with one finger, then the next; as he runs a thumb over the vein underneath, and then up to gather precome from the swollen, dark red tip.
Harry bites his lip, hard enough to taste blood and start that smouldering in beetle-black eyes. Snape always likes it when he bleeds, even if he won't admit it. He begins to shake, watching Professor Snape do that to himself — do it to him. His own hand quivers around his cock, which pulses of its own accord, throbbing like a live thing in his hand.
“You will come when I tell you, and not before,” says Severus, repeating his words of earlier, emphasising them. His gaze bores into Harry's, keeping him still, keeping him stable.
Taking a deep breath, Harry attempts to fill his mind with images — of McGonagall, of Hagrid, of Arithmancy and History of Magic. Snape watches his mind drift away and, with a vicious smirk, squeezes his own cock — eliciting a small gasp from him, and a strangled scream from Harry.
Harry cannot stop himself crying out, but he does stop himself coming — if only by sheer force of will. Severus nods, clearly pleased, and begins to set up a more rhythmic pace. Harry does likewise, moving his hand in time to Snape's — they stroke themselves until Harry is sure everything, even their ragged breathing and quickened pulse — is beating in time to those rapid strokes. He whimpers again, sure he is about to fail this test (if it can be called that anymore.)
Fortunately, it is that moment that Snape, his face slightly flushed, begins to gasp audibly, and his hand squeezes harder than before. “Now, Potter,” he growls, his voice sensuous, husky and utterly depraved. “You idiot boy, now!”
Harry explodes into his own hand, orgasm spreading outwards from his cock and up through his belly, down his thighs and calves and right to the tips of his toes, which curl and clench and scrape on the cold stone floor. This is different to when he was beneath the red-and-gold Gryffindor sheets, biting back curses and names — this is different to in the cupboard, when spiders scrabble over the cheeks of his arse and he licks the come off his hands because it is the only salt he will get for another six hours. He wants to whisper obscenities — “oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck” — but the first spike of it stabs through his lungs and he can't breathe, not even to cry out the names running rampant through his head, not even to scream or kiss or- or—
Harry pulls a breath and screams himself hoarse; he doesn't just see stars, he sees constellations; galaxies; the entire fucking universe.
As the feeling subsides, as the wave breaks and washes away, Harry collapses limply onto his Potions Master and, too tired to even think about what he is doing, snuggles him close. The spell appears to be gone. Snape grimaces, but resigns himself to lying awake on the floor, keeping himself warm with a large blanket of sleeping teenager, and pondering why he isn't protesting. Some tortuous minutes later, he, too drifts off.
“I'm going to fail and it's all your fault.”
Snape doesn't look up from his marking quickly enough, and Harry sends the papers flying across the floor with a sweep of his arm. “It was a woman. A fucking woman.”
“A fucking woman for the fucking exams, Potter?”
Harry doesn't laugh, just glares at him. “I'm going to fail. I've been learning all this shit about blood, semen and silver and all she wanted to know was what the g-spot was. I've never touched a g-spot in my life!”
“Surely you've had a little practical experimentation on the side,” says Snape, with growing amusement.
“I don't swing that way, sir as you may well have realised by now. And any instruction I might have received on a purely academic basis was sodding routed when you went and pulled me from McGonagall's class!” His hands were balling into fists. “I've spent an entire year at your beck and bloody call and when it comes to the exam you've been all but useless!”
“You should have asked for a male examiner,” Snape says blandly.
“How was I to know I could get one, eh? Nobody else asked for one, because nobody else needed one, because nobody else was SHAGGING THEIR STUPID SODDING POTIONS PROFESSOR.”
“Ten &mdashl no, twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter.”
“STOP CALLING ME POTTER.”
“Why? It's your name, isn't it? Would you prefer I called you 'the Boy Who Lived'?”
“Fuck you Snape,” says Harry, and he can feel hot, shameful tears running in big drops down his cheeks. “Not even my friends know what's going on. How come they all have normal teachers and I- I get dumped with you?”
“As someone who is occasionally referred to as 'the last bastion of the Wizarding World' I would hope even you could see the answer to that.”
“Cut the crap about advanced sex magic, you bastard,” Harry yells. “I've tried so damn hard for you and it means nothing — not marks, not achievement, not- not anything.” He tries not to look directly at Snape.
“And this anything, Mr Potter. That wouldn't have anything to do with the fantasies, the — what did you term them? — daydreams, would they?”
“Piss off piss off piss OFF!” shrieks Harry, not caring that he's shown weakness, lost control, and is acting like a child.
“Unfortunately, Potter, you are the one in my office.”
It is the name that gets him: like a whiplash, like a bucket of cold water or a sharp slap to the face.
“I hate you,” he tells Snape coldly, looking him in the eyes, and then turning to leave.
“Midnight tomorrow,” Snape says — it isn't quite a call after him, but Harry hears. “This isn't finished yet, Potter.”
Harry forgets to learn from his mistakes.
There is a pensieve on the desk, and he can't see Snape. Is it a test, or an answer?
The Headmaster shakes his head sadly. “I am afraid it is not possible, Severus.”
“It is possible if you say it is possible,” hisses Snape, and only someone who knows him very well could hear the desperation tinging his voice. Albus Dumbledore knows him very well. Harry Potter, the small figure lolling invisible on the edge of the desk, knows him very well.
“He will not consent.” Snape glares, but the Headmaster's face remains impassive. “I know you feel it is not his decision, however I have always thought that a modicum of freedom in this issue helps along the adolescent enormously—“
Snape cuts him off. “His godfather is dead, Albus. His only living relatives are Muggles. I am the only one who can do this; through the ties he has to me; the ties of life and death that he is yet to fully repay.”
“The sins of the father do not carry through to the son,” says Dumbledore. A shadow of pain sweeps across Severus's face.
“Sometimes,” he mutters, “They have to.”
“Severus, when I allowed you to take this job, I trusted you. Would I have done so if I believed that?” The light catches on Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles, and he smiles disarmingly — but Severus's sullen scowl will not be removed.
“Of course, that is not why you refuse me.” His tone is sardonic.
“I refuse you because I know that Harry would refuse you; as he would refuse me; as he would refuse any of those people he blames for all wrongs issued him.”
“Then who do you suggest?” asks Severus.
“There are quite a few options,” says Dumbledore, running a long finger down the list on his desk. “Through his father's side, Harry is distantly related to quite a few people we are familiar with. The Weasleys, for instance.”
Snape waves his hand dismissively. “They are too distant. He is to be the saviour of the wizarding world, Albus; he needs more than just vague traces of blood. He needs strong ties— we must provide him with them, for his own good.”
Slowly the weight of the world seems to settle onto the Headmaster's shoulders. “I can not allow you to force him into anything he doesn't want.”
“There will be no force necessary,” Snape says, and Harry flinches back from the look that passes between both men.
“To think, the irony of your demand... if he knew.”
“You will not tell him, Albus. Not this.”
“I have kept many secrets from him, Severus,” sighs Dumbledore. “I can keep one more.”
Harry starts back, and the stone is cold against his bare feet and the fire is warm against his bare skin and he is here, in Snape's room, because Snape wants him to be — because Snape needs him to be.
There are tiny silver threads dangling from the edge of his glasses and he licks them off; they taste like blood and silver and semen.
Snape is standing in the doorway, watching him. Harry expects him to rant about pranks and control and privacy. “You have your last exams, today, you're going home tomorrow,” he says, in a voice that is filled with liquor and desperation and desire. “I had hoped.”
“You hoped wrong,” Harry sneers, angry because Snape's meant to be older and responsible and trustworthy and yet he can't tell the difference between fantasy and reality.
Harry imagines mornings together where Snape isn't a bastard, and they go for long walks together with a big gold dog - but Snape is a bastard. His limbs are too long and his flesh is too cold: he's just a greasy old pervert who pretends to be disciplinary so he can get to Harry's tight little arse.
“If I fail, I'm owling Dumbledore,” he says.
“You will not fail,” says Snape in the tone of a man who has taken care of things. “Harry-“
“Don't call me that,” snaps Harry. “Don't call me anything.” He wants to crumble and break, shatter into a thousand pieces like Sirius's mirror did when he threw it against the wall — but if there is one thing he has learned throughout all this, it is control.
“Goodbye, Professor Snape,” he says in the most even tone he can muster.
Before Snape can reply, Harry has left the dungeon for the last time, walking out into the sunshine to find his friends.