FIC: Much As I Like - Harry/Snape, NC-17 (Part 1 of 2)

Author: Sine Que Non 767
Title: Much As I Like
Feedback: sine_que_non767@yahoo.co.uk
Homepage: :: gutter and the stars ::
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Summary: Poor little Harry, lying defenceless in his bed. Advantage will be taken.
Categories: First Time, Drama/Angst
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Beta thanks: Noblerot, the best pedant I know! Thanks for your invaluable pointers. Thanks also to Venivincere for brain-joggling and read-through.
Disclaimer: 'This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.'

Warnings: M/M slash, dubious consent, chan-ish undertones, overtones and in-between tones.

Author’s Note: Set during CoS. The phrase 'irredeemable smut' springs to mind; covered over by a classical allusion in the title, because the Greeks had the right idea about things. Originally for the Non-Con Challenge at hp_despoiled.



*

'Much as I like a twelve year old's cock,
A thirteen year old's is even better;
Love's sweet flower is fourteen years old,
Yet at fifteen he'll be still tastier;
Sixteen's for gods, while as for seventeen,
That's Zeus's prerogative. And if you
Want them older, they're no fun -
You're heading after two-way traffic.'

[Strato of Sardis, from The Greek Anthology, XII: 4, translated by Mark Beech]

*

The bedroom was quiet, past two in the morning. Severus lay curled in on himself. Sleep was eluding him, coax it as he would with deep, rhythmic breathing, head all but buried under the blankets against the pervasive chill, legs relaxed into the tucked warmth. Thoughts slipped sneakily in and out; his back twitched in frustration. Reaching a hand down to adjust the erection he was determined to ignore, his nightshirt caught on the wet tip. He plucked it off. It fell back down, wet spot skimming over the head.

He resisted the impulse for as long as he could, then gave up with an irritated sigh and began fisting his cock, mind closed and blank at climax.

He would not think of it tonight - a small mouth, sprawled legs, slight buttocks traced with the back of his hand -

He humphed and turned over. The images hovered at the edge of sleep, pervading his dreams.

*

The next night found Severus staring, bone-weary, into the darkness around his bed, shifting uncomfortably as pictures flicked across his mind. Between his legs, the erection was stubborn and hot. Typical of the child. A throb from his cock. Term had only begun last week, and not content with barging into school with a stolen vehicle, being an utter irritation by day, the boy must now invade one's nights as well. His thighs rubbed vainly together. Always the attention-seeker...

He laced his fingers tight together behind his head. No question of it. No question at all. Did he want to lose his position? Twelve years, and Albus' trust; his own safety. The Ministry would be extremely desirous of bringing in an ex-Death Eater with designs on his young charges. His throat tightened sourly. One young charge. The images crowded in, clamouring and clambering over his worry. He was slipping again...they pressed flush against his body, imprinted themselves. His hands clutched the pillow.

Potter at dinner, his young throat swallowing; Potter in Potions, head propped on a hand over his shoddily-written notes, glaring openly at Severus; Potter in Quidditch matches, face fiercely joyful and concentrated, hair wind-whipped, legs pressed together and body stretched hard and directed, along the tight line of his broom; Potter's eyes closed in uneasy sleep, body tense with nightmares, mouth slack in helplessness.

His mind twisted and turned, as the inevitable approached. There went the uneasy yield of his conscience, the rude triumph of his cock. This was what he really wanted to think about - Potter arching into his mouth, prick insistent and need making him insolent as ever. Potter's back curved gracelessly, fingers tightening, mouth filling with sounds Severus had never heard in real life. He wanted to seize them, force them out. He knew they were there.

Potter as he should be, made to suck and bend and obey. His cock was nearly enveloped by the sheets. He rested a cautious hand on top - oh, he shouldn't -

Potter, our new…celebrity. Our young saviour. Severus did not like being saved by a boy. Six more years to teach that irritating, arrogant child, and nothing ever seemed to sink in. Rule-breaking left and right - he didn't doubt it'd be the same this year. So much to punish him for, and so many ways to do it -

His hand crept underneath to give a violent twist to the aching cock.

Scruples were such inconveniences.

*

Harry had a few secrets from the others. They were rather shameful secrets, but he liked them too much to stop.

Secret 1: He wanked.
Secret 2: He wanked over girls.
Secret 3: He wanked over...boys.

This last was a more recent development, and he still wasn't sure exactly how abnormal he was for doing it. When he'd first come to Hogwarts, it had seemed to be a multitude of girls: girls with curves, girls with cheap perfume and glossy lips, girls with shining ponytails or gleaming plaits, girls whose chests moved in intriguing ways as they breathed, girls with swaying hips as they walked. Boys were there, but as peers, rivals, friends, enemies.

Oliver Wood was the beginning of the problem. Harry had never had any older boy pay him as much attention before - at primary school, younger boys were for ignoring or bullying. It was an entirely new experience to be coached, to be encouraged and walked back with after the practice. Harry liked Quidditch, and he liked Wood; the intense narrowing of Wood's eyes when he thought of how to explain a tactic, his ferocious grin when they scored, his sated expression at the end of a game. When he dreamt about Quidditch, he also dreamt about Wood. Over time, the images of Wood in flight, or on the ground outlining plans, were joined by more physical ones: his muscled chest, glimpsed in the showers; his fingers nimbly tightening his greaves; his robes stretched across his shoulders.

Then one day Wood had passed Harry on his way to the field for practice, and had given him a clap on the shoulder and a grin.

'All right there?'

As Harry opened his mouth to reply, he took in Wood's eyes, his mouth, the way his hair fell, suddenly seemed to really *see* them for the first time. His cock twitched unmistakably. He managed a silent nod. Wood jogged off ahead to the field, leaving Harry torn between wondering if Wood had noticed, and hot shame and horror at his arousal. He silently willed it down, but it grew when he got to the field and watched Wood take a firm grip on the handle of his broom, scratch his neck with an idle finger, and he felt his face flame. Then they had to make ready to fly; Harry mounted his broom with an irrepressible hard-on and a startling new awareness about himself.

It wouldn't go away, either; it didn't happen every time he saw Wood, but worse, it had begun to happen with a few other boys this year. There were a couple of Ravenclaws he liked to watch at meals; every few minutes, he would surreptitiously let his eyes wander over the jugs of water and scan the rows to see if he could spot one of them. He didn't know their names; he preferred not to. After a few weeks, he stopped being in an agony of apprehension each time. No-one seemed to notice his distraction, or where his gaze rested. He wondered briefly if everyone else did it - maybe there were even some people who looked at *him* like that! - but decided he'd rather not know.

He started touching himself at night when the thoughts occurred to him. At first it was occasional, but it felt so good when he practiced and did it deliberately, that now he was doing it most nights. It made him feel obscurely guilty, panting as his fingers angled and twisted. What if someone - anyone - everyone knew? Maybe if he was quiet enough...

After a few embarrassed mornings, when people looked anywhere but at him, it was borne in on him that he wasn't. He spent breakfast that day shovelling cereal into his mouth and staring straight down at the table. At the start of the first lesson, Ron had shoved him a hastily written note. It covered the details of a commonly used silencing charm. Harry hadn't stopped blushing until lunch, when he'd leaned over and muttered, 'Thanks.'

Ron went red, then mumbled back, ' 'S'alright.' After all, Harry hadn't grown up with wizards, had he? Nor in the stiflingly cramped atmosphere of the Burrow, where you had to learn that kind of stuff in self-defence. Bill picked it up, passed it down to Charlie, who later passed it on to Fred, then a week of doing the twins' chores for them when he had first begun…um, experimenting, and the charm was Ron's.

Harry used it that weekend, after he lay awake for ten unbearable minutes, the idea teasing at him. He whispered the charm under his breath, ears strained and body taut. Ah - his hand closed around himself. It was worth all the embarrassment.

The bed seemed a cocoon of silence. A slow pace to begin, eyes closed. What should he think about tonight? Silla Trent, a seventh-year Gryffindor, the soft brush of fringe around her face...the firm mounds on her chest. He'd looked at them again this morning, all the way down at the other end of the long table. He'd gone red and his fingers had twitched, and he'd had to grab some more toast to cover up.

Or how about...the sway of Ellen Moore's bottom when she'd got up from tying her shoe just ahead of him. That image was still good, though it was a week old - he could see the curves under her robes, imagine dimly how she'd look bare and naked, and he would place a hand on it and squeeze...

He had a sudden flash of Neville's broad bare arse as they changed for bed, and the rhythm slackened off. No! No thoughts about friends. He concentrated deliberately on Ellen, but the idea changed mid-way and the arse became Oliver Wood's, striding out in front of him, Quidditch robes billowing in the winter wind. His fingers tightened on his cock. This was...good. He'd never thought about Wood before. Somehow, it'd seemed like going too far. But maybe just once...

He was in the changing room with Wood, and they were the only two there, and Wood came up behind him and said, 'I'm just as good as my name, you know,' and winked...urgh, no - came up behind him, and sat down on the bench and said, 'Harry, you were great today - really superb flying,' and put his hand on Harry's knee and turned him towards him, and then his face was in Harry's crotch, nuzzling... No. He couldn't make it come out right with Wood.

He stared, frustrated, up into the shadows of the bed canopy. Tiny gleams of light, thrown past the bed curtains and up above, made him think of the Great Hall with its display of stars. He mentally scanned up and down the tables, trying to see someone who caught his eye...

Black-haired, sixth-year Callum McKenzie. Slytherin. Harry bit his lip, but the way Callum's eyes slanted down the table, the slow slouch of his walk, the dramatic exaggeration in the shrug of shoulders which seemed a favourite gesture, were too enticing.

He imagined following Callum down the Slytherin stairs, along the eerie empty corridors (no-one there to see), into a classroom, Callum negligently pushing him ahead with one hand. A Slytherin wouldn't bother to talk, he'd just take what he wanted, and Harry'd give it, oh, he'd give it...

'Little slut, Potter?' Callum was looking at him with raised, lazy brows, fingers busy unzipping and reaching inside. He seated himself on the teacher's desk, legs apart. His cock poked out the front of his trousers. 'Come here.'

Harry went, staring.

'Touch it.'

The brown-skinned cock fit perfectly into Harry's palm. He started to rub and squeeze. At first there was silence, then a hard breath, then -

'Get yourself out.'

Harry undid his trousers, palm damp - as soon as he brought it out, Callum's hand was on it.

'Now, wank me.'

Heavy breathing. Harry didn't let himself say Callum's name - he didn't think Callum would like it - but he felt so good and hot and his legs kicked in the bedclothes and oh Callum Ellen Callum Callum oh... his hand wrung every last spasm from his cock and it ebbed deliciously through his body.

'You whore, Potter.' Callum's eyes (he hadn't ever seen them up close, maybe they were dark brown) - Callum's dark eyes were on his limp, spent prick as he tucked it away. Harry looked down. Callum's hand was under his chin. 'Dirty. Aren't you?' He wiped his sticky fingers across Harry's mouth, then did himself up and sauntered out, arse in time with his insolent slouch.

'Yes,' Harry whispered to the bed canopy, and licked his lips clean.

*

The next day was a Saturday. Harry was in the common-room, waiting for Ron to come down from the dorm with his chess-set. He listened idly to Dean and Seamus' discussion.

'See, everyone knows everyone in my village,' Seamus was saying. 'And they're all related. Mam never misses a gossip session, and what she doesn't know about next-door's curtains, or their new diet, or whose baby it is this time, isn't worth knowing. You can't get away from it. Dead boring.'

'But London's too big, no-one knows anyone,' said Dean. 'We don't have relatives there, they're all in Ghana. Unless you count Sammy, I s'pose.'

'Who's Sammy?'

Dean looked somewhat embarrassed. 'Sammy's my cousin.'

'You've never mentioned him before.'

'We don't...' he hesitated. 'He's not very popular with our family.'

'A bit of scandal, is it?' Seamus was all agog.

'Yeah, s'pose. He came over, married this girl, kids and all that, but...' Dean fell uncharacteristically quiet. Seamus prodded him.

'And?'

'And, well, he sort of...went off. He had this mate, they were always together. Tisha didn't like it, but nothing she could do - then he left, and it turned out that he and this bloke - they were - y'know -'

Seamus gave a half-muffled snicker. 'Liked to bend over, did he?'

Dean went redder, and nodded. Seamus saw Harry listening, and winked. Emboldened by this, Harry blurted out,

'What d'you mean, bend over?'

Seamus laughed. 'What, you don't know what gays do?'

Harry tried not to look too eager.

'They take it up the arse, don't they?'

Harry's forehead wrinkled as he tried to imagine it.

'Like girls?'

Dean got up. He was still red. 'I'm going out. Catch some rays.'

'But it's October!' protested Seamus.

Dean was unperturbed. 'Coming?'

They left Harry sitting there alone, with a lot to think about.

*

Later that night, Harry idly caressed his cock under the covers and thought about Dean's cousin Sammy. So, it proved there were others out there who liked...men. Did...things with them. Seamus' voice floated around his mind.

'Liked to bend over, did he?'

He blushed as he realised fully what Seamus had meant. The only place something would go in, would be... How would it fit?

He tried to insert a finger. It wouldn't go anywhere. He thought to suck it. Ah, that was better...it slid in quite nicely, but didn't feel very interesting. He wriggled it about a bit, then withdrew it, disappointed. Maybe a cock would feel nicer. He looked at his cock. How would that go into an arse without tearing...he blanched.

Perhaps you had to be a man before doing it. He was just a stupid kid. What did he know?

He sighed and thumbed his cock, then again, harder. A shiver ran through him. He liked that, though. He might not know much about men, but he knew what felt good. And he liked thinking about it, even if all the experience he'd had so far had been on this bed under his own hand. He could imagine it, couldn't he? His fingers played over the tightening erection as his thoughts wandered.

What if...what if a man came to him? Came right into his bed? His heart stuttered, and he reached for his wand and did the silencing charm.

A picture of himself slowly formed: tucked up all innocent in bed, covers thrown off because of course he'd tossed and turned, and his pyjamas had got…sort of…pulled down. Around his hips; the top of his arse could be seen. And his pyjama top had ridden up near under his arms. With deep, careful breaths, he arranged himself, pulled the bedcovers into a little heap next to him, and draped his leg over them, the cloth of his pyjama bottoms stretched taut. He slipped his hands down and started a firm stroke.

The air caressed his nearly bared bottom. That was...fingers that stroked him softly. Wrongly, because he was asleep, wasn't he, curled up, peaceful. Defenceless. The man could do anything to him, and he wouldn't even know - his fingers clenched. He forced himself to go slower.

The man could do...well, not anything, but everything Harry wanted him to. He would take down Harry's pyjamas and spend ages just *looking* at Harry, examining his cock and balls, stroking his arse, squeezing it...

Harry flushed and wriggled. Then he'd start fingering it, just the way Harry liked - but the man would be at the wrong angle, wouldn't he. He'd have to lie down behind. He shifted and found himself in the stranger's lap. Yes, that was it...

He imagined a hand grasping his cock hard, as if impatient at the delay. Harry leant back against the man's bare chest as the long fingers slid up and down between his legs and manipulated his aching balls. Harry pushed back, and let himself think of the man's own cock, warm and pressed right up against his arse. He took a deep breath, and pushed carefully back again. The man moved underneath him, and pushed up, and - no, it wouldn't go straight in, would it?

His left hand unclenched from the blanket, and he thoroughly licked a finger. It trembled slightly. He reached behind him, parting his cheeks, and set his wet fingertip at the hole. He rubbed gently around it.

The man's hard, wet cock - maybe Harry himself had sucked it, oh God - slowly eased in, bit by bit. He pushed, wriggled, hand fisting cock furiously. A curious feeling of fullness arose. Was this what girls felt? He hurriedly withdrew it at that rather alarming thought.

Maybe the bloke could just - the hands circled slowly, rubbed with damp sweaty fingers. Damp...wet. Yes, *suck* it. He should suck it...

Harry arched into his hand as the man moved down and took his cock into his hot mouth, sucking harder and harder - something else, though - he sucked urgently at his finger again, not even caring about the taste, and felt for his hole. It went in even easier, and the man grinned down at him and said, 'Told you you'd like it,' and the finger pushed in all the way up, pulled out, and then came Callum's voice hissing, 'You are such a *whore*, Potter,' the finger went up him, 'take my cock, you want it, don't you? Open your legs -' and it was hot tightness, slippery, and his hands met at the best points at the same time, all the way with his finger, the top of his stroke, harder harder, and he spilled it all out, all over Callum, all over the man, whoever was taking him, fucking him with their cock -

He lay there and panted for a while, feeling his face heat in the dark. God, he was really *weird*, wasn't he? Thinking about - men, about Callum. There weren't even any girls at all in his head tonight. Tomorrow he'd better pick some pretty Gryffindor out - no more Slytherins - and think about her. No, even better, try and lay off for a while. He was sex *obsessed*.

His hand had drifted down to his cock. He wiped at it with his fingers - he hadn't come much, he never did, just a few splatters - and rubbed it off on the edge of the sheet. It felt nice, just to hold his cock, though. Maybe he'd sleep like this; it couldn't do any harm, he'd wanked it out of himself probably...his head fell sideways. His eyes shut.

*

A deep silence in the Gryffindor Tower. Surprising, really; Severus had expected more misdemeanours. His own House was quiet enough about it - they didn't dare face his wrath - but he knew full well that at any given time, some of them would be up to something. Last Tuesday's prank spelled the Common Room, so anyone with the slightest hint of Mud in their blood would begin to melt every time they sat on the cushions. Quite an advanced spell; he'd have given points if he hadn't been in official ignorance.

However, anyone planning mischief here would have to contend with Minerva's eagle eyes. That would be enough to put *him* off...

…It should have been, yes. It should have been. What the hell was he doing? Rash, ill-considered, impossible - oh, but to take Potter in Potter's own bed. He had spent the last month hard at the mere thought, eager and angry in equal proportions. He had allowed this to happen, and now Potter must pay the price.

He had tried to stop! But furious imprecations, stern talkings-to and, at the last, vicious wanking while his face was buried in his pillow, focus on Potter's face screwing up with lustful pain - none of it had put him off in the slightest. The thoughts were not to be pinned down - the more resistance one showed, the more they battered to be let in.

Potter was everywhere he looked. He would Obliviate the boy, and put him back to sleep, and it would be done with. This couldn't go on. He hadn't slept properly in six weeks, hadn't been free of these thoughts every day for over twice that time. It had to stop. Potter would make it stop.

He had prepared carefully but unobtrusively, as soon as it appeared that he'd have to go through with this, or risk snapping in public the very next time Potter passed him in a corridor or wilfully entered his classroom. In response to a polite enquiry from Pomfrey earlier on in the week, no, he had not been sleeping well - he must look more haggard than normal - and equally no, he did not want any solicitous and quite useless advice. If he wished to become addicted to Dreamless Sleep, he had the wherewithal to accomplish it alone, thank you.

'But Severus, perhaps a simple change would help.'

He suddenly saw a chance to steer the conversation in a direction beneficial to him. He raised his voice a little for the rest of the staffroom to hear.

'I highly doubt others' remedies would work.' He sipped his tea, not looking at Pomfrey. 'One has one's own routine at bedtime, after all.'

He regretted his implicit invitation to join the discussion when Lockhart brightened and drew a breath, but luckily Minerva cut across him in time. Every single staff member had been subjected to at least one of his self-aggrandising lectures; for once in their working relationship, both he and Minerva were in agreement over a Defence teacher's imbecility.

'If you adopt a different approach, it may do you some good,' Minerva said.

He looked sardonic. She sniffed.

'I always swear by camomile and bed at ten to eleven, sharp,' said Pomfrey cheerfully. 'I can give you some tea, if you'd like.'

He returned a non-committal grunt, but kept his ears open as they discussed it further. By direct confession or implication, he managed to gather an idea of when each person retired to bed, and left after ten minutes, trying not to look smug.

The Headmaster would be in his office until who knew when, of course. His smirk faded somewhat. Albus was unpredictable. Still, there was no particular reason why he should be keeping an eye on Potter tonight. He'd just have to take care - he repressed a snort. Care, against the greatest wizard of the age.

His heart pounded.

Severus gave the password to the frankly curious Fat Lady, then flicked his wand in a swift Obliviate as the portrait swung back. No report of an unwarranted visit needed.

Why was he doing this...

Across the common room, up the stairs...

It's not too late to back out, as he pushed open the door to Potter's dormitory. The voice was eerily reminiscent of Albus.

He ignored it. There. In the third bed. The door closed with a barely audible click.

A charm for concealment and silence, then a dim Lumos, all with a strict diameter around Potter's bed. No sense in silencing the whole room. Trust a Gryffindor to wake up, find he couldn't hear a thing, and race along to give the alarm; he wouldn't put anything past a Weasley. Severus gave a look of dislike to the sleeping Ron, and opened Potter's bed-curtains.

His mouth remained closed by a supreme effort of will.

Good god, boy, anyone would think you wanted to be taken by every stranger who happened by! Arse out, hands buried between his legs, his pyjama bottoms pulled down so far that half his delectable cleft was exposed. A dark little nipple, hardened by the chill, peeked through the bunched-up pyjama top. He listened to the boy's short, regular breaths for a while, then gave a swift caress to his own cock. It strained under his dressing-gown. You'll get your turn.

He strengthened the faint light, and placed the wand on the bedside table, then cautiously seated himself on the bed.

Potter was - right there. On his side, curled into the pillow.

His hand inched forward, nearer and nearer, until it cupped a firm buttock, stroked it, smoothed over the other cheek. It trembled at the warmth, at the pliant heaviness. His fingers clenched, leaving a faint red trace across the lines imprinted by the rumpled sheet. He let his eyes caress every inch. Here it was pale, in contrast to the warmer skin tone of Potter's back. That had seen the sun, some time in the summer.

He couldn't resist - didn't have to. The tip of his index finger eased between the deep groove of the cheeks. His hand was stopped halfway by the pyjama bottoms. He glanced at Potter's still face, and thought about what to do. Dare he take the risk of lifting the boy a fraction to slide the pyjamas off him? He decided he could.

With infinite care, Severus insinuated his palm under Potter's side, and in a smooth motion, freed the pyjamas. He let the boy back down, drew his hand gently out from underneath, and began the delectable task of revealing more.

Inching the pyjamas further and further down, he left them at knee level, and peeped over to see the boy's cock. It lay half-cupped by the thin hands. Severus frowned, and began to detach each finger. He flicked his gaze to Potter's face, almost convinced that the boy would have been woken by this. The thought gave him an unpleasant jolt. But the boy slept on, dead to the world.

Hardly breathing, Severus stared at what he had exposed: the slim pale soft cock, a few hairs dark against it. Oh, delicious! Emboldened, he reached out and stroked down the middle; felt the contours underneath, traced the vein, drew back the foreskin, fingered the head. He felt himself smiling, and it struck him as exquisitely hilarious, this play with Potter's cock.

He adjusted himself, wincing; his fingers came away smooth with wetness, and he daubed Potter's cock so it glistened. He wanted it wet with saliva. How would it look when erect? Red and trembling, in all probability, like Potter himself... His hand sought between the soft skin of Potter's thighs, and found the balls warm and nestled. Those should be mouthed until they were dripping, Potter moaning above him.

Hands gripping his own erection, Severus took his time to stretch out on the bed. The cheeks faced him, smugly rounded, and he touched and then parted them, impelled by their yielding under his surreptitious squeezes. He felt the tender skin between finger and thumb. Potter was a virgin, surely? Surely... He had to try.

He closed his eyes, bent forward and gave a soft, swift dab of tongue right over the hole. He drew back, heart pounding at his own daring. He raised his head and checked; Potter was still asleep.

A finger over the hole. It flexed provocatively - all in one motion, he leant forward and forced his tongue inside. Very tight, which boded well. His tongue slipped out, thumb frantic on his own cock-head.

He stroked Potter's thighs. Such smooth skin would look its best striped with welts…here…here… Severus regretted the impossibility of whipping the boy. He certainly deserved it. Filch was not the only one to lament the fact that Hogwarts' past permits for strict discipline had fallen into disuse. A course of old-time punishment would teach him something - as it was, Severus would have to do it himself.

He shuddered, and squeezed his balls. Not yet. He studied Potter's position, then pushed gently at his left hip whilst simultaneously tugging his left knee across the bed. As he had hoped, Potter's centre of balance shifted somewhat and he subsided on his back, thighs falling softly open. The quiescent cock sat blatant and tempting in between. Severus' fingers twitched. He fisted himself a few times, then wrapped the sticky hand around the waiting cock in front of him and pulled it out straight. Not enough moisture. He brought back his hand to lick at the palm - pulled gently on the cock - easy does it.

He got into a slow rhythm, tense at Potter's side. Only his hand moved, smooth. He gentled the cock upward. That was the way. It sat engorged, spit-slicked, glistening.

Oh, for a taste - he looked at the boy's face - back at the cock - his mouth was opening and he was leaning carefully forward before any other thoughts could occur.

Warm, pungent, irresistibly smooth and boyish - God, Potter - a twitch - then another - the hips jerked, rose. A sleepy inhalation. Potter was stirring. He drew back quickly. More than stirring. His wand - how could he be so stupid -

'Hey - what - Snape?'

Potter sat up. Snape recoiled. Potter looked down, blinked, took in his state of undress. The tired eyes widened and his head snapped up.

'What's going on -? What are you doing - what have you done?' His voice was rising.

He might scream - stop this - do something - Snape caught swiftly at Harry's wrists and pinned them down with one hand. His other hand went over Harry's mouth.

'Be *silent*!'

Harry struggled, tried to bite and kick, but to no avail. Snape's wiry arms tightened unmercifully.

'Calm yourself. You won't be released until you're quite calm, Potter.'

Harry panted, and gradually subsided. The dark eyes regarded him cautiously, then to his surprise the hands slid off and he was freed. He opened his mouth.

'Before you begin to scream, Potter,' said Snape, in an almost conversational tone, 'I may as well inform you that it would be a waste of effort, due to the Silencing spell over your bed.'

Harry closed his mouth, then opened it again.

'If you have something to say, don't let me stop you.' Snape rose. He tied the dressing-gown more tightly around him.

'Why...' Harry began in a half-choked whisper, then it died away. Snape looked down at him, and saw Harry eyeing the remains of his fading erection, still fairly visible through the thick cloth. He raised an eyebrow. Harry's eyes dropped, and a slow blush grew along his cheek.

Fascinating...the situation might yet be turned to his advantage. He sat back down.

Harry looked at him incredulously, and shuffled away. 'Leave me alone!' He hugged himself.

'Tell me, Potter,' eyes on his face, 'you enjoyed that, didn't you?'

Harry's mouth fell open - he had obviously not considered that he could be asked this. The blush returned in full force.

'No!' he lied vehemently.

'You nearly reached climax.' Seeing his unresponsive face, Snape clarified. 'You had pleasure when I sucked you.'

The blush grew hotter. Snape couldn't resist stroking a careful finger down his cheek. Harry turned his head away. Snape's hand dropped down softly, and before Harry could react, was petting his still-uncovered cock.

'Get *off*!'

Snape caught the flailing hands easily.

'No - no - now *listen* to me.' His finger continued to stroke. 'Think very carefully. Pleasure is not a gift to turn down lightly. You liked it, and I am willing to do it again.'

'Doesn't mean I want you to -'

'Shh.' The entire hand now, up and down. 'Don't you fantasise?'

'No,' an embarrassed mutter.

'Everyone has fantasies. Perhaps you think about girls - their breasts, your hand between their legs. Or perhaps about boys, too.'

Harry drew in a sharp breath.

Up and down.

'About stroking each others' cocks, perhaps. Your own cock sucked. Sucking someone else's, the taste, the smell.'

Harry's eyes rose to his intent face, half-shocked. 'Don't -'

Snape's hand lifted, fell to the blanket.

A wide-eyed glance.

'Do you want me to stop?'

Harry gave a half-nod.

Snape's hand toyed with his thigh. The cock trembled. Twitched.

'Are you sure?'

The very edge of his thumb brushed the head, accidentally.

Harry tensed. No answer, only a sob of breath as Snape made that accidental brush again. And again.

He sat, allowing Snape's fingers to play over his cock, here, there, whole seconds between each stroke. The touches grew more certain as he let them continue.

Severus watched the cock rise, inch by inch. He slowly manipulated it to full hardness. His voice was a low persuasive murmur, striving to stay steady.

'You like that?' repeated until Harry let slip a goaded 'yes'. His hips twitched.

'Do you want more?' Severus forced his hand from the cock. Harry's eyes flew up from his awkward gaze on the bed.

A pause.

'Do - you - want - more?' He eyed the cock, licked his lips deliberately. The boy looked torn. Severus leaned forward and blew delicately on the head. Almost a whimper, and the thin chest heaved. '...Yes.'

'Yes, what?'

'Yes - please.'

He decided to risk it. 'Respect, Potter,' spoken almost against the hot smooth skin, 'you will call me "sir".' A dab of tongue. Potter mewled. 'I'm waiting.' He let his thumb ghost over the tight balls.

'Oh! - yes, sir.'

'That's better.' He took the head into his mouth. Harry gave a tiny hiss, then a moan. Every inch - oh, God, every single inch - yes, yes.

Severus swallowed around the cock, and felt the hips buck. He held them down. Potter was practically on his back now, slipping down the pillows. He heard a small sigh, saw a fist come down on the bedclothes. It was *Potter* - a groan for the heavy need between his own legs - Potter under him, trembling, jerking, just thick enough to make a mouthful.

It was *Snape*, and he didn't look very good, mouth swollen around Harry's cock, lips thickened over it - he faltered as the eyes glittered at him. But it *felt* so, so good. Better than his imaginings, a hundred times better than his hand and him alone in this bed... Snape in this bed. *Snape*. He stretched a finger out towards the oily fall of hair at Snape's temple, then forgot it - suck, suck, suck, and a soft hum, a *fluttering* around it and Harry couldn't do more than groan - Snape pressed him down into the bed, he was going to come, he knew it -

He didn't come much as yet, did he. Severus sat back, collected it in his hand, rubbed it between his fingers. Potter seemed comatose for the moment, so he brought the hand to his mouth for a furtive taste. Salt smear, safe behind his lips.

He watched the boy move, a languid turn to look up at him. He stared back. His fingers itched after his wand, and he slipped a casual hand up his sleeve. He must not allow himself to be distracted - his cock a constant dull throb - by Potter's obvious charms - now the boy was stretching, oh, and look at that slim slide of muscle - he had to remain focused. A pity, but it was for the best.

The prepared parameters of the Obliviate lined themselves up in his mind; he pursed his lips when Potter spoke.

'You were right. I - I do like it.'

Severus said nothing; the boy wouldn't remember this in the morning, anyway.

'And I do think about - boys, too.'

He dared to raise his eyes to Snape's face. Snape looked unimpressed, as ever. The words 'And I think about -' tumbled out of his mouth before he could call them back. The eyes bore into him.

'Yes?'

'A-about men.'

His fingers fidgeted in the bedclothes. Slowly, Snape's bony fingers raised his chin. The tracery of veins stood out distinct and blue around the knuckles.

'Indeed.'

Snape's eyes were cold, appraising.

Potter's eyes were easy to read, books of dim apprehension and shameful hopes that he didn't want to have to say out loud.

Severus' hand twitched over his wand. He hesitated. The young eyes flickered uncertainly, the head began to dip -

He forced it up again with a cruel finger. The image of an obedient, submissive, grateful Potter -

He lost.

*

Hurrying along the corridor five minutes later, robes drawn over the rumpled wreckage of his clothing, a head full of the boy. The flush, the small reluctant cry - oh, God, the *smell* of him. Irresistible, infuriating, *needy* - perhaps that idea of the boy's had some merit. Another taste, or two...

His cock twitched. He had to get back to his chambers. His mind immediately provided him with a picture of small skinny limbs splayed across his bed, a gasping red face, his hands where they had no business being - again -

He rounded a corner.

'Having a busy evening, Severus?'

Dumbledore stepped out of nowhere.

*He knows!* shrieked an inner voice. Severus clamped down on it, heart racing. He had to resist the urge to put up every mental shield he possessed - such a flare of magic would tip anyone off - say something, you fool!

'Just doing my rounds, Headmaster,' he said softly, keeping within the shadows.

Dumbledore nodded, his scrutiny over Severus' face sharp as usual. Sharper than usual?

'Perhaps you felt it, too, then. I had a feeling...'

Severus remained impassive. Everything inside him was taut with strain.

'What, Headmaster?'

Dumbledore looked at him. A curious expression - faint surprise? - coupled with something else Severus could not identify.

'You saw nothing out of the ordinary, I take it?'

'Nothing.'

Dumbledore inclined his head.

'Then I shall take my leave of you. Go and try for sleep.'

Severus nodded, keeping a tight rein on his thoughts. Nevertheless, he felt the eyes on his back all the way down the corridor.

*

One day, then two days, and the boy hadn't stopped behaving oddly whenever Severus was in the same room as him. Darting glances - was he attempting some laughable form of flirtation, was he afraid, was he really...hoping for more?

Whatever it was, Severus had to teach the child some circumspection, otherwise he might as well save himself the wait and turn himself in at the Ministry the next time he was in town.


On to Part II