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“But Gods, Albus, it’s so much worse than I ever suspected,” Lupin was saying, sounding slightly hysterical. Snape tried to ignore the man and squeeze past him to get to the tea. Why Lupin had to come to the staff room to accost Albus was anyone's guess.
The Headmaster adjusted his glasses, giving the werewolf a stern look. “Now, Remus, the protection of Lily’s blood—”
“Damn her blood!” shouted Remus in an unexpected moment of cheek. “I’m not leaving him there another moment! They’re doing unspeakable things to him. Sirius had a Power of Attorney giving me guardianship, and I’m going to use it!”
“But Lily and James directed that I should be entrusted with his care, should anything happen to Sirius,” Dumbledore reminded him gently. “And I believe I’ve the trump card.”
Remus glowered meekly. Severus wasn’t sure how such a thing was possible, but Lupin was pulling it off. The Potions Master hissed unhappily through his teeth. Forget the tea; it wasn't worth the drama. “I’ll go and have a look at things and see if Lupin is overreacting. I’ve no doubt he is, but on the off chance that he isn’t, I’ll bring Potter back here, at least for the rest of the summer. Then the two of you may squabble over him all you like, agreed?"
“Severus, I’m sure that won’t be necessa—” Dumbledore began, breaking off when Snape stalked away.
“It will bring an end to the werewolf’s whining,” he snapped, marching off to find the nearest Floo. And it will get me away from you idiots, as well. He’d just make a quick trip to check things out, and inflict some real damage on Potter. The brat thought his relatives were bad, did he? They’d just see about that.
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Severus stood uncertainly on the steps of number four, Privet Drive, his cloak billowing around him, his hair whipped by the unseasonably chill air. He was having an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt. After all, what if his showing up here caused the boy to think that Snape actually cared about him? The damage could be incalculable.
Shaking the disturbing thought off, he knocked briskly on the door. In the end, a short shower of shouted invectives would certainly disabuse Potter of any notions along those lines. Moreover, if the Dursleys were truly being horrible, he’d take them aside and have a good rant at them, as well. Ah, he could sing for the joys of an inexhaustible vocabulary, and someone to hurl it at.
A rotund man with no neck answered the door. He appeared, behind his bristling moustache, to be absolutely livid. “How dare you freaks show up here unannounced!? As if it’s not bad enough when you come hurtling through our fireplace, or ripping bits of our house off—now you’re standing right out where the neighbours can see you! I won’t stand for it!” he roared, his face glistening and red.
Snape winced, wiping a fleck of spittle from one cheekbone. “Insolent Muggle,” he growled. “If you don’t want me standing about, drawing attention to your filthy, backward, non-magical property, the thing to do is pretend to be civilised, and invite me in.” He tapped Mr. Dursley on the nose with his wand.
The man gulped. He stepped back, his hands shaking. He was still somewhat cross-eyed from trying to keep Snape’s wand in sight.
“Well?” Snape prompted, enjoying this thoroughly. “A proper invitation. No doubt you could manage it, with sufficient motivation.”
“Won’tyoucomein?” Vernon Dursley blurted, twitching a bit as the tip of Severus’ wand moved slightly, like a conductor’s baton just getting ready to start up The 1812 Overture.
“I’d love to, thank you so very much,” Severus said, almost sweetly but for the sneer on his face.
Snape swept into the house, eyes keen for any signs of torture. And he was well versed in that sort of thing, so he knew what he was looking for—whips, shackles bolted to the walls, perhaps a small cage Potter might be kept in...but he saw none of these things.
Snape made his way toward the rather mouth-watering smell of something baking. He pushed open the kitchen door to see someone bending over, peeking into an oven. Severus blinked a bit. A lean arse was framed at either side by pink frills. “Potter?” he croaked.
The boy spun. “SHHH!” he said frantically. “Don’t make any noise, or the soufflé will fall!” he hissed.
Snape did not give a damn about any soufflé. “Why the devil are you wearing a pink apron?” he asked. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t disappointed by the lack of leather fetters, collars, and other restraints on the boy’s body.
Harry flushed. “Because I spilled syrup all down my front the other day, and they wouldn’t give me a replacement shirt,” he grated. Sure enough, his chest was bare apart from the apron. “I can’t risk losing any other clothes.”
“So this is your horrible trauma?” Snape queried, truly puzzled. “You’re being made to play an endless game of Strip Cooking?”
Potter scowled. “Don’t be stupid. You don’t know what it’s like here. They make me do all the cleaning. Including the toilet, after Uncle Vernon’s eaten prune ice cream. I—I have to listen to Aunt Petunia sing Celine Dion’s greatest hits while she hangs the laundry out—which she only does so she can spy on the neighbours, otherwise I’d be doing it.” Severus flinched. “I have to hear Uncle Vernon explain to Dudley how the American President is a genius to bomb anyone who looks vaguely different, and the best thing Tony Blair’s ever done is to agree with him. Oh, and he gives me these dirty looks whenever he says it, too—those people ought to be locked up, those people ought to get sent to Guantanamo Bay, Tom Collins has the right idea about those people; you’d think I was going round blowing up subways and busses during the holiday!”
“Oh, shut up, Potter,” Snape said with a sigh. “You ought to be grateful your Uncle was the one to raise you. At least you got a firm hand. He’s a real man’s man. Wouldn’t have gotten that with your father. No, not with the orgies he and Black and Lupin used to engage in of a Saturday night. You count yourself lucky, my boy. Your relatives haven’t touched you, have they?”
Harry completely ignored the taunts about his father. “Well...no...Uncle Vernon gave me a clout round the ear when I dropped the curried rice on the floor last week, but most of the time they’re too afraid to hit me. But...but—but—he has business associates over all the time and one of them keeps pinching me on the bum and he says I’m to shut up and pretend I like it, or Vernon’ll not get his promotion and I’ll get locked in the cupboard for the rest of my life!” Harry said in a great rush, his face ruddy with humiliation.
“Ah. This was what had Lupin all upset?” Snape guessed. Compared to the sorts of sexual escapades the Snape family had indulged in when Severus still lived at home, this was pathetically tame.
“Last time he made me sit in his lap!” Harry howled in disgust. “And the bloke told me I was a cute little thing!”
“Were you wearing that apron at the time?”
“No! Dudley stole it and hid it from me.”
“Ah. Well, when you’re going about half-naked and allowing yourself to be set on strange men’s laps, they’re going to get the wrong idea,” Snape pointed out reasonably.
Harry was furious. “IT WASN’T MY FAULT! UNCLE VERNON MADE ME DO IT!” he roared.
Snape harrumphed.
A slight hissing noise brought the boy back to himself. A look of horror crept over his face. “Oh, bloody hell! Not the soufflé!”
Privately, Snape still felt the whole situation was Harry’s fault. If he flounced about in a frilly pink apron blushing and not wearing shirts, one developed a desire to pinch his bum. Even Snape was starting to be affected, and he’d have sooner pashed with Margaret Thatcher.
“Look, I’ll bring you back to Hogwarts for the summer, and you can emote all you like at Lupin and Dumbledore. I hate to have you underfoot, but I’m fairly certain that if the Headmaster discovered I’d left you to an existence of sexual servitude, he’d have me trying to steal the Dark Lord’s most precious pair of briefs, or something equally dangerous and tedious. So get packed, and let’s be going.”
“Really?” The boy got an odd, starry-eyed sort of look on his face.
“Get your damn things! Now!”
“Wow. Maybe you’re not as horrible as I thought, after all.”
Snape grimaced. “I'm twice as horrible as you thought! Ten times as horrible! Fifty points from Gryffindor, and don’t ever look at me that way again! Do you want to get me killed?”
Harry shot him a strange look before trotting off to retrieve his things. Later, as they soared over London, Hedwig winging along beside them, Harry kept glancing at the man. “Why do you care about how I look at you?” he finally asked.
“Don’t you even understand the importance of Occlumency, regardless of whether you can grasp the basics of doing it? If the Dark Lord goes rummaging round my mind and gets a glimpse of you mooning at me like a lovesick sheep, he’ll Crucio me until my intestines try to crawl out my ears. I’m alive because you hate me, you witless berk!”
Harry stared at the man, a most disconcerting look of dawning comprehension on his face. “Oh,” he said. “Oh! So you...have to hate me?”
Snape gave him the most scathing look he could conjure. “Trust me, Potter; you make it abundantly easy.”
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Harry woke up feeling a bit odd. His head felt...heavy. He sat up, and discovered it was stuck to the pillow. His hair came away with an odd squelching noise, and he made a face. “Ugh.” He prodded his head, then rubbed his strangely greasy fingers together.
“What in the bloody hell’s going on?” he wondered. “It feels as though I’ve dipped my head in a serving of fish and chips or something.” He ran to the bathroom to wash his hair—which, even after he was done, had a rather flat, strangely glossy appearance.
Dumbledore greeted Harry as jovially as always, though Harry sulked and responded monosyllabically. After all, the man planned on leaving Harry with a bunch of would-be molesters.
Lupin attempted to engage the boy in conversation, as well. “Harry?” he said. “Have you not had a bath, yet? Only you’re rather...your hair’s a bit...um...”
Harry smoothed the lamentably oily locks, trying to look nonchalant. “Yes. My shampoo’s just not...er...working right, that’s all,” he said defensively. They were going to think he had poor hygiene, if this kept up. He hoped he’d get it straightened out before the other students started arriving.
“Well, er, if you need anything, just let me know,” Lupin said hopefully. “You know, I was the one who told everyone you were in trouble,” he added. “So that you could come back here for the rest of the holiday.”
Harry flushed. What, exactly, had Lupin told them? Harry’s being forced into prostitution with his family—we’d best do something. The boy just can’t seem to handle things himself.
“Yes, yes; good werewolf, have a biscuit,” Snape said dryly, sweeping into the room. He spared Harry a glance. “You’re looking well today,” he remarked. “Oddly handsome.”
Harry flushed again, looking at his plate. “Uh, thank you, sir,” he said. Weird. He’d never received an actual compliment from the man before. It made him feel unusually warm and rather excited.
“Harry?” Dumbledore said in a grave voice, and Harry’s head jerked up. “Have you done something to your hair?”
“No, of course not,” Harry replied automatically.
The Headmaster was still staring at him, and Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Suddenly, the man rose from the table, and headed for the door. “Severus, please assist me,” he said, and the Potions Master, who had just sat down to his meal, stood back up with a frustrated groan. “I believe it’s...of some consequence,” Dumbledore finished.
Harry poked his sausage a bit, but found he hadn’t an appetite any longer. Whatever the trouble was, he hoped to Merlin it wasn’t about him this time.
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Snape absent-mindedly rubbed his right forearm, hoping Poppy hadn’t left a bruise. And why on earth was Albus suddenly so keen to have a vial of his blood, anyway? In case of emergencies donation, my arse, he thought, scowling vindictively. The old man was up to something again. He just hoped it made sense this time, and he wouldn’t be awoken in the middle of the night to Albus tromping round the Great Hall playing bagpipes and wearing McGonagall’s panties on his head.
As though the children weren’t traumatized enough.
Speaking of which...Snape snuggled down in his large, drafty bed, trying hard not to think about Potter. Really, the older the boy got, the tastier he was. It was maddening. He had an appeal entirely unlike James’. James was a vicious, antagonistic bastard with an ego the size of Asia. Harry was just a defensive, bewildered, reactive brat that would be just fine if only he were subjected to accountability and a bit of gratifying discipline.
This would not do.
Thoughts of Potter, red-faced, glaring, and standing with shoulders proudly squared were just this side of respectable. Visions of Potter wearing nothing more than a frilly pink apron, thrown over Snape’s knee and squealing with pleasure were absolutely unacceptable. Both Dumbledore and the Dark Lord were skilled Legilimens, and, like most old men who no longer desired sex as much as they desired power, or to wallow in their own self-righteousness, Snape could picture their faces if this little development were to become known. Disgust, shock, rage, moral indignity...old men were so predictable.
And really, what was it about Potter that made him so suddenly tempting? It wasn’t as though Snape brought boys to bed with him as a habit...of course, Potter was, (and Snape spat the word even in his head) special. Perhaps it was time to form new habits, if only to give them the sense of stability and control they so obviously yearned for.
And they wouldn’t have anything to do with frilly pink aprons. They didn’t have to, anyway.
But they could if they wanted.
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Harry was having decidedly weird dreams. It had been an odd past few days, what with the hair thing (maybe it was hormones—he’d heard you got greasy, when hormones kicked in) and the Headmaster staring at him all the time and Snape’s daring rescue...
All of his dreams were about Snape. It was like his subconscious had decided the Potions Master showing up at the Dursleys and scaring the hell out of them (and a small amount out of Harry, as well) was the single most important moment of his life. Why the devil would that be? And in Harry’s dreams, the man did all sorts of things he’d never have done in reality—like sweeping Harry into his arms and assuring him that everything would be all right. Like petting his head, and calling him a darling, and stuff like that. Crazy stuff.
Worse, now Harry couldn’t look at the man during the day without his face blossoming with various shades of pink. And rushing off to take a shower—he needed the time alone, for sure. Plus, he was developing an obsession with his hair. It never seemed to get clean.
What the hell was the matter with him? Why did he suddenly have the urge to be cuddled and cosseted by his frightening old Potions Master? Sure, the man had gotten him away from the Dursleys and that creepy bloke with the wandering hands, but that didn’t automatically turn Harry into some damned swooning princess desperate for Prince Charming and his white horse, did it?
Harry mopped his face with a washcloth, then tried to go back to sleep. Nothing doing. He tossed and turned, having any number of alarming visions—concern marking Snape’s face, an unexpected gentleness in Snape’s hands, the thrilling hardness of Snape’s—oh, Merlin, this had to be Voldemort’s doing.
Harry leapt out of bed and ran out of the room.
Mysterious hallways and unopened doors were one thing, but this was not on.
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Snape couldn’t decide if he was horrified or elated when a clamorous knocking on his door round two in the morning turned out to be Potter. Should he scold? Scowl? Spank? Snog the brat into petrified obedience? It would probably work, too...
Eventually, the man decided that vitriolic ranting was probably a safe bet, and drew himself up to his full height. “You inconsiderate, ill-mannered young twit!” he snarled. “How dare you disturb my rest for your childish games! I won’t have it!”
Potter blinked at this, and then promptly became as indignantly furious as only a seventeen-year-old martyr can be. “Fuck you, you selfish bastard! You and Dumbledore are always on about how I’m keeping things from you, and the one time I actually try to tell—”
“Oh, shut up,” Severus groaned, rolling his eyes. “You’re giving me a headache, and you’ve barely got out a sentence and a half. Look, what’s so bloody important that you’re bothering me about it, rather than the Headmaster?”
The boy swallowed, his face pale. Severus couldn’t help but reflect that swallowing was one thing Harry did exceptionally well. One might even be able to charge admission to watch him at it.
“Er...I think Voldemort’s sending me visions again,” Potter said, sounding oddly subdued. He was scuffing one foot nervously against the floor. “And—and I tried to go tell the Headmaster, but he wasn’t in his office.”
Snape peered at Harry for a long while. “Well...he did say something about having some special tests done at the Ministry; perhaps he hasn’t finished with that yet.” He heaved a great sigh and stepped backward. “Come on in, then.”
The boy followed him, each footstep tentative, as though he might just change his mind and bolt. Snape gestured to the small sofa in his outer chamber, and Harry awkwardly took a seat. The Potions Master debated a few moments before going to the liquor cabinet and taking out a bottle of Firewhisky. The youth was not generally forthcoming, and showed no signs of wanting to talk, aside from having shown up at Snape’s door, so perhaps this would lower his inhibitions—or his defences.
Harry’s eyes widened when as Snape poured two very large glasses of Firewhisky. “Er, is one of those for me?” he asked.
“No, you simpleton; I generally leave a glass on the front stoop in lieu of milk for the fairies. They can’t cobble shoes when they’re drunk, but I’ve plenty of shoes anyway. Of course it’s for you!”
Harry blushed brightly at this, then tried to match Snape drink for drink. Snape found this amusing. The lad didn’t have the tolerance built up to win this sort of game, but Severus was hardly playing to let him win in any case. “Thank you, sir,” Harry said, after the third gulp or so.
“You’re welcome. Get on with your tale of woe. What’s the Dark Lord been doing to your precious psyche now?”
Inexplicably, the boy merely flushed even more thoroughly at this, and attempted to cover his embarrassment with a large swig of spirits. After Snape had patted him kindly on the back—or whacked him roughly, depending on one’s viewpoint—he got enough breath back to apologise.
“Er, sorry about that. Went down the wrong way. Um, it’s nothing much, really—just—just—I’m picturing things...just as I’m falling asleep. And—ah—they’re the sort of things I don’t usually picture, that’s all.”
“Ah. How articulate,” Snape replied sarcastically, watching the boy try to drown himself. “Like what, pray tell? Arcane objects? Mystical texts? Uncanny rituals? Midgets? Bluebirds? Psychedelic colours? What?”
Harry shook his head helplessly. “No—not—it’s not—it’s nothing like that,” he finished lamely.
“Hmph.” Snape sipped at his own glass, mind working rapidly. “You know, when I was your age, he sent me visions as well.”
“Did he? Really, sir?”
“Oh, indeed. Visions designed to capture my imagination and ensnare me.”
The boy was utterly enthralled, his large, ingenuous eyes taking in every word. “What sort of visions?” he asked in a wavering, worried voice.
“Oh, you know the type of thing. Wealth...power...respect...sex...” Watching from the corner of his eye, Snape noted the way Potter jumped at that, sloshing a bit of liquid over the brim of his cup. The Potions Master hid a smirk. “That sort of thing is a common weapon in any Dark Lord’s arsenal, really. The goal is to keep feeding you things until he figures out what it is you want, then offer it in spades. Old trick.”
“Really?” Harry sounded relieved, but then fidgeted a little. He took a small sip of his Firewhisky, not looking at Snape. “Well, he only tried sex with me. It was...a bit weird, though...”
They drank in companionable silence for a while, and Snape bided his time, waiting for the brat to work up the nerve to spill it.
“Oh, he’ll try a few random things, no doubt,” the man said. “Just fishing, really. You’ve no need to be worried...he won’t do anything unless he marks that you’re really deviant, and then he’ll threaten you with exposure, and reel you in.”
Harry squeaked.
“Um. What’s ‘really deviant?’” he asked in a voice full of dread.
“Oh, nothing’s too deviant, these days. Just...you know. Animals, small children, inanimate objects...the same sex...”
Potter choked a little, and Snape repressed a growl of triumph.
“Er, really? Ah...homosexuality? That’s weird? Really weird? Because, um, Muggles don’t really have that big a problem with it...”
“Oh, you know, it’s all down to breeding, really. We’re dying out, you see—Wizarding kind. There’s hardly enough of us as it is, and if someone chose a lifestyle where they didn’t have children...it’s something of a crime, you see.”
“Oh. God.”
“But it’s not that bad, really. All you have to do is not fuck other men. Easy, right?” The man gave Potter a wicked smile. “That, or just take care not to get caught..”
Harry squirmed, looked indecisive for a moment, and then turned to grab a handful of Snape's longish hair, and yank him down so their faces were level. “I’m going to kiss you,” the boy said in an only slightly unsteady voice. “And you’re not going to tell.”
Snape hesitated, uncertain. “No, I don’t suppose I would,” he agreed.
Potter was a messy kisser. He was needy, and he was generous, particularly when it came to his tongue, but he had to keep pulling away for great gasps of air, and soon the boy’s chin was decorated with ropes of saliva.
Snape was sure this shouldn’t excite him so.
Potter was also magnanimous with his body, judging by the way he tried to wrap himself around the man, his crotch seeking friction against the Potions Master’s hip. His hands scrambled at buttons and fabric, twisting and wrenching at Severus’ robes.
At one point, as Snape pushed the boy down against the cushions, arranging one of his legs over the back of the couch, their breath mingled hot as steam, and Harry looked up at him through eyes that seemed drugged with lust.
“It was about you,” he whispered.
“Mph?” Snape hardly bothered to listen—he was far too occupied at sucking a mouthful of throbbing heat and woollen fabric, as Harry was still wearing his trousers.
“You. Voldemort—the dream. Oh, more—fuck—no one’s ever—” he broke off, fist pressed against his teeth. “Your cock—that’s what I saw—what I wanted—your cock—oh, holy hell—more!”
They moved to the bedroom after Harry had decorated the couch with his ejaculate. The boy was dreadfully embarrassed, and offered to clean it up, but Snape instructed him to leave it—he’d have a damned house elf take care of it later. He didn’t have time for that now—he needed to get off, damn it.
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The sheets were silvery, and cool against Harry’s back, and they felt bloody wonderful against his overheated skin. His mind felt feverish, too—how else could he explain being here, in Snape’s bedroom, with his knees drawn up against his chest, Snape’s tongue slick and invasive, prodding his arsehole?
This was insane.
This was depraved.
This was deviant and sinful and sick and the most fucking fantastic thing that had ever happened, in the whole history of the universe. Harry was pretty sure that The Renaissance and Freedom and the Printing Press and Religion and Modern Thought couldn’t compare with Snape’s wicked tongue, and what it was doing to Harry’s balls right at this moment.
There were moments when Harry felt slightly ashamed and not ready for this, like when Snape first ordered him to expose himself, or when Harry tried licking Snape’s long, pulsing cock in return, or when Snape slipped a finger deep inside him and touched off fireworks by stroking that place and Harry realized to his horror that he was crying a little bit, but only because it felt so good, and Snape didn’t seem to mind anyways and was smugly licking away the tears.
And when Snape leaned over Harry, his impossibly large shaft poised to enter Harry’s body, the moment of anticipation seemed to stretch into forever, until death and fear were so long ago they couldn’t be remembered, and a confrontation with the Dark Lord was at the other end of an infinite tunnel, something to be forgotten. Snape looked down, his eyes dark and somehow just a little soft, and had asked, “All right?” in this odd, strained sort of voice. He was propped up on his arms, and he was shaking slightly, his body a bow, tensed to let loose an arrow. Harry knew then that the man was teetering on the edge, and keeping himself there by force of will alone, and still he’d put off his own pleasure to make certain Harry could handle it.
Because of that, Harry could handle it, and he nodded, and arched into Snape’s thrust.
The sheets became damp with sweat, and sticky with come, because Snape wouldn’t stop and took Harry again and again until they were drowsy and sated, until Harry’s thighs were slick with seed, until Snape growled and shuddered one last time, filling Harry yet again, Harry’s mouth an open ‘o’ of shock and discovery and delight.
Harry kept trying to snuggle with the man during the night, and Snape kept kicking him away.
Harry didn’t mind so much. It was weird, yet it felt right—Harry was supposed to come here and take the risk, and Snape was supposed to bitch and moan about it. That was what they did.
That was the way things were supposed to be.
And when Snape caught him a particularly sharp jab in the ribs, and Harry whimpered pitifully, the man sighed, and swept Harry up in his arms, deigning to indulge him for a few moments, cradling him and letting the boy nuzzle close.
Harry murmured that they should take a shower together in the morning, and Snape grunted his assent. Maybe even if he couldn’t get his own hair clean, at least he could do something about Snape’s.
It was weird.
It was perfect, too.
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“Mister Potter, if you're coming down with something, come to the infirmary,” Madam Pomfrey fussed at dinner. It was odd eating with the staff, but there was hardly anyone in the castle, so it just made sense to budge up and eat together.
Harry tilted his head. “Huh?”
“You're so pale,” the woman said fretfully. “You've probably got a cold.”
“...but I feel fine,” Harry insisted.
The Headmaster was giving Harry that piercing look again; the one that made Harry feel like the man was rummaging through his thoughts, and Harry didn't even know. He quickly broke eye contact.
“...bothersome Ministry and their botched tests,” the Headmaster muttered. Then, more loudly, he said, “Poppy, I believe both Harry and Severus could donate a drop of blood for your dwindling stores. I recall you were worrying over your lack the other day?”
“Oh, Harry couldn't possibly—look how pallid he is already,” she responded, but Dumbledore cut her off.
“I'm sure he's fine. Harry's much stronger than many realize. I'm sure he and Severus would be delighted to be of help.”
“Headmaster, I have no desire to—” Snape began.
“Delighted,” the Headmaster said firmly, and Snape reluctantly captitulated. Still, there was something in his expression that seemed to say, What the devil is the old fox up to now?
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“You've got to add the bubbles, or what fun is it?” Harry said petulantly, gesturing to the Spartan bath.
Snape glowered. “Don't go getting all sappy and romantic, Potter. It's meant to be functional, not fun.” He very carefully kept his eyes averted as Harry toyed with the taps, filling the tub with fluffy suds. If anyone were to ask, he'd simply claim he hadn't been informed of the goings on, and then he'd take points from Gryffindor for Potter's refusal to obey him. But as long as he didn't see them, they weren't technically there.
Of course, they were a bit difficult to ignore when the man was up to his armpits in them, and Harry had dumped a rather large, soapy handful of them on his head. The boy had the audacity to grin. “You look like you're wearing one of those Russian hats,” he said.
Snape dunked the boy, smirking as he surfaced, spluttering. “Are you absolutely sure you wish to wash the grease from my hair?” he asked. “There are certain dangers in getting to close to a cantankerous Wizard when he has soap at hand.”
“I'm not afraid of soap,” Harry scoffingly informed him, setting his glasses on the tiles.
“Are you sure? You certainly don't seem as if you've washed your hair recently.”
“...Shut up.” The youth's face was shuttered, so Severus gently began massaging Harry's scalp, working a lather up in his dark locks. After a few moments, Potter relaxed. “Are you sure we won't get caught?” he inquired. “I mean, I'm not even a prefect, so I shouldn't be in here, and I don't think you're supposed to be here, either...”
“Don't you trust me?”
“I let you bugger me, don't I? I think that implies a certain amount of trust.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Snape's face. “Precocious little fiend, aren’t you?”
Harry grinned. “Let me do you, next?”
“Absolutely not! Oh...you meant the hair. Very well. But first, come and let me clean the rest of you.” Snape hadn't enjoyed bathing this much in years. He ran soap-slick hands down Harry's chest, fingers skimming the slender collarbones. Harry hummed happily, arching out of the water.
“Ooooh,” Harry said in a hushed voice as Snape's fingertips worked their way down, into the wiry hair at the base of Harry's cock, slippery foam forming. Severus used this as an aid as he pumped the boy's erection, pausing to taste the incoherent moans falling from the tip of Potter's tongue.
He picked Potter up and bent him over the edge of the bath, desperately working a finger into the boy. “Damn you, you shouldn't get me so excited,” he said. “I'm liable to take you before I've had time to prepare you, and you deserve it, for being the absolutely obnoxious temptation that you are.”
Harry merely moaned, thrusting back against the intrusive digit. Severus added another, muffling his own sounds of pleasure by biting Harry's shoulder. Soon, but not nearly as soon as he would have liked, Snape was mounting the youth, hissing at Harry about how he was sweaty and soapy and sexy as hell.
“Oh my fucking God,” Harry rasped. “You have no idea how g-good that feels. Your hands are so big and hot on my sides, and your prick is so big and hot inside me, and I can-I can-feel-pressed against the tile-wet-so fucking-fuck me-hard-please!”
Of course, Severus could only comply. He was glad they were already in the bath. At least it made cleaning up the mess easier.
OoOoOoOoO
When classes started up again, they settled into a kind of routine. A few times a week, Harry took his Invisibility cloak and made for the dungeons, where he spent the night. Other days, Snape just ordered him a detention to be served in the evenings, and they met for a few hours of wild sex before Harry returned to his dorm.
It was such great fun, and such a lovely way of escaping the great pressure they were under, that Harry almost didn’t realize Snape had also been teaching him until well after Christmas. He’d got rather used to the man poking around in his head, as well as his arse, while they were in bed together, and muttering instructions about how to close his mind, but he hadn’t realized he was actually listening. At least, not until detention one night, when Snape whipped out his wand and cried “Legilimens!” before they’d even dropped their drawers.
And Harry, who was at least in the process of dropping his drawers, had panicked, and threw the man right back out again, tripping over his sagging trouser legs as he struggled to yank them up.
Snape was pleased with the effort, after the initial ire of having Harry slam into his mind in retaliation as if they’d been playing Whack-A-Mole. The boy didn’t know his own strength. But that was all right, because Harry made up for it by industriously sucking cock for the next quarter of an hour, and he was much more adept at that than he’d ever be at Occlumency.
Everything about Harry seemed to have improved since they’d started spending time together. His attitude was better—the word ‘sir’ came much more naturally to him when he spent so much time on his knees, his self-confidence had settled into something becoming rather than irritating, despite the fact that his friends complained of the disturbing smirk he often wore, and even his looks seemed enhanced.
Snape was proud of what he’d achieved.
“You’ve grown very handsome,” he purred at one point, and Potter batted thick eyelashes up at him, hollowing his cheeks. Snape groaned happily.
“Thanks, sir,” Harry murmured when he had a moment and a free mouth. He promptly went back to his business, the muscles of his throat working in a heavenly sort of way.
“Mmm. You’re getting taller, as well, I’ve noticed,” the Potions Master remarked. “You’ve gotten a bit pale, but I suppose that’s all the time spent in bed and up against the wall and over the table, and everywhere else in the dungeons, rather than being outside this summer. Still, you’ve gotten your—ugh, yes—exercise in any case.”
“My hair’s still really—um, you know, though,” Harry pointed out. “Must be all the time I spend round bubbling potions. Or from all the times you miss my mouth completely,” he added pensively.
“I suppose,” Snape grunted, pushing the boy’s head back down. But that started before you were really spending any time with me, an inner voice pointed out, yet Snape shoved it away and ignored it in favour of thrusting down Harry’s throat.
Acquiring new hobbies could be rather enjoyable. And pleasing Potter took so little. When the youth swallowed, Snape’s hands twisted in his still dark, but now rather lank hair, and tensed as a surge of pleasure washed over him, then shot out of his prick to be taken down Potter’s throat.
Snape pulled Harry onto his lap, slipping one hand between the student’s legs, fondling him. Harry threw his head back, pressing himself to Snape’s chest. One of Harry’s arms crawled up to wrap around Snape’s shoulder, and the boy nestled his face against the man’s neck. Snape worked that lusty young cock, silky and hot. Harry’s mouth moved against his throat; he made no noise, and Snape could not tell if the words simply wouldn’t come, or if the boy simply didn’t have the breath to give life to them.
The man ran one sweaty hand down Potter’s back, unconsciously holding him closer, and Harry came, keening, his moist lips quivering until Snape claimed them with his own.
Potter was easy to satisfy. All he needed was an embrace, the illusion of affection, and a few moments of someone’s undivided attention. Of course, afterward he was generally very demanding; if it wasn’t a meal or help with his homework, it was deep, lengthy kisses, or being dandled on Snape’s knee. Still and all, compared to the demands of some former lovers (Lucius and his desire to whip Snape bloody, Lupin and his paranoia that someone might find out they were together) it was really very little to ask.
And Potter was such an enjoyable diversion. Much later, Snape realised that he should have known it was only a matter of time before life once again kicked his legs out from under him.
OoOoOoOoO
“Harry, we must speak privately.” Instead of the normal glimmer of single-minded good naturedness, the Headmaster looked distressingly concerned.
Harry followed Dumbledore to his office, warily taking a seat when offered. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is it Voldemort?”
Dumbledore regarded him gravely. “Harry, recently I’ve been noticing certain developments concerning yourself and Professor Snape.”
Harry swallowed hard. “With all due respect, sir, I really don’t think it’s any of your business,” he pointed out, trying to keep his temper in check. “I’m a consenting adult.”
Dumbledore’s face became rather ruminative. “I think that’s neither here nor there,” he said eventually.
“Perhaps it doesn’t mean a great deal to you, but it’s enough for me,” Harry shot back, nettled.
The Headmaster blinked. “I think you misunderstand me, Harry...I’ve been pleased to note that you and Snape have been spending a good amount of ‘quality time’ together.”
Harry smirked. “We sure have, and it sure is,” he said.
Dumbledore appeared troubled. “Have you noticed that when you make that face, you resemble him greatly?” he asked in a gentle voice.
Harry shrugged a bit. “Yeah, I’m sure I got it from him. He does it all the time. It’s probably not the only thing I’ve picked up—he’s teaching me how to scowl and look down my nose at people, too.” Not to mention how to suck cock, talk dirty, and use spells to get myself undressed and lubed up in record time.
The headmaster cleared his throat. “This is, quite possibly, not something one can be taught. I think it’s more likely an inherited trait.”
Harry tilted his head. “That’s impossible. You can’t pass stuff like that on unless you’re related, right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Dumbledore agreed with a relieved nod. “That’s exactly how it works. Do you understand what I’m attempting to explain to you? I’ve discovered information in the past several weeks that leads me to believe that you and Professor Snape are related.”
Harry felt a numbness pouring through his body. “What? That--that can’t be. What do you mean, ‘related?’”
“Harry, I think Professor Snape is, in fact, your true biological father.”
For a long moment, everything seemed frozen in time. Then the world began to tilt sideways, and Harry fainted.
OoOoOoOoO
“Absolutely impossible,” Snape said curtly, sweeping past Albus as he paced the length of his own office. Harry was slumped dejectedly in a chair nearby, his hair for once looking as wild as ever, as he kept running his hands distractedly through it.
“I’m afraid not,” the Headmaster replied. “My research was very thorough, and the blood test was absolutely conclusive. It took a few months before I was certain, but I think you'll find the evidence is irrefutable.”
The Potions Master gave him a haughty look. “A test not administered by me? And you expect me to trust the results?”
The Headmaster sighed. “If you wish to do another yourself, please do. Verifying this sort of thing is always a good idea. But in any case, I didn’t wish to worry you if my suspicions proved unfounded.”
“They are unfounded,” Severus snapped. “And ridiculous, to boot! That boy is not my son!”
Harry looked up at the man with an angst-ridden expression. “But my hair,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And my skin’s getting all sallow, and I’m taller.”
“Let’s presume for a moment that Potter is my progeny,” Snape said. “How could that be? How could that have happened? I never touched Lily! And no matter how much I needed the cash, I kept my sperm fully to myself, thank you very much, so a misplaced donation of that variety is out of the question. There's no possible explanation!"
“There is,” the Headmaster insisted in an apologetic tone. “I found Lily’s diary. It took some work, to be sure, but I tracked it down eventually in the Potter’s vault.”
“You know, you oughtn’t waltz into my family’s vault anytime you feel the urge,” Harry pointed out heatedly, looking for a good reason to get angry with someone other than himself.
“Stay on point, boy,” Snape grated.
Harry looked contrite, nodding only a bit sullenly. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“According to your mother’s diary...” the Headmaster trailed off unhappily. “Perhaps it would be best to discuss this with Severus alone, first.”
“No! I can handle it! I’m not a child!” Harry protested.
“Since you’re insistent that I am his father, he has my parental consent to witness whatever you wish to say,” Snape told the man dryly. “It’s a pity that my protective urges are nil, but there you have it.”
Dumbledore sighed. “Oh, very well. Severus, I’m afraid Lily did something rather dishonourable to you after graduation.”
“To me?” Snape mulled this over. “...Like...what, exactly?”
The Headmaster lowered his eyes to his entwined fingers. “She fancied herself in love with you, you see.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, battered journal, flipped through to a marked passage, and read aloud, “I can’t live without him; he’s such a sexy bastard! That voice, and that nose, and the way he expresses himself—calling James a right bastard, and a bloody menace, and a stupid berk—I must have that snarky, sensuous beast! I’ll die if I can’t have him! All I want is to...” the Headmaster’s voice faded as he glanced apprehensively at Harry, who was staring at him with his mouth slightly ajar.
“Go on,” Snape urged belligerently.
“All I want is to drag him home and tie him to the bed and fuck him through the mattress, and he hates me! He won’t look twice at me! I’ve tried everything! I even wore my “Insert Willy Here” T-shirt with the arrows pointing both up and down over the holiday, and he only sneered at me in the hall! There has to be a way...”
Harry shuddered. “Wow. Um. She sounds…kind of unhinged,” he remarked.
“Unhappily, Severus had that effect on more than one female student over the years, especially as his voice deepened,” Dumbledore said sadly. “We used to have to sedate Margarithe May before she had his class. It’s really a pity more of the girls his own age didn’t take an interest.”
“Thank you, please continue,” Snape interrupted, shoulders hunched.
“Er, yes, well, the next pertinent entry isn’t for nearly a year. Something about how she’d found a potion that would make her dreams come true—some of the ingredients she mentions are opium, baneberry, camphor, pokeweed, and Samolus…”
Snape whirled on the man. “She never!” he gasped, his face white with outrage.
“What? What?” Harry questioned, eyes wild. “What’s Samolus?”
“You tell me, damn you,” the Potions Master demanded.
Harry blinked rapidly, racking his brain. “Um. Isn’t it brookweed? So what? Isn’t it mostly decorative?”
“Alone, yes. With the ingredients your charming mother used, it could be combined to create a potion that triggers a trance-like state , involuntary muscle spasms...lack of control over the motor skills…and an unfortunate vulnerability to mind-controlling spells such as the Imperius Curse. And of course, afterward, the victim has no recollection of preceeding events.”
“You mean...my mom gave you a date rape drug--er, potion?” Harry asked, scandalized. “She—she really—and I’m really—?” He gulped, his eyes wide. “But...then why do I look just like James Potter?”
Dumbledore tucked the diary away. “Well...I’m not sure if I ought to be telling you any of this, but the effects were wearing off, and it seemed like it couldn’t be long before the truth came out...I just didn’t want you to hear it from Voldemort, who would only use the knowledge to manipulate you.”
“Said the pot about the kettle,” Severus muttered.
“Your mother...er, was not entirely ready to have a child, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore said, ignoring the Potions Master. “You see, she rather resented ‘being saddled’ with you at such a young age, and she didn’t have much to her name, so she married James because he promised to ‘keep her in the life to which she hoped to become accustomed.’ But according to her diary, the first thing she said when learning of her pregnancy…”
“Well? What?” Harry demanded. “It can’t be that bad!”
The Headmaster winced. “She poked herself in the stomach and said, ‘Damn you, you’ve ruined everything, including my girlish figure! May you live an intolerable existence of menial servitude and look just like that idiot, James!’ And because she was a witch...”
Harry stared. “What does that mean?”
“He’s saying that your mother cursed you with your fath—with James Potter’s appearance, as well as everything else that’s ever happened to you,” Snape said in exasperation.
“But...she loved me. She died for me. Didn’t she?”
“Yes, she died for you,” Dumbledore assured him. “She came around in the end, and decided your life was worth more than hers.”
Snape felt guilty that the boy looked so very lost. “If she hadn’t, I’d pull her out of her grave and bash her over the head with a shovel until she did,” he grumbled. Severus wrapped his arms around himself. “I feel so violated.”
"Perhaps you'd like to speak with a counseler of some sort?" Albus suggested. Boy and man ignored him.
“Oh. I'm really sorry, Professor," Harry muttered.
“From now on when you annoy me, I suppose I'll have to compare you to your mother, then. The bloody cow,” Severus added helpfully. Harry did not respond.
OoOoOoOoO
Snape cornered the boy later that afternoon, smothering him with kisses, much to Harry’s horrified shock. “What the fuck are you doing?” he whispered frantically.
The man’s lip curled. “Showing you some much-needed, long-neglected paternal affection,” he said smoothly.
“With your tongue?”
“I’d wondered why you were getting so handsome.”
“You’re vain,” Harry replied, trying not to think about the fact that his head had turned a bit of its own accord, the better to give the man access to his neck. “And you’re always calling me arrogant. Anyway, you’ve got to stop. This is wrong. It’s sick.” And I need it like I need food and water. More, even. It's like an addiction.
“Really? More sick than the time I loaded you up with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, and sucked it out with a straw?”
Harry turned fiercely red. “Shut up! What’s wrong with you? We can’t do stuff like that anymore…can we?” he added in a small voice.
“We’re already breaking a good dozen laws, seeing that I’m in a position of authority over you, you’re underage as far as sodomy goes, the entire Wizarding world disapproves of same sex relationships, and I’m sure that thing you do with your sausage first thing in the morning is illegal somewhere, so I don’t see what difference a little incest makes.”
Harry looked conflicted. “But...I was sort of hoping to get to know you. As…you know, as a dad,” he said.
Snape slipped his tongue inside Harry’s ear. “You already know me carnally,” he responded. “What more do you want? Discipline? I can do that, you know; it’s entirely for your own good, and will hurt me more than it will...fuck it; it’ll feel good to both of us.”
Harry’s lungs sucked in a ragged breath. “Would it have been different with you?” he whispered. “Would I have been safe, and loved, and wanted?”
Severus pulled away to look into Harry’s green eyes, as deep and fathomless as his own. “Don’t be ludicrous,” he responded. “If you’d been given to me, I’d have beaten you daily. And made you wear a saddle for good measure.”
Harry gave him a reproachful glare, which Snape managed to smooth away with a series of nips and kisses. “Do you think the curse will wear off completely?” Harry fretted.
“I think it’s done as much as it ever will,” Severus told him honestly, pulling him into an alcove behind a statue. “The shape of your face has changed a bit, and your skin is slightly more pallid, but other than that, you’re fine.”
“And my hair,” Harry said morosely, sulking as the man suckled his lower lip. “It’s never going to come clean again, is it?”
“We’ll have fun finding out,” Severus assured him. “With your help, I might be able to come up with some sort of potion for it.”
“And we could probably market it,” Harry said with a smile. “Severus and Son’s Slime Stopping Shampoo!”
Snape gave the boy a hungry, lopsided smile, working a knee between Harry’s legs. “I love you,” he murmured.
Harry shivered. “You never said that before.”
“Well, that was before I knew you were family,” the man goaded wickedly, fingers twisting Harry’s nipple beneath his shirt.
“...You’re really twisted, you know that?” Harry let his head fall back against the wall, moaning softly. Snape knelt before him, pulling his shirt loose from where it had been tucked in. After a while, it ceased to matter so much what the man was to Harry, other than a cunning pair of lips and very warm mouth. So long as Harry was loved, why should he want anything else? “Oh,” he cried quietly. “Merlin…are you…are you sure you want this, though? Even—fucksogood—even though I’m your son?” Harry managed to ask.
Snape considered this, sitting back on his heels, and just about driving Harry mad from lack of friction. “I think sex is something of a cure for all ills, don’t you?” he asked with manifestly false innocence. “Besides, I’m slowly working my way through the seven deadly sins, and trying to top them. Incest isn’t even on there, were you aware of that?”
Harry ground his teeth as Snape lapped at the head of his prick. “You’re sooooo bad,” he groaned. The man licked him again, and Harry suppressed the urge to thrust. “But it feels sooooo gooood,” he admitted.
“Of course it does,” Snape affirmed. “And just think; it’s my duty to teach you everything I know.” He squeezed several appreciative noises from the boy, and smiled around Harry’s member.
“Fuck. I like dirty,” Harry muttered, still sounding halfway ashamed of himself.
“Of course you do; it’s in your blood,” the man comforted him. “Dirty is what Snapes do. And anyway, incest isn’t so very bad. The Malfoys have been practicing it for years.”
Harry felt his knees melt as he spurted his seed into his father’s mouth, and collapsed. Snape caught him, lifting him tenderly and carrying him toward the dungeons. Malfoys? he pondered, surprised and a little intrigued. “Er, Snapes don’t do orgies, do they?” he asked hopefully.
“They might,” Severus allowed. “If you do all your homework, eat all your vegetables, and defeat all your Dark Lords.”
Harry grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”