Chapter Text
The first thing Harry felt upon crossing the threshold was a heady bouquet of scents: fresh parchment, dust, rain-wet air, cigarette smoke — and cinnamon. The exotic blend gave off an illusion of comfort — starkly at odds with the room itself: a dark polished desk, towering bookcases that reached the ceiling, heavy curtains.
And a tall silhouette by the window.
Snape didn’t turn. He stood there, unmoving, like a marble statue, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side.
When he spoke, “You’re late, Mr Potter,” there was something in that silken voice that made Harry’s throat go dry.
“Only by a minute, sir.”
“Three, precisely,” Snape said gently, and at last, turned to face him.
His eyes seemed utterly black in the dimness of the office. They drifted over Harry lazily, almost bored, lingering for a moment on the crumpled collar of his shirt.
“Clearly, you’ve once again forgotten why you’re here.”
A faint prickling stirred in Harry’s chest, something between irritation and a thrilling pull he couldn’t name. Every encounter followed the same pattern. Snape would find a reason to scold, mock, or challenge, while Harry — Harry tried not to show how much it aroused him.
The harsher Snape’s voice, the sterner his gaze — the deeper Harry was pulled into this strange and perilous game.
Tonight, he’d decided to allow himself a touch of defiance.
“Then remind me,” he said, his smile contained as he locked his hands behind his back. “...Sir. Perhaps this time, I won’t forget.”
At that, the corner of Snape’s mouth twitched.
“A reminder, Mr Potter: you are insufferably verbose. If your magic performed as reliably as your tongue, these... sessions would have ended long ago.”
He went on speaking — and on — while Harry listened, feeling the blood rush to his face, his skin burning from those humiliating words like from the slap of an open hand.
Heels rang sharply against the floor.
It was always the same. The impulse to argue clashed with the urge to obey. To snap back — or to bow to that unrelenting authority.
The steps stopped mere inches from him. Snape was close now; he smelled of smoke and herbs.
“We begin. And Mr Potter... try not to disappoint me entirely. Just for today.”
It sounded soft, almost encouraging. One might have believed him, if not for the flicker of cold amusement in Snape’s motionless gaze.
Harry stepped back. Then again. And again. Only then did he reach for his wand. He did it deliberately, with a studied calm, as if he were the one in control here. As if Snape weren’t standing so close. As if the man weren’t watching him like a bored cat sizing up a pathetic mouse.
As if every thought, every move, that tremor just beneath Harry’s skin — hadn’t already been predicted.
The wand settled into his palm like a tiny anchor, grounding him to reality. He straightened up and drew in a breath, letting the tension spread slowly through his body. His muscles answered with a dull, dragging heaviness.
It was the fifth day.
The fifth day in a row that Harry had been taking an exam.
At the hands of Severus Snape, who showed no mercy.
The moment Snape’s mouth so much as opened, Harry said,
“Protego,” crisp and steady, as though this could be the start of anything but another humiliation.
The shield flared to life, spreading through the air in a bluish shimmer. Snape didn’t spare it a glance. Instead, he began circling Harry with a predatory gait.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. No shield will hold if you’ve already decided to lose.”
Harry tensed and glanced over his shoulder, but Snape was no longer behind him.
"I’m not planning to lose," he said, and regretted it at once.
From deep within the office came a whisper — something Latin, barely audible, almost intimate. The air trembled and cracked with sparks.
The shield collapsed like a toy. A surge of magic hit Harry in the chest with such force it knocked the breath from his lungs and sent his legs buckling. He was thrown back, then stumbled, then spun. Only instinct kept him from sprawling face-first on the floor.
He landed on one knee and stayed there, breathing hard, his head still bowed.
"Not planning to lose," Snape echoed, like a broken recording. "Do clarify, Potter. Is that military strategy, or just pathetic self-delusion?"
Harry knew he had to stand. Now. Silence, in this moment, would mean defeat. Weakness.
And yet he didn’t. He stayed on one knee a few seconds too long.
A few pitiful seconds, just long enough to hear,
"There you are," Snape said with detached amusement. "On your knees. Right where you belong."
Harry flinched. There was no excuse for how those words struck something deep inside him.
He rose slowly, not quite daring to meet Snape’s eyes.
His fingers tightened around his wand as if it might shield him from the ugliness of his mind.
You can still walk away , murmured Snape’s voice inside his poor, poor mind.
Right now. This second. Walk away. Say stop. Enough. It’s only an exam.
But when Snape gave a mocking little smile, Harry’s body leaned forward, as if pulled by a leash.
"Expelliarmus."
Exactly by the book. Snape dodged it with no hint of effort. He didn’t even raise a shield. Just a graceful sidestep, one hand tucked in his trouser pocket, the other curled behind his back.
Harry clenched his jaw. He had no idea which hand might be holding the wand.
"Depuls—"
"Spirae."
The unfamiliar, wandless incantation swallowed his spell like a vacuum, then hurled it back as a spiralling burst of magic.
Harry dropped his wand.
The last thing he saw before he was flung into one of the columns at the far end of the hall was a dark, near-black knot of magic hurtling toward him like a storm funnel.
He clawed at the rough stone for balance, barely staying upright. His breath came shallow and ragged.
When he opened his eyes, Snape was right there. Almost close enough to touch.
"This is what happens when you fail to learn. You’re disarmed like a first-year. You become easy prey. A puppet. A dummy. A toy."
Harry swallowed, and Snape tilted his head, looming above him like a thundercloud.
"Now tell me, Potter. If this were a real battlefield — if you'd been caught and disarmed — what would you do? Would you let your opponent twist you around like a toy?"
The air between them scorched fiercer than molten metal. Harry couldn’t speak. He knew it was just a game, that behind the walls of this hall sat bureaucrats, instructors, superiors. That the record would call it individual threat modelling with elements of provocative pressure.
But here, right now, he had no uniform, no rank, and no name.
Only the pulsing heat low in his belly and an unbearable need to stay .
"I would..." he began, and Snape held his gaze without blinking. "I would... surrender."
Harry wasn’t even sure he’d said it aloud. At least, he hoped not. It was easier to believe Severus Snape had read his thoughts than to accept that Harry Potter was capable of uttering such words.
Snape straightened and looked down at him for a long moment without saying a word.
Harry gave in first. He turned away, unable to bear that look — searing, oppressive, as if he were staring into a mirror and seeing not a reflection, but the part of himself he feared to name.
Then he changed his mind, lifted his chin, and spoke, his voice carrying a rough edge he didn’t recognise.
"You enjoy this, don’t you? You think this is educational?"
Snape took a step back. Not a single muscle moved on his unpleasant face.
"Oh, Potter. If only you knew how pathetic you look, trying to bite the hand that’s holding you back from complete failure."
He ran his fingers almost fondly along the wand protruding from his sleeve and resumed his slow circling, moving around Harry step by measured step.
Harry tracked him from the corner of his eye, holding his ground, but making no move to strike.
Not that he had the means. His own wand was still lying somewhere across the dusty floor, dozens of feet away.
When Snape vanished from sight again, Harry pressed his back to the column and snapped, "Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit?" His voice came edged with unhidden irritation. "This isn’t theatre, after all. It’s just an exam."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Snape appeared behind him as suddenly as he’d disappeared.
Then, whispering low in his ear, he said, "Potter, if this were theatre, you’d have been thrown off the stage long ago."
A strange heat flooded Harry’s face. He lowered his eyelids, focused on breathing soundlessly, and wondered what exactly had caused that heat.
He wasn’t angry. As much as Snape enraged him, as much as it stung, he didn’t want to shout, didn’t feel wronged.
This was humiliation .
But it didn’t repel him, nor did it frighten him.
It twisted inside him like a hook sunk into living flesh.
...you become easy prey...
"And still. You like this, don’t you?"
He turned sharply, almost too close.
"Do you enjoy mocking me day after day? Twisting me around like a—"
At that, Snape raised an eyebrow, and Harry’s voice cut off, as if someone had ripped out his throat.
"What kind of bloody exam is this?"
"This is the exam, Potter. Your reaction. Your threshold. Your desperate attempt to keep a face you lost long ago."
Snape leaned in. Harry’s knees buckled treacherously, but he stood his ground.
"Not everything can be measured by elementary spells," Snape continued, almost gently, almost tenderly. "Your task isn’t to throw around an Expelliarmus. It’s to withstand pressure. Whether it’s magical, physical, or psychological. And what do I see? The moment you lose faith in your own inviolability, the moment you’re cornered — you crumble. You turn into a child who wants to slam the door on his way out."
Harry let out a dry, splintered laugh.
"And you’re a saint, are you?"
"Hardly. But I don’t lie to myself, Potter. Not about anything. Not about fear, or anger" — his gaze lingered on Harry’s mouth — "or arousal. Nor about the way I prefer to keep things... under control."
The words hit Harry like an ice-tipped blade. He summoned his wand with a sharp, non-verbal pull.
"Then test me," he said through his teeth. "See how I handle pressure."
Snape’s brows rose. A flicker of surprise passed across his face, and his lips twitched, almost imperceptibly.
Then he slowly drew his wand from his sleeve.
"Very well. Let’s try again, Mr Potter. But don’t complain afterwards. Especially if you end up where you were three minutes ago — only in a far more... compromising position."
" Expulso! " Harry snarled, the moment Snape stepped back.
The spell struck the floor a pace too short, crooked, misaligned, off-target — his hand had twitched. The threat of a ‘compromising position’ still echoed in his mind.
"Focus, Potter," Snape snapped, already moving, flickering through the shadows like smoke.
Harry wheezed, only barely managing to breathe out, " Protego Maxima. "
The shield burst into light. The dome sealed around him in a half-sphere of blazing clarity, and for a fleeting second, he felt power. Pure and contained. The barrier trembled in his grip, but it held. He even managed to straighten, his wand once again levelled at Snape.
His muscles ached. His fingers were trembling. In his chest simmered a mixture of frustration and the senseless need to prove… what?
That he was worthy? That he hadn’t broken yet?
What was he even trying to prove?
He cast a glance upward from under his brow, expecting Snape to be on the move, but he wasn’t. The man stood perfectly still in the centre of the hall, like a glacier, like stone. He didn’t hide behind a shield, nor did he blink an eye at the wand that was currently aimed at him — he merely stared directly into Harry’s eyes.
Harry’s heart skipped a beat when he thought — perhaps he understood that look.
Suddenly, it felt obvious: this wasn’t about spells. It never had been.
When Snape looked at him like that, from above , weighing him… it wasn’t his magic that was being judged.
It was him . Not as an Auror, but as a spineless worm, writhing beneath a foot.
Just like those dark years, when a single misstep could decide who would live and who would suffer.
A wave of rage rose through him, hot and bitter.
His shield thrummed like a drawn string, straining.
And maybe that was the moment something snapped — when he spat, "You’re too sure of yourself, Snape . This isn’t war anymore. We’re not on the front. And you’re not a god."
Snape gave a low, rumbling laugh.
“You don’t need a god, Potter. A hangman will do.”
With those words, he cast another spell, still unfamiliar to Harry, but the kind that made the barrier begin to unravel from the inside.
Harry felt a tingling in his fingers. The magic faded. The knot of the shield loosened, as if some unseen fist had finally let go.
He stepped to the side, trying to keep the Protego alive, but the glow had vanished completely, and in the next second Snape rose in front of him as if emerging from the ground itself.
The tip of his wand grazed Harry’s cheek, then slid lower to hook beneath his chin.
"How dull. You did better as a boy."
Harry lunged, intending to grab the wand with his bare hands — and was instantly hit in the chest with a Disarming Charm.
He was thrown straight into the wall. Again, for the third time. So hard the soles of his boots gave a sharp squeal against the floor.
This time he landed on his tailbone.
There was a flash of pain, followed by the dust in his eyes.
Shame.
“Come now,” came the coaxing voice from somewhere above. “ Up , Potter. Unless, of course, you’d rather keep writhing on the floor. Then again… I wouldn’t blame you. It must be warm and cosy down there. Exactly where you were meant to be.”
Harry sat up, teeth clacking together. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand — he’d bitten it, it seemed.
Staggering, he pushed himself to his feet, leaned into the wall, and exhaled.
"You get off on this."
"Does it bother you?"
"Wonder how much you’ll enjoy it when I tell the board you’ve crossed the line."
“I’ll say you asked for it. Not directly, perhaps, but quite insistently. And I’ll be sure…” Snape glanced up at the ceiling, “to attach the audio clip of where you said, ‘ See how I handle pressure’. .”
He bared his teeth in a predatory grin.
"Don’t worry. I’m sure the committee will appreciate your dedication."
"Careful," Harry snapped, straightening his shoulders, as he willed the tremors to subside. "You’re stroking my pride. Why don’t you hit me for real? Or are you afraid I’ll report you?"
Snape narrowed his eyes, one shoulder propped against the far wall. In the dim light leaking through the thick curtains, he looked like a ghost, a hallucination, a mirage.
“Oh, Potter. Your desire to provoke is as pitiful as it is endearing. But if you insist…”
They walked towards each other. Harry, with a limp, while Snape’s spine was as tense as a bowstring, hands folded behind his back.
There was no more fatigue, no more pain. Only the monstrous heat swelling under Harry’s skin.
…tightening into a taut knot low in his belly.
Snape attacked first, clean and sharp, without any theatrical flair — merely a flick of the wrist and a spell Harry had never heard of at the Academy.
Ducking and weaving, Harry barely had time to register that Snape’s magic didn’t favour explosions.
It constricted — in spirals, in rings — or scorched , with tongues of flickering emerald flame.
Like a snake, Harry thought, and misstepped.
Straight into an unauthorised:
“Legilimens Praesens.”
He froze, pinned to the floor like a nail through live flesh. His head jerked back, eyes blown wide, now glazed with a sluggish haze.
This is for you, not for me , the voices whispered from nowhere and everywhere as they hissed in Parseltongue from inside his skull.
You came here yourself, said his own mouth, obeying some silent command.
“Is this what you wanted?” came a low chuckle, deep in his ribcage, this time in English.
Just as Harry’s arms began to droop, limp and useless, he clenched his wand with all his remaining strength — and blindly gasped out in a hoarse voice:
“Stupefy!”
The slippery, prickling sensation of intrusion abruptly vanished. The world snapped back into shape, and his limbs remembered what to do, although Snape — Snape swayed, just barely, as the spell brushed past him.
“What… what was that…” Harry breathed, staring into the dark blur of his silhouette.
It rippled like a serpent, then slithered up towards the ceiling in a curling mist.
The real Snape was already at his ear.
“You’re breathing,” he murmured, “like you’re about to come.”
Harry inhaled sharply through his nose and, without thinking, spun around and threw up a hand — just to reach, to grab, to hit, to do something .
Instead he found himself caught.
Snape seized his wrist an inch from his own cheek. One after the other.
Bare-handed.
Harry’s wand dropped and rolled across the floor. The sound rang out like a bell in the sudden silence that had crashed over him.
The only thing left was his own breath — fast, ragged, whistling between his teeth.
“This is you in a nutshell, Potter,” Snape murmured as he breathed straight into his face. He stepped towards him, slow and steady, while forcing him to back away. “Resisting for the sake of it. Fighting for the mere illusion of feeling something . It is tiresome. And terribly trite.”
Harry tried to pull free, but Snape held him effortlessly, as though Harry wasn’t a trained Auror, a fighter, or even the boy who’d defeated Voldemort, but was instead a poorly placed chess piece on a board.
“Let go,” whispered Harry.
“Why?” Snape whispered back. "So you can throw yourself at another wall? Or so that you can keep pretending you still have a choice?"
Without warning, he abruptly let go, so that Harry stumbled, barely managing to stay upright.
"Well. Clearly you’ve failed the stability test."
Harry gave a shaky half-smile.
“You’re barely human. Everything about you is calculated. Controlled. Have you ever let yourself be... vulnerable?”
Something flickered in Snape’s eyes — a dark pulse in the black.
"I allow myself only what I won’t be ashamed to remember."
“Well, I’m not ashamed,” Harry said, flat and firm. "I’m not," he repeated, driving the words between them like a stake, "of any blow. Of any thought. Even when you’re watching."
And when Snape stepped closer, Harry spat,
“Especially when you’re watching.”
They were no more than half a step apart now.
“So you’ve finally realised why you’re really here,” Snape said. “Excellent.”
This time, he raised his wand towards the ceiling.
Slowly, like a conductor before the final note, he gave an elaborate sweep through the air and spoke the incantation.
The world shivered, pierced by a soundless vibration.
Only then did Harry remember they were still inside the Academy.
That this was still... an exam.
But the room was already melting at the edges, its outlines warping, dissolving into a formless nothing with no ceiling, or walls.
Now, only him and Snape remained.
Along with the cold floor beneath his feet.
And the stage from which no one was yet throwing him off.
***
"Spatial isolation..." Harry murmured, seeing nothing in the darkness that had swallowed them whole. "So you don’t want us to be heard."
"No, Potter," Snape corrected. "I don’t want you to be heard."
Harry parted his lips to speak, but Snape added, softly,
"Not until you finally tell the truth."
“What truth are you referring to?”
“The only one that matters. The real reason why you keep coming back here, Auror Potter . To me . Even though your exam is long since over.”
Harry’s cheeks burned. The heat sank lower, curling in his belly.
"And what if I said I don’t know?"
“Then you’d be lying again. Mostly to yourself.”
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed slowly, as though Snape was giving him a chance to run.
"P-Professor..." Harry blurted into the dark.
"Silence, Potter."
He flinched when warm fingertips traced the line of his cheekbone.
A touch so light, it could’ve been imagined.
In the stillness, his gasp was deafening.
“There it is,” Snape whispered, pressing a palm flat to his chest. “Your vulnerability. Right here. Under my hand.”
As if in response, the air fled from Harry’s lungs in one helpless rush.
He barely managed to ask, “Do you like me like this?”
"I like that you’ve stopped trying to hide it."
Snape caught his chin and tilted his face up — and Harry still couldn’t see a thing.
“Right now, you’re not lying. Perhaps for the first time since I’ve known you.”
His entire body tensed — from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. He turned away, whispering, hoarse and desperate, “I don’t want to want this. I don’t. Do you hear me?”
“But you do,” Snape said. “And you want it so badly it hurts .”
In his mind, Harry howled. It really did hurt.
A dull, maddening ache throbbed in his groin. His cock was straining against his trousers, ready to fucking tear through them.
He backed into an unseen wall and tried to recoil, but it was too late. Snape pinned him there with the full weight of his body.
Long fingers effortlessly slipped beneath the collar of Harry’s shirt, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then they hooked under the fabric and undid the top button.
Then the second.
Then the third.
“You can still stop me,” Snape reminded him, and somewhere in the pitch-black hall, a doorway shimmered into view. “ Still will only last a few more minutes, Potter.”
He ran his fingers along Harry’s exposed collarbone, scratched the dip between them, and gave a quiet, knowing hum — just enough to wrench a shaky breath from Harry’s chest.
His knee pressed against Harry’s fully erect cock and paused.
“Why...” Harry whispered.
“Because that’s why you came here,” Snape replied distantly — and clamped a hand around his throat, just beneath his jaw.
Harry wheezed, arching up into him.
“You don’t need a pass. Or praise. Or approval. What you need is to have the last scraps of your own lies torn off.”
The grip loosened, and Harry let the back of his head fall against the wall as he gulped in air.
Clenching his fists, his chest rose and fell, as Snape slowly dragged a rough palm across it.
“You’ve fantasised about this, haven’t you, Potter?” Snape went on, without a trace of emotion. “That someone would say aloud what you never dared admit, even to yourself. That someone would lay you open like a map on a table. Were you hoping that it would be me?”
Harry couldn’t speak.
He breathed shallowly through his nose, trying to vanish either into the wall, or into Snape, who was pressing him against it — anything to not give himself away.
But Snape felt it. Of course he did. Every breath, every exhale, every shiver that chased across Harry’s skin again and again.
The heat was crawling slowly up his spine, curling around his shoulder blades like hellfire. It crept into his ears, into his nostrils, scorched his eyes — and seared right through to the centre of his chest.
“Answer me,” Snape demanded. “Or I stop.”
“Don’t,” Harry whispered feverishly. “Please — don’t stop.”
He flinched as the slap landed; his head snapped to the side, but Snape caught his chin in one firm movement. His outline sharpened at last in the darkened hall: two black voids for eyes, a few strands fallen loose from his tied-back hair — and the faintest tremble in his pale lips, as the corners began to curl.
Harry understood him without words.
“Yes, sir . Yes—yes, I wanted you to— mgh !”
The tenderness with which Snape’s tongue parted his lips and slid into his mouth clashed entirely with the roughness of the grip that was knotted in Harry’s hair.
The sharp, bitter scent of wormwood hit him as Snape’s head dropped to his shoulder.
What followed wasn’t measured in minutes, or even hours.
Harry panted, his head pressed back against the cold stone, throat exposed to those scorching lips.
Each kiss, each bite, left a brand: here you tremble. here you're weaker. here, you’ve stopped pretending.
Snape’s tongue. His fevered mouth. His sharp teeth.
By morning, not a patch of skin would be left unmarked, Harry thought.
Then Snape tore away — suddenly, as if burned — and the silence dropped like a curtain.
Harry stood there with his shirt open, breath shaking in his chest, a raw clarity cutting through the heat.
Snape hadn’t touched him to soothe.
He’d touched him to possess .
A sharp snap of fingers echoed — and somewhere in the distance, the wall sconces flared to life.
In their flickering light, Snape’s face came into focus: pale, sharp, and unreadable. Then his hand slid beneath Harry’s shirt, and the fabric slipped from his shoulders like a scorched husk.
His chest and ribs were revealed slowly, piece by piece, as if time itself had thickened inside this place, stretching every brush of skin into something resembling close to pain.
Harry let it happen.
He watched through a haze, half-drunk on the heat, as those dark lashes lowered — as Snape’s gaze traced the slow movement of his own fingers down Harry’s collarbones.
Across the rise of his chest.
Along the arc of his ribs.
“Step forward.”
Harry felt as though he could fall apart from that look alone.
His breath came shallow; the tension had sunk so low and heavy that he nearly moaned.
But Snape, clearly, had other plans.
“Hands behind your back,” he said softly, but with a certain weight that made Harry’s knees weak.
There was something in that voice, something so quiet yet laced with intent, it almost made Harry sob. He obeyed without a second’s hesitation, the pull inside him stronger than any word.
And so there he stood, completely exposed from the waist up, arms pinned behind him and trembling with want, his entire soul now laid bare. An open book, scrawled with desires one isn’t meant to speak aloud — not even in their own mind.
Snape circled him.
A light touch to the nape — and the heat was instant.
The pressure between the shoulder blades — and Harry’s head spun.
Snape gripped his sides, squeezed them, like a shopman testing the last display model…
And every inch of him shivered.
Snape idly stroked down Harry’s spine, pausing on every vertebra like tuning an instrument that was about to sing.
His vision swam. The world warped like a fever dream. Nothing made sense anymore.
Only his body — where it was and how it was positioned .
And Snape — how he looked at it.
Then Snape’s palm landed heavily on his stomach, and Harry involuntarily let out a tiny moan.
He bit his lip hard, feeling the tug at his waistband, and the slow unfastening of his belt — as Snape single handedly took all the time in the world to steadily undress him.
Harry didn’t move when the belt finally clattered to the floor.
He stood there with his head bowed while his arms were twisted behind his back, silently submitting himself to some private penance.
Only once did Harry manage to take a steady breath before Snape pulled down the waistband of his pants and gripped his cock like he was taking hold of a bridle.
Harry shuddered, but didn’t flinch — just laced his fingers tighter behind his back and swallowed thickly.
Snape’s fingers closed tightly around the head of his cock and dragged down the shaft in one unhurried, claiming stroke.
The first pass made Harry jerk.
The second tore a hiss from between his teeth.
By the third, he tasted blood in his mouth.
Then Snape moved, circling behind him until Harry could feel the press of his own back against the man’s chest. His hand was calloused, yet it slid so perfectly over Harry’s aching cock, feeling like silk.
He began to speak in that same low, drawling monotone he once used to lecture with in Potions class:
“Tell me, Potter. Who did you think of when you had your cock in your fist these past months? While you lie in your bed, with your sheets damp with sweat. When you’re under the shower, jerking it so fast that you nearly slipped. What about the time in that filthy motel after your first mission? Or was it when you were in your tent, with your hand clamped over your mouth as you tried to stifle your moans… Also In that disgusting Academy loo — right after you screamed at the Minister. Who was behind you then, Potter?”
His hand was pressed to Harry’s throat now as that hot mouth hovered at his ear.
“Who had you by the neck during all those filthy little fantasies?”
Harry let out a broken whine — and damn near moaned when Snape spat into his palm and reached down.
There was a wet sound, and the slick heat between his thighs made Harry’s knees nearly buckle.
" I did. You wanted this . You dreamt of me fisting your cock, dragging you over the edge like no one else ever could. You wanted to feel like…” A low, wicked chuckle curled against Harry’s ear. “…my little toy.”
Harry jerked, his head thudding against Snape’s shoulder, jaw locked tight enough to splinter.
“First it was guilt,” Snape murmured. “Then came the kind of want that made you sick. And now? Look at you. Mouth wide open. Cock dripping in my hand.”
Then with a sudden tight grip, Snape started stroking him roughly and steadily, like he knew every nerve in that cock by heart.
To his own horror, Harry’s mouth did fall open, as a helpless, shuddering sob tore from his throat.
“Show me what surrender looks like,” Snape hissed, fisting him like he owned him. “Show me, Potter.”
Harry couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. None of the limbs he nominally possessed were responding.
Snape might’ve still been saying something, but Harry’s world had narrowed down to a single, unbearable point: the slick hand on his throbbing cock. He felt his balls tighten, a tremor coiling low and hot in his arse—
Thank fuck, his body knew what to do.
He whimpered when his hips jerked forward, fucking helplessly into that vice grip.
And let out a broken, wounded sound the moment Snape let go .
Abruptly.
“Nnh—! Please— ah—!”
The sudden loss hit like a punch to the gut, sharp and savage and buried deep in his groin.
His head lolled back, dazed, and with hazy eyes, he blinked down at his own cock, which was flushed and twitching, a feverish smear of red in his blurred vision.
He flinched, muscles taut with tension, as he tethered on the brink of collapse. His legs felt like they’d give out and snap him in half.
Anything. He was ready for anything .
If only he could come.
It wouldn’t take much. Just a few rough strokes and he’d be undone.
So why had Snape—?
Snape grabbed and turned him around, his jaw seized like a bit in a horse’s mouth, dragging his head up until he had no choice but to look.
Only when he finally met those hypnotic black eyes did the verdict fall:
"You don’t get to come standing. Place, Potter."
The command hit harder than any curse.
Like the perfect little pet, Harry dropped to his knees — inch by inch, panting, clutching at Snape’s flawless trousers like they were the only thing keeping him upright.
Snape gave a low, satisfied hum and bent over him, twisting a fist in Harry’s hair until he squirmed on the icy tiles, head tipped back in a whimpering arc.
"Good boy."
And then — that touch again.
One brutal stroke, sharp and deliberate, like snapping a string drawn too tight.
"Now you may."
Harry cried out, his whole body locking as he came — mouth hanging open, neck arched, face stripped of anything that once resembled the Hero of the War.
What remained was a boy on his knees.
The Boy Who Obeyed.