A Note from the Desktop of Innovations: UmÖyeah. Iím confused. :x I donít honestly know what this story is aboutÖI was late when I wrote it. :O! ahemÖanyway-! Itís a SS/SB pre-Volde story set in their sixth year. Once again ñ Donít ask what itís about, cause I really canít give you an answer. Itís justÖyeah. Itís possible that itís only PG-13. I really donít know. :x I canít tell.
Disclaimers are more like warnings: Youíd know if I owned them. Trust me.
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Counting Forward
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Step. Pause. Turn. Wait.
one, three, five, seven...
Perhaps it was the silence he hated the most. The long waits in the shadowed corners, the slow creeping of darkness into once lit halls, the cold and chill of the midnight hour echoing down the corridors. It wasnít the fear of getting caught, it couldnít be for he was never afraid of anything (but, maybe, the strange sinking sensation was fear, maybe the doubt that resided in him that perhaps this was the night he'd get caught out of his rooms at night was eating away at his conscience, but how could it when he never had a conscience to begin with?).
two, four, six, eight...
Step. Pause. Turn. Wait.
one, three, five, seven...
He feels childish, really, standing here in the clock tower awaiting the arrival of someone he honestly despises but then, if he did, why was he here in the first place (He feels foolish and young and so naive all at once, feeling this slight quiver of excitement, of anticipation)?
For after all, he was here to meet an enemy in an empty hall. It was frowned upon by his fellow house-mates, it was forbidden (perhaps that's why he agreed to it, perhaps for once he too would like to experience the thrill of secrecy, of lies).
two, four, six, eight...
Step. Pause. Turn. Wait.
one, three, five, seven...
It's later now, later than it should be. His companion is late and he breaths a sigh of acceptance. The bell tolls the second hour, and the sound of hurried footsteps follows close behind. A panting breath, a quiet cough, and suddenly he's there before him in a rustle of cloth and a whoosh of sudden visibility (stunning beauty and bright, bright eyes and how could he have ever refused the request?).
"Black." He acknowledges, frowning to show his displeasure at being kept waiting (and wondering, and worrying...).
"Shit, Snape...I'm sorry I'm so late...Jamie didn't fall asleep until fifteen minutes ago and I couldn't swipe his cloak until then and I..." The ebony haired youth panted, bending slightly at the waist and pressing his hands to his knees in a futile attempt to catch his breath. He looks tired, his hair tangled and his eyes wild (perfect and pretty and right). "I almost ran into Filch. It's lucky I've gotten here at all."
"Your tardiness is to be expected." Snape drawls (relieved and glad and canít tell, can never tell). He leans against a marble pillar, black eyes slightly narrowed, slightly accusing. "However, I shouldn't have expected better from you." The young prat was a Griffindor, after all (always a Gryffindor, forever a Gryffindor). Sirius scowls at the figure in the moonlight.
"I'm trying to say I'm sorry you ungrateful little-"
"If you truly wish me to tutor you in potions, you'd do best to behave yourself. It wouldn't do for you to flunk, would it, Black?" Snape allows a slow, smug smile to spread as Sirius snapped his mouth shut, his cheeks coloring quiet nicely (pretty, pretty and he had caused the response).
"We have only an hour now, Black." He pushes himself away from the pillar and walks towards the makeshift laboratory he'd fashioned inside the old clock tower on the seventh floor (convient with a small window that overlooked the forbidden forest, a place and a name, he thinks, that suits his companion), "Lets make use of it." He doesn't bother to look and see if Sirius would follow, for he already knows he will (as he knows he would in return).
--
An hour passes with little result and minor accident. Sirius has never been adept at potions (pretty and smart, but not clever with a cauldron). Peter had tried in their second year to help him along, to guide him, for potions was the only subject in which the little boy with the mousey brown hair flourished (Peter was a menace, a leach, in Snapeís opinion). In desperation and fear for his falling grades, Sirius had turned to the last person he could have asked for advice and help. Severus Snape had been amused (pleased and flattered) when Black had cornered him in the dungeons two days ago and asked - or rather - begged (it went straight to his cock, that pleading voice) for his help. It was an offer Snape couldn't find himself refusing (canít refuse, can never refuse). For after all, it wasn't often he nor anyone else had the chance to lord over Sirius Black (wouldnít humiliate him, not on purpose, not like Siriusís friends had done).
He accepted, and now here they are (together).
Sirius curses then sighs, looking sullenly up at Snape who wrinkles his nose in distaste. Black looks dejected and pathetic and Snape was almost ready to hex (or kiss him, or shove him against the wall and do dirty things to that sweet, sweet mouth) him before he did something else foolish, like add the gillyweed before the moth's wing.
"Yes, go. You're not accomplishing anything by sulking, unless you intend to piss me off." He growls. "If that is the case, you're succeeding." Sirius opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, for once thinking before reacting. He pauses for a moment, then:
"I'll never get it right..." He mutters quietly, more to himself than to Snape. Severus glances at the blueish-green contents and has to agree.
"Hopeless, is what I'd call you." He waves a hand (not hopeless, confused). "And in answer to your unspoken question, yes I'll wait for you tomorrow night." Snape sighs, wishing he wouldn't have to (will always be waiting, wouldnít dream of anything else) but knowing that he won't be the one to break a promise. He isn't like the Griffindor's friends (never, for Siriusís friends are cruel - his pretty student just doesnít realize it yet), after all. "Just go, and try to study a little more tomorrow evening, will you? I do not want my cauldron melted in your ignorance."
Sirius glares at him with a mixture of guilt and righteous indignation, gathers his books, and slinks away from the clock tower. Snape watches him go, amusement clearly etched onto his pale, drawn features.
--
two, four, six, eight -
one,
three, five, seven...
--
The next night was as before, as was the night after that.
"The lemon grass needs to be diced smaller, Black. These pieces are too large, and therefor will not blend." Snape hands the grass back to Sirius, who takes them, looks down, then sputters.
"But...I can't get them any smaller!" He protests, hazel eyes slightly panicky. Severus grumbles and, coming up behind Sirius, he leans forward and guides the Griffindor's hands (so small, so petite, so strong).
"It's because you're not chopping it properly. You need to use small downward strokes with the knife, like this." He demonstrates, guiding Sirius's hands through the task he finds so utterly easy. When it is finished and he pulls back (doesnít want to, wants to hold him forever, keep him forever), he notices that once again the ebony haired boy's cheeks have flushed hotly under his unintentional attentions (beautiful and warm and sweet). The boy ducks his head to avoid eye contact, allowing his long, silken hair to sweep forward and hide his face (tragic, though Siriusís hair is a source of envy around the school. Pretty and soft and oh-so-black it shines and magnificent blue in the right light and Snape himself is fascinated by it, how could he not be?). Snape sighs, reading the embarrassment so clearly written before him and acknowledges it, knowing that he should say something, anything, to help calm Sirius' nerves (right thing to do, make him feel better, and soothe the frustration). It wouldn't do to have him jittery, for it would probably only make matters worse, if possible.
"It's all right to make mistakes, Black." He mutters finally, finding it surprising that it wasn't so hard to say after all (never was, never had been).
"Err...thanks." Black's voice is small, but somehow pleased.
--
"Oh, bloody hell!"
The potion has failed for the sixth time in as many weeks, and Black is about to give up on ever achieving a passing grade. Snape rests his forehead against the table, mentally cursing Black in every language he knows (cursing his lack of understanding, not his intelligence, not his fault potions are complex). Sirius, judging from his expression, is probably doing the same.
"Fuck this. I give up. It's fucking impossible." The Griffindor throws up his hands and pushes his textbooks away, sending them scattering to the floor.
Snape almost sighs with relief (almost, but not. Giving up is impossible).
"Fine, it's your grades." He yawns, pushing himself back into a sitting position. He fixes a pointed glare on Sirius. "I don't know why I agreed to help you in the first place. I've gotten nothing out of this most frustrating ordeal and your more hopeless than I had originally imagined."
Sirius goes quiet for a moment. Quiet and thoughtful and suddenly Snape is nervous and worried and all-too conscious of the fact that Sirius was hurt by his comment and is now trying to strike him back in return (he hurt him, he hurt him...).
"I don't know. What possessed me to ask you in the first place?" He huffs, bristling and indignant and angry and hurt and suddenly Snape knows something that never occurred to him before. "Remy, Jamie, and Peter will fucking gut me if they found out I've been getting lessons from you of all people." A frown.
Snape glares, Sirius glares back.
A high pitched laughter echoed in the
distance -- Peeves, no doubt. two, four, six,
eight...
--
one, three, five, seven..
--
Snape curses and Sirius blinks and suddenly he's pressing his student against the wall, pressing his mouth against startled lips (so shocked, his Sirius), demanding entrance and submission and begging that Sirius won't kill him for it. The Griffindor les out a quiet yelp of surprise, and Snape raids that sweet, sweet mouth (like butterbeer and toffee). The boy struggles vainly at first, kicking and clawing and protesting far too much. A few minutes pass, and all protests come to an abrupt halt as Snape's hand wanders lower and lower still.
A heavy moan penetrates the silence and Snape crows inwardly as Sirius yields and things progress from there (just as he imagined, better than his dreams).
--
Three weeks later they were back in the clock tower, leering down at the cauldron. Sirius has roughly pulled his hair back to avoid having it melted should it drape into the potion (smart, his Siri). Snape frowns down at the mixture.
"It's yellow." He begins slowly.
"So?" Sirius glances up at him.
"It shouldn't be yellow."
"Well, shit." Sirius pouts (adorable).
--
Three weeks more and Snape slams Black against the wall (mine, mine, mine) and presses his mouth firmly to those tempting lips. Sirius moans beautifully (Snape finds himself growing addicted) and tries to drag him closer, tangling his fingers into Snape's shoulder-length black hair. They go farther than before that night, and Snape smiles as he slides inside Sirius, whispering words of comfort as blue eyes stare up at him nervously (so tight, so perfect).
Two days pass, and it is complete. They kiss, they curse, they part ways, and a deafening silence falls upon the clock tower once again (silence, perhaps that was the worst of all).
--
two, four,
six, eight...
one, three, five, seven...
--
A few days more finds them back in the little room on the seventh floor, curled hopelessly around each other atop a small worktable in the center of the silent room (couldnít keep away, could never keep away).
two, four, six, eight...
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fini? ...I think?