AN: I do NOT own any of the characters or the places which JKR has kindly given us to play in. BE ADVISED: This is a CRACK FIC. You don't like it - don't read it. But it is what it is and that is how I meant it to be. I wrote it poorly on purpose for my own entertainment and for that of my friends and anyone else who might be interested. So Enjoy! Also - this is a WIP more will be coming.
SUMMARY: Harry Potter's Fifth year at Hogwarts and he is in love. With Snape. Who still hates him - but only sort of. Harry knows that deep down Snape must love him and he will prove it. Draco spends his time stealing a white powder of some sort from Snape and talking to the people who live in his fingers and trying to catch the ponies which gallop about Hogwarts. This Fic is rated M for a reason!
CHAPTER ONE
The dark sinuous velvety rough manly chocolatey serious mocking goosebump raising shiver inducing jizz in my pants voice left me breathless and waiting and wanting and panting and gasping and groaning and shuddering.
"Shut the fuck up you maggot"
I love him so much it hurts. Harry grumbled in his head. His kindness. His obvious caring. His hidden soft side. His deep dark emotional trauma and obvious verbal and mental abuse only made me love him more. He was perfect. A god. A Dark vengeful god. A Dark vengefilled god of wrath and fury and love and sparkles and evil looking teddy bears with sharp pointy teeth.
"Oh. Sorry Professor. Did you want that with or without lemon?" Harry grumbled.
Ron chortled and coughed and snorted and giggled and choked beside me. Slightly to the left. I thought perhaps he was having a seizure or something. I didn't see what was funny. I also didn't hear what Snape had said. I was too busy watching him move around the class room with that dangerous, feline, death eater, stalker grace. It was a thing of beauty. He also had a nice ass. It was probably firm. Muscular without being overly muscled. Lean. Whipcord. Hard. Soft in all the right places even though he didn't have breasts or curves or any spare flesh on him….
"My office now you arrogant filthy disgusting boy-ape pain in the ass juvenile ridiculous wanking ignorant brat."
"Business as usual." Harry grumbled silently. He had such a way with words my silver tongued, snappish, unstable crush. He also looked like a giant bat. Or an angel of death. Or a greasy no good filthy slimy sallow skinned emaciated reanimated corpse of a man. "I love him. He is perfect." Harry grumbled under his breath.
I walked, floated, stumbled towards his office. Such a nice office. Those heads in jars and creepy eyeballs in a dish were wonderful. And the smell of countless years of potions and ingredients, while singeing my nose hairs and burning the back of my throat, also smelt like heaven. Like him. Like love only the kind of love that would gladly peel the skin off your eyes and poke you with red hot irons while pulling out your hair one strand at a time before leaving you in a room full of dementors. It was just so fucking sexy. Especially when he looked all sour like that. Like he was ready to spit nails or like someone had just forced him to drink a pot of Hagrid's tea followed by some motor oil…Used motor oil. Followed by sour milk followed by castor oil. Followed by one of his own potions followed by one of Neville's potions followed by a blended cup of Dumbledore's lemon drops, Filch's brass polish and Umbridge's favourite kitten plate. How did he make it look so fantastically, dramatically, terrifyingly, effortlessly adorable? And Vampiric. Yeah. Vampires were hot. And he sort of had it going anyways.
Apropos of nothing Harry dropped to the floor and started to scream. Clutching his head as light, stars, hammers, voices and Voldemort's cruel laughter threatened to burst his scar open.
All Snape could think was Holy Fuck, the kid's going to explode. Not quite. But totally unconscious worked for him too. He levitated him gently, but meanly and thoughtlessly too. His smouldering deep deep deep blacker than black eyes were a strange mixture of loathing, worry, concern, pity, resentment, frustration, sexual frustration and anger. Because naturally it was all Potter's fault for staring at him in class, making him angry, looking like James and Lily all at the same time (imagine looking like both of your parents - absurd child), being Albus' favourite and everyone else's scapegoat. Oh yeah, and scaring the ever loving shit out of him and collapsing on the floor after having a temper tantrum and blowing up every magically warded thing in his office because he was just that magically endowed. What an attention whoring little fucker.
Regardless, Snape carefully conjured with a stretcher. With spikes on it. But they were nice spikes. And dumped Potter gently onto it and strapped him down with the happy light blue restraints. Then he sent Potter through the floo with a note pinned to his shirt and sat down to have a glass of whiskey, vodka, rum…Possibly wine. Probably all four. But he wasn't an alcoholic okay? He drank because of his nerves. He was a fucking spy for chrissakes. But NOOOOO… No one ever gave him the credit he deserved. No one bought him expensive presents or invited him over for a visit. Thoughts of Lily always made him cry. Not that he had emotions. He was sure it was simply a magical allergy to her dead and disappointed ghost. His long nimble, expressive, delicate, strong, talented, fingers – wonderfully equipped for choking the life out of people shifted easily through his sooty, filthy, grimy, stringy, soft, full black hair.
Snape absently massaged Potter's elbows as he stood beside the hospital bed (He didn't remember how he got there… Or why he was touching Potter at all.) doing his best not to look like he cared. He actually really didn't. But if Dumbledore knew that he actually didn't care but was acting like he did didn't did didn't not not care. Then his whole nefariously genius plan would go up in smoke and then Voldemort would realize that he really wasn't his spy on Dumbledore who thought he was spying on Voldemort who believed he was spying on Dumbledore who believed he was spying on Voldemort who was sure he was sure he wouldn't not not never double cross him.
Suddenly Potters bright deep sea vegetal marble pop-bottle pickle-juice coloured green eyes popped open and stared straight at him. Snape couldn't help the sudden urge to comfort and ignore him all at once. And slap him as soon as he opened his mouth to say anything. Or that… He noted when Potter began to complain.
"Stop trying to control me. And stop pretending that you care or that you are even a decent human being. And why don't you love me?" He grumbled. And then promptly burst into snotty messy tears. "I fucking love him and he won't leave me alone. He must hate me for loving him. I love the greasy, slimy, bastard." Harry grumbled to no one in particular.
"You're not normal." Was all Snape could say.
Draco had a nervous twitch. It came from living with a death eaters. Yea. Yea. Sure it did. Yup. All the death eater's fault. It had nothing to do with the pretty butterflies or the fancy white powder that he kept stealing from Unkie Sev. Nope nothing like that. He had fingers. That was just fucking hilarious. How was he supposed to explain this to the Unicorn? Snakes and Unicorns don't have fingers. He giggled. But they do have noses right? And his nose was all runny with red stuff. Eeew. Twitch twitch.
It was all Potter's fault. It was always Potter's fault. All he had done was try to offer him some support that first day. He had heard that the great boy who lived had been raised by muggles. For fucks sake. All he had done was try to be friendly…Maybe they could be friends now, right after he figured out how to get off the boat he was currently sitting in.
Oh yeah. Potter. Hmmm. Unkie Sev had been right. Bloody Potter and his heroness. Someone had to watch out for him. Maybe he should do it. He could follow Potter around and make sure that he didn't get killed or kill himself. Yeah. That was a great idea. He'd just hop the next pony to where ever Potter was. He actually had no idea. But here came the ponies. It was even one of the nice ones with no teeth.
"Heeeeeeere Pony pony pony" Draco called out, beckoning with his hand full of cupcakes "Heeeeere Pony pony pony. Want a nice cupcake?" The Hufflepuff girl he had been calling 'pony' burst into tears and went running off with Draco is mad pursuit calling after her "No! no no no! Wait up! I need to catch a ride! Poooony! Come back!" When he finally stopped chasing after the pretty pony he realized that he was lost again. Damnit.
Snape. Dread master of Potions and the Dungeons realized that he supposed that he probably might love Potter a little bit. Of course those feelings were surely being. Erm. Helped. By the fact that Potter currently had his hot, wet, talented, teasing, probing, snarky, whinging tongue doing an intimate dance with his cock. Yup. That was probably the only reason that he liked Potter at all. And saying "I love you" in the middle of a blowjob seemed, even for the self made misanthrope, to be a little cheap.
Potter grumbled something nonsensical around his mouthful of Snape Cock and Snape tugged violently (in that nice sort of way) on a fist full of Potter's black, roan, dark, messy, James-like, short, shoulder length, untidy hair. Reminding him just what exactly he was supposed to be doing (Snape had no wish to lose his cock. He knew what happened when people tried to talk with a cock in their mouth, and the results were never pretty).
"Did you actually have something to say?" Snape asked one Potter had disentangled himself.
I just gave you a blowjob. Boolow job. Blooow Joooob. Was what he was thinking. Actually. He was silently frozen for several unnerving moments and Snape wondered if he had inadvertently killed Potter with his cock. He was just about to leave before anyone could pin the cock induced death of the Boy-Who-Lived on him when Potter landed back in reality and smiled his bright, winning, innocent, feral, child-like, creepy smile and happily grumbled
"I think I love you." The sound of Snape's unconscious body hitting the floor was a bit painful. So Harry threw a blanket over the prone form on the floor, rolled back into bed and went to sleep. Mentally chanting over and over "I gave you a blow job. I gave you a blow job. I love you. I gave you a blow job." God he loved that man. He grumbled in sleepy, sated contentment.
Snape had to admit that there had been better places to wake up on than the floor of the Infirmary in a crumpled heap with a suffocating blanket over his head. He wondered if someone actually had blamed him for Potter's death by cock and had stunned him and then covered him with a blanket to hide the body. And then he remembered that he hadn't actually killed Potter. Too bad. The look on old Voldie's face when Snape told him that he had killed Potter with his cock would have probably been worth the AKing he would have received for it. He groaned, moaned, stretched, yawned, blinked owlishly, scratched his head, tucked his cock back into his pants absently and then tried to stand. Apparently, sleeping in a pretzel shape on a hard stone floor isn't really the best thing going. Fuck. He had pins and needles everywhere except his cock. He also had to admit that he really didn't remember why he was on the infirmary floor… He was fairly certain he hadn't been hexed. Now what was it… Hmm.
Potter mumbled and twisted and thrashed and rolled about in his sleep like a mini natural disaster as Snape watched. He also talked in his sleep… So Snape did the best thing he could think of in this situation and pulled up a chair and summoned some popcorn and a glass of wine with a chaser of whiskey from the house elf who seemed to follow him around, and then settled back for the show. The first program sucked. Definitely day time television melodrama from somewhere.
"No. Sirius stop it…."
"I'm not Sirius" Snape snapped and hucked some of the nice buttery, melty, freshly popped, boiling hot corn at Potter's head. He couldn't stand that mutt… Even if Potter was dreaming. The next show was a soap/opera cheap thriller sort of thing with a dash of Evil Dead tossed in for good measure.
"But Voldemort said I can't…"
"Don't say that name." Snape threw more popcorn at Potter's head. Potter remained asleep and oblivious. Seriously. He'd probably sleep through the next war if he was given the chance. Next was a sort of sick SM/Horror thing… Probably B List.
"Would you fuck off Dumbledore?" Was Harry's grumbled opening line. Snape happily sipped at the glass of wine and continued to listen… Interested. "No I don't want a lemon drop. No…. Bugger off you sick twisted letch. I will not paint your toes and I'm never making you…."
"Are all of your dreams really this bad?" Snape inquired of the sleeping boy with exaspteration.
"Please put your cock in me Severus…." Snape's mouthful of wine made a fine misting sheet and he coughed, choked and nearly had heart failure.
"Holy Christ on a pogo stick Potter. You'd better be asleep." He glared suspiciously as the now still (and wine covered) lump on the bed before him. It didn't move… But the talking continued.
"Mmm. Yes. Oh…. Ah. Yes. Ri – right. THERE!...QUIT TEASING!" That last shouted statement made Snape jump about five feet off his chair and look around to make sure he didn't have Dumbledore, Pomfrey and McGonagall all descending on him. Potter was back to half stuttered conversations and moans and satisfied little stretches and arching his hips and lifting his knees like that and his hands… Were.. Erm. Oh. Fuck.
Draco woke up in a coffin. At least he thought it was a coffin. It was small. Dark. Damp. Dank and wooden. Had a lid. Was just long enough to fit his body and… Oh. No wait. It was a good deal longer than his body. He could stretch out and… Oh. He could hear voices too. Hmmm. So he did the only reasonable thing he could think of and sprang up as fast as possible.
When he woke up he was in a coffin. Well. It was probably a coffin. He thought with hazy recognition through his headache. It was dark. Smelt bad and was wooden. He could stretch out. His hands couldn't touch the ceiling. Roof. Lid… Thing. So he decided to try and sit up as fast as possible to scare his headache away.
When he woke up he was hopefully dead and in a coffin. Because his head was killing him and he didn't know where he was but he'd be damned if he was going to sit up. For some reason he thought it might be a bad idea.
Carefully he began to slide himself forward, using his legs to propel him along the underside of whatever hell he was in at the moment. Carefully. Until he reached the bright light at the end of the tunnel. He got out. Stood up with his arms protecting his head and then stretched in glorious freedom and turned to face his oppressor.
"Well well little table I see meet again." Draco sneered with his best Malfoy sneer. He sidled up to it. Carefully. And reached out a hand to pat it. Stroke it. Carefully. He didn't make eye contact with it. Carefully. One could never tell with wild animals or trestle tables, what they might do when frightened.
"May I sit down?" He waited for it to bow. He'd learned that too. Never sit down until it bows. But once sitting he was safe. As safe as safe could be. And pulled out the little vial of powder.
By the time the funny duck came to get him. With its big eyes and squeaky voice, Draco had made seventeen new friends- four of which lived in his toes- he had declared war on the state of Logic and Rationale– which only ever got you into trouble- and had sent an accidental love letter to Madam Hooch from Argus Filch.
The squeaky duck thing was telling him he needed to go to the "Infirmary" which sounded ominous and not at all fun. He told it so too.
"Clive and Guildenstern don't want to go. They think it'll be stupid and they haven't finished their game of Gobstones yet. Rosencrantz and Pimbakel are still discussing and…"
He never got to finish the thought because all of a sudden he was asleep again...
TBC.
AN: Alright everyone - I will take the good with the bad, the happy with the WTF was THAT? Review and let me know if you need to see Chapter 2 or if this is better left as it.