It was in the 7th Year Potions class that Harry's whole world changed. It was one of those rare classes where Snape was brewing while he gave the lecture (with the winter had come a nearly school-wide case of cold, and Snape was, of course, in charge of restoring the Hospital Wing's supply of Pepper-Up), and Harry sat mesmerized by the sultry, dark chocolate tones emanating from the front of the room. He had long since given up trying to concentrate during Snape's lectures, and Hermione had given up (mostly) on trying to make him, or refusing to share her notes for the homework.
For reason's the now adult Wizarding Savior didn't care to analyze, the sound of Snape's voice had become almost hypnotic; the silky baritone acted like a balm against reality, and, when Harry heard it for any real period of time, it was as if nothing else existed. As Harry was lulled further by the rumbling, gilt-edged tones, his eyes alighted on the impossibly long, potion-stained fingers carefully measuring out some unknown powder. He watched, entranced, as those nimble digits pinched the perfect amount of powder to sprinkle into the potion, and slowly traced the contours of the limber wrists. Green eyes followed the line of the form-fitting sleeves, up the toned forearm and lithely muscular biceps, tracing over the thin, pale throat.
Snape suddenly dipped his head forward as he expounded on a point while absent-mindedly stirring his potion, and dark eyes bored into Harry. It was only a glance, a moment of unfathomable black before the coal gaze swept over the room, but in that second Harry felt something deep within him stir. A new, unknowable feeling flooded Harry's veins, like fire and ice all at once, and in the pit of his stomach he felt a stirring, animalistic thing give a feral growl. This new feeling was like nothing he had ever experienced before, something raw, and powerful…and dangerous.
This lustful stirring startled Harry…it scared him, in a way Voldemort had never managed. Up until this moment, he had never even thought to question his sexuality or the attraction he felt for Ginny, his girlfriend of two years. Now, he couldn't help the thoughts brewing in his mind, just below the surface of truly conscious thought. The result was a deep, unsettling confusion.
When the bell rang, releasing the class, Harry bolted from the room as soon as he got his things packed away. He dashed all the way to the Seventh Floor, barely stopping to give the password to the Fat Lady before rushing up to his dorm. He threw himself onto his bed, closing the curtains of the four-poster, and sat there in a mild panic, breathing heavily. As a final measure, he cast a silencing charm on the curtains.
"Okay, so…what the bleeding hell just happened?!" He whispered fiercely, staring at the pillow he held to his chest. "There is no way I just felt that for my professor! My very male professor!" He groaned, throwing himself back onto the bed and covering his face with the cool pillow.
He could still feel the partial erection (a side-effect of the "feeling" he'd had in class) pressing against his uniform slacks, and he was pretty sure if he looked down he could probably see the tent even through his robes. He groaned again and tried to think of anything besides Snape's sinuous hands and sharp tongue. Even more startling, when he tried to think of Ginny, he couldn't seem to find her face in his memory, only Snape's dark eyes. Finally, the thought of making out with Hermione (he loved the girl, but she was like a sister) forced what remained of his manhood salute to cease and desist. He laid there, his mind running in circles, for an untold amount of time.
"Harry?"
The Gryffindor started, sitting up and ripping the pillow from his face. "Hermione?"
"Harry, are you alright? You just sort of ran out of Potions like you had a swarm of Dementors on your tail," The girl asked, her voice drawing closer to his closed curtains.
"I'm fine, Hermione," Harry answered nervously. The girl was always so perceptive, he didn't need her knowing he was suddenly in crisis over his feelings for Ginny.
"Harry?" His friend called again, more insistent. "Harry…" His curtains twitched aside to show his best friend looking at him in exasperation. She sat on the edge of his bed. "You do realize that a silencing charm means I can't hear you outside of these curtains, right?"
The Gryffindor gave another groan as he slapped his palm against his forehead. "No, I forgot I put it up." He glanced up at his friend with a small chuckle. "Stupid. I'm fine, though, 'Mione, honest. I just felt a little queasy." Nor was this completely a lie. "I didn't want to give Snape an excuse to take points if I threw up on his floor."
Hermione looked unconvinced, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at him pointedly, but he only offered a chagrined smile in return. Finally, she rolled her eyes and smiled softly. "Come here, let me see if you have a fever." She leaned over and pulled him forward by a hand on the back of his neck so she could place a tender kiss on his forehead. When she pulled away, she eyed him critically. "Well, you aren't warm…except for that blush you keep trying to hide."
Harry rolled his eyes, making her giggle. "You always see right through me, 'Mione."
"It's what I'm here for, silly," She crooned. "Still, you are looking a little flushed, and that cold is still making its way through the school. I know you're usually immune to the yearly bug, but why don't we stop by the Infirmary on our way down to Dinner, get you some Pepper-Up? We need to take Ron anyway, because he keeps claiming that he 'thust dunt get coldth'. Snape's probably got it all finished up by now."
At the mention of Snape and the potion he'd been brewing in class, Harry felt that self-same flash of desire, though this time it was thankfully much dimmer, and didn't affect his body in quite the same way. Instead, it felt like a bolt of lightning up his spine, and he blushed harder, hiding his face.
"Yeah, sure, Hermione…I know better than to argue with you about my health, and to be honest, I'm not feeling that great anyway," He mumbled past his hands, which were cupped over his face.
Together, they left for the Infirmary, dragging a sniffling, sneezing Ron with them from the common room.
The next day Harry woke with an idea forming in his mind. He had decided that the feeling yesterday was a fluke, just an outpouring of doubt now that he and Ginny had started talking about marriage. With that sorted, he walked into Potions a few days later, feeling confident that nothing could go wrong (except his potion, but when was that news?).
As soon as Snape came barging into the room with his typical, angry flare, and explained that, rather than their planned exercise, they would all be brewing Pepper-Up for the Hospital Wing, Harry got a deep sense that he was screwed. Not because of the potion, a mixture that he, for once, knew he could brew competently, but because somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach butterflies had taken up residence and had started fluttering immediately upon Snape's entrance. He was about halfway through the potion, perfectly on point with where the instructions said he should be, when Snape began making his rounds of the desks.
Being at the back of the room, Harry should have seen or heard something of the Potions Master's approach. In spite of this advantage, he was startled into nearly fudging his potion when a deep, rumbling voice spoke softly from the vicinity of his elbow.
"Well done, Mister Potter," Snape said softly. "I am impressed."
Harry blushed, taking pride in the compliment as Snape moved on. Despite this being a Fourth Year potion, he was proud of finally finagling some small measure of respect from the immoveable Potions Master. As an added bonus, he could feel his body already responding to the sudden, if brief, proximity of the older man, causing his blush (and confusion) to deepen. He didn't understand why his body was behaving this way, as it had never done for Ginny.
For the next few days, Harry studied the other boys in his year, wondering if maybe it was some prank that someone had pulled on him to make him suddenly feel for Snape. At first, he noticed no difference in how he looked at the other boys. Granted, he found them attractive, but he'd always thought that, and the little flashes of curious desire, were normal. However, over the weekend he caught a glimpse of Seamus in the showers. Images of what he could do with the boy's large phallus flooded his mind's eye without warning, and he flushed with embarrassment as his body responded positively to these thoughts. After that, he started to more easily accept the slight attraction he saw in the beauty of other boys; an attraction he had, until now, pretended he didn't feel, but was willing to admit had been there.
Draco Malfoy had been a particularly interesting case. They'd been at Lunch and he'd just happened to look up at the same time as the other boy. Silver eyes had latched onto his, and fantasies leapt into his thoughts, causing him to blush. He'd looked away as soon as the blond had risen a perfectly manicured eyebrow in shaded curiosity, but had been unable to keep his eyes from the strikingly beautiful face for long. Throughout the meal, his plate forgotten, he had snuck glances at the Slytherin, tracing the lines of the stunning aristocratic features. This time, his response wasn't wholly sexual, and when images of the two walking hand-in-hand through the snow-covered Hogsmeade village invaded his mind, Harry had run from the Great Hall without so much as a word to his friends. It scared him to think what all of this could mean.
What made things worse was that, now that he'd accepted his broadened view of beauty and sexuality, he couldn't seem to make it stop. Plenty of times he'd think about the boys in his year sexually before catching himself at it, but worse, Snape pervaded his thoughts almost constantly now. With him, though, the thoughts weren't so much fantasy as a driving impulse to kiss the man and never stop.