One day, during a lecture in Potions class, Harry notices Snape's hands. He has never taken notice of any part of Snape in detail, that is to say, rather than sniping about his large, beaky nose or whispering about his limp, greasy hair, but never in detail and never like this. This time, it is different.

Snape stands at the front of the dank, dark classroom, half hidden in shadow. He is barking out ingredients and methods, looking for all the world like a huge wolf crouched over a recent kill, picking apart the potion in depth in front of him with a savage intensity.

Harry watches, absorbed in the spider-like motions of the long, pale fingers, the way the hands can snap the hardest root; yet delicately peel the skin from the smallest of petals, quickly and efficiently and with seemingly minimal effort. The nails are short - no-fuss, no-nonsense nails, just as Harry expects from Snape - but are surprisingly clean; no hint of muck or dirt beneath the nail beds.

The fingers themselves are just too long, not too thick and not too thin, and Harry stares as, during his sharp lecture, Snape wraps them around his wand, dances them along the back of his chair, taps them lightly upon the edge of his desk. The skin on the palms is a shade darker than the rest of the hands; slightly stained perhaps, from the endless years of potion-brewing, but not dirty.

Snape lightly trails his index and middle fingers over his cheekbone in a gesture of thought, and Harry cannot look away – he is transfixed upon those two long, pale fingers.

He notices that the hands are calloused and appear rough, but Harry imagines that they would be warm and velvety on his skin, and as he thinks this strange thought, a

scorching hot trickle of desire curls around Harry's insides, flooding simultaneously to his cheeks and his groin. A short sigh puffs from Harry's lips, before he bites down on

to his bottom lip in pleasure. Suddenly, with a flick of his wrist, Snape's hands disappear into the black folds of his robes, and Harry blinks and looks upwards – directly

into Snape's eyes.

The usual smirk that Snape wears is gone, and in its place is a blank stare. Harry sees the slightest twitch of a muscle in Snape's forehead before he turns away and after a painstaking second, carries on reading from the board at the front of the dank classroom. It is a while before Harry notices that he is being watched by his classmates, and when he does he feels his cheeks starting to burn and ducks his head, pretending to concentrate on his note-taking. Eventually, after what seems a lifetime, the class forgets the strange exchange and return to their note-taking, note-passing, or whatever it is they are doing to pass the time. Harry does not look at Snape's hands again.

After the lesson, Ron jogs up to Harry and jostles him with his shoulder.

"What was that all about mate? You looked like a tomato!" Ron says, without tact as always. Harry decides to neglect to mention the colour that Ron turns when he is embarrassed, and instead just shrugs.

"Dunno. Just daydreaming."

"Oh really, what about? You seemed pretty into it!" Ron chuckles at this thought, and then his face drops. " Hey! You better not have been thinking 'bout my sister!" Ron genuinely looks angry at this thought, and Harry has the urge to laugh – if only Ron knew what he was really thinking about.

"No, Ronny, I was not thinking about your sisters lovely, long, tanned legs," Harry drawls, but regrets this comment when his friends face begins to contort and turn red at an astonishing pace. "No, seriously Ron I'm just kidding, I was just bored. Come on, you were daydreaming too - its Potions!" Harry quickly changes the conversation to the upcoming Qudditch match, relieved when Ron doesn't press the subject.

The rest of the week passes somewhat smoothly for Harry. Wednesday, Gryffindor beats Ravenclaw 170 to 20, and the celebrations last all night, Thursday, Harry - with ample prodding from Hermione - completes one of his major homework assignments before joining Ron and Hermione and others in his year by the lake, making the most of the exceptional May weather.

Thursday night, Harry dreams of hands. Warm rough hands touching him, short nails lightly scraping his skin. Heavenly torture. In his dream, the long, slick fingers are massaging him, sliding from the tip of his collarbones, swirling around each pert nipple, slipping down the length of his body, until they are at his groin, pressing pleasingly into his skin and touching him and feeling him and squeezing and pulling just there and oh! Suddenly Harry is awake. Confused and embarrassed, Harry waits, panting, as the warm liquid on his body slowly cools, and tries not to think about the fact that it was Snape's hands that he was dreaming about.

Friday morning brings a cloudy sky and a cold breeze, and sufficiently dampers the mood of the school. Harry wakes up late, and falls over twice while hopping to get his socks on, and, once sat down at the Gryffindor table at breakfast, realizes he has left his wand upstairs. He decides to get it once he has eaten, and slides into place next to Ron and across from Hermione.

"No Ronald, I will not write your assignment for you… oh, morning Harry… what do you think I am, a human computer?" Hermione screeches quietly, something Harry is amazed that she is actually able to do.

"A what? How did you even manage to do it in the first place? You were out there at the lake with the rest of us!" Ron looks affronted and Hermione clicks her tongue.

"I actually listen and I work hard, that's how I manage it, and Harry managed it too! I'm surprised you even made it to seventh year!" With this, Hermione grabs her bulging book bag and leaves, leaving Ron gaping, and Harry laughing behind a piece of toast.

"Lover's tiff?" Harry jokes, and Ron snorts.

"Yeah right. I really like her Harry, I do, bu... its…not fa…w.…sh…"

Harry fades out, not listening to what Ron is saying, as he spots Snape at the Head Table. Harry blushes, remembering his dream, but carries on watching as Snape picks up an orange and peels it quickly and deftly. Snape's black eyes flick up to meet Harry's, and he feels a strange rush of panic and pleasure before dropping his eyes back to his plate.

"Oy… oy! Harry, are you listening?" Harry snaps his head back up to see Ron frowning at him.

"You weren't listening were you? I saw you staring at Snape! Hey! You're blushing again!"

"Ron! Shut up!" Harry whispers, and he looks around to see if anyone is listening. Ron looks confused.

"Mate, what is going on?"

Harry shakes his head, "Nothing, really nothing. Just zoned out for a bit there." He stands up, picks up his piece of toast and his bag.

"I left my wand in the dorm, I'm gonna go and get it. Save me a seat in Potions will you?" Before Ron can reply, Harry sets off down the Great Hall, running once he passes the huge doors to the Entrance Hall.

Some time later Harry leans up against the outside wall of the Potions classroom to catch his breath. Once he feels his body temperature start to cool, he straightens up, hitches his bag up his shoulder, and pushes his way through the door.

"Well, well. Late again Mister Potter," Snape purrs, "It will have to be 10 points from Gryffindor." At this, the Gryffindors and Slytherins start to complain and snigger respectively. Snape waits, glaring around the room, and the sounds start to cease. Then, he looks back at Harry, who feels a tremor run down his spine.

"Sit down Potter. Or, are you idiotic enough to think that I will not give you a weeks worth of detentions?" Harry finds the empty space next to Ron and sits down quickly.

Again tonight, Harry dreams of hands. This time, however, the hands are accompanied by a voice; a deep, rumbling baritone that shivers through Harry like poison. He cannot make out what the voice is saying, but it licks over him, a hand on his chest and a breath by his ear, and once again Harry wakes up to the waves of an orgasm.

The seconds then minutes then hours pass by, and Harry sits and listens to the sounds of the Gryffindor boy's dorm – snores and grunts mixed in with the howl of the wind and patter of the rain on the window. Harry dreams of hands again, Snape's hands, but this time he is awake and aroused within an inch of his life. Giddy with pleasure and addled by sleeplessness, Harry grabs his Invisibility cloak, pulls on a t-shirt and some pajama bottoms and escapes the dorm room, pushes past the portrait hole and steps out into the corridor. Fresh air, Harry thinks, I need fresh air, and he lets his feet carry him through the silent corridors of Hogwarts, past sleeping portraits and murmuring suits of armour.

When Harry looks up again from his trance, he is shocked. His feet have led him down into the dungeons; he can tell by the colder temperature and the lack of pleasant-looking portraits on the walls. Harry pulls out a scrappy bit of parchment from a pocket and consults it, running a hand through his hair as he scans the map for his location.

"Professor Severus Snape's Quarters" Harry murmurs, astonished, and sure enough the map quite clearly labels a door at the end of the corridor with this title. Looking up hesitantly from the map, Harry sees the door – black and inconspicuous for the flaming torches lighting it at either side. Harry pulls off his cloak and walks to the door, his

breath puffing out like dragon smoke before him, and pauses. A minute passes before he has built up enough of his Gryffindor courage, and he reaches out and knocks

quietly on the door. Shaking his head, he begins to turn away, but changes his mind, turns back, and knocks loudly once, twice, three times.