To think, I was jealous of a mangy mutt.
I know which mutt you're thinking of, and you'd be right to call him mangy, but this is a different canine of which I speak. Black had been dead 3 years, and in the aftermath of the Dark Lord's fall, someone had decided that to make Harry feel better they should get him a bloody dog. So here I am, teaching another year at this blasted school, while a mongrel that looked just like Black – just fucking like him! – was walking step for step around the school grounds with Potter.
I suppose I must explain. Surviving the attack from Nagini was no small feat, but I am an intelligent man. I lived, though my vocal cords were permanently damaged and I know speak with a rasp at all times. In return for all my suffering and hard work, I was to return to Hogwarts to teach one last year of Potions to the brats that had missed it in the last chaotic year. I was – and still am – very irritated. But I suppose I did get my reward.
The first day back was when I laid eyes on him, that disgusting dog trotting into the great hall beside Potter as if he had always been there. As soon as I saw him I felt my nerves sizzle. Little did I know that this was only the beginning. The dog came with Potter everywhere! Classes, meals, quidditch! And the mutt was always touching him, wagging its tail as if it was the luckiest animal alive. I imagine it even slept in his bed.
It took most of the year, and many detentions (where the dog was still with him!) for me to realize I was feeling jealousy of all things. Jealousy of a dog! It was absurd! I realized that I wanted to be with Potter all the time, touching him, protecting him, happy with him. Had I not earned that right, after taking care of him for all these years?
I found myself watching Potter and his canine more and more, ingraining the little things into my mind so I could access them at any time. And access them I did. Potter had become a man, and I was not one to deny myself pleasures when there was no reason to. The sight of Potter hovering over a cauldron changed to other things in my mind late at night after the grading was done, and before long I knew I was doomed.
Yet the dog was still there! Mocking me, always happy and carefree. I decided it was finally time for me to do something about this damned dog. Oh yes, and Potter.
I told Potter, one day late in the year, to stay behind after class. Alone. Apparently alone also included that infuriating canine, though I tried to ignore it. He walked up to my desk confidently, no longer trying to hide beneath his own robes. I found it far too appealing. After seeing my memories he had shown me no pity, thank god, and the only thing that had changed was that he no longer seemed nervous around me and no longer challenged me for the hell of it. I was pleased, to say the least.
He asked me, in that calm voice of his, what I needed, and I told him to meet me at my study after dinner. I said nothing about his shadow, and he nodded and left without asking any questions. I was relieved, and left the classroom to prepare for that evening.
'That evening' came far too quickly, and before I knew it there was a knock at my study door, indicating that Potter had arrived. I opened the door with a flick of my wand, and there he stood in jeans – that fit, though I wasn't sure if that was a good thing – and a black shirt that had a logo on it I did not recognize. Some muggle nonsense, I'm guessing. I told him to enter, cursing my raspy voice, and when he did I snapped close the door before the dog, which had indeed followed him, could get in.
Potter looked startled, and spun around to stare at the door before facing me again with suspicion in his eyes. He asked me what I was doing.
I replied with 'whatever I want'.
But before I could move to pin him to the nearest flat surface, I found myself stuck between his lean, if smaller, body and the bookcase. A pleased smirk had found it's way onto his face, but his eyes held real joy. He told me, in a husky breath, that he had seen me watching him. That he had seen everything and knew what I wanted.
Then he kissed the hell out of me, having to stand on tiptoe to do it, which if I had been able to think I would have found slightly endearing. The next thing I know we're stumbling through the door to my chambers, clothes flying off without the aid of magic, and then I'm the one on top. He's pinned between the couch and myself, whispering about wanting this all year before my mouth claims his again. If any blood had been left for my brain I would have worried about my new addiction to his lips, but luckily all the blood had gone somewhere else several minutes ago.
He tells me he wants to taste me, but I growl that we can do that another time and nearly rip open his trousers before taking him into my hand. He moans and sheds me of my last articles of clothing, and my fingers find their way elsewhere. I take my time preparing him, obsessing over the expressions that flash across his face, before finally unable to take it anymore and thrusting into him with abandon.
I knew I made the right choice when he clings to me, my name never sounding so beautiful. He finishes before I do, but not by much, and we hold each other as we catch our breath.
I drag him to my bedroom for the next round, and the funny thing is, neither of us noticed the whining and scratching at the study door until the next morning.