TITLE: This Means War
RATING: Fairly smutty, but not graphically so.
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, etc.
NOTES: I've been terribly intrigued by those 'Severus pursues Harry' fics floating around, and thought I would try my hand. Being me, this necessitated humour in shot-sized doses. And I don't mean the injection kind of shot. This is for detefabula, and also for silvarbell; IloveitIloveitIloveit! I squeeeeee with delight! (Still.)
SUMMARY: Harry's taken over the Defence post, and Severus is at the end of his rope. For once in his life, he's going to get what he wants, no matter how he has to go about it.
This Means War
Severus gulped down another measure of firewhisky, feeling peevish. How dare the brat return to the school? His school. His…domain. His territory. And taking the job Severus had been sure to get, as well. The monster. The beast. The irritating, awful, green-eyed, tight-arsed demon.
Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, and Lived Again. The Boy Who Kicked Voldemort's Sorry Arse. The Boy Who Gave Fantastic Head, if certain rumours were to be believed. Potter the pouf. Potter the prat. Potter the…pretty.
Snape was fairly certain that the firewhisky had something to do with that last thought. He wouldn't have done it on his own. Would he? Glaring at the empty bottle, he slammed it down on the table, heaving himself to his feet. Potter thought he could just march in and take over, did he? Well…Snape had a thing or two to say about that.
He lurched out of the dungeons, head spinning. Twenty-odd years of service. Of pain. Of ghastly little worms who never absorbed anything he told them. Enough was enough. Tonight, something ruddy well had to change. Tonight, Snape was going to give that insufferable prick a piece of his mind.
Potter lived in one of the airy towers, just like some stupid princess awaiting a rescuing prince. He beat his fist against Potter's door.
The boy—man—opened it quickly, looking confused. "Snape? Er—that is—Professor Snape? What are you doing here at this time of night?"
"I've just come to tell you," Snape began, stomping after Potter as the idiot stepped back, inviting trouble into his den, "That this means war."
For a moment, Potter looked sincerely worried. "Again? What does? What happened now? It isn't Malfoy, is it? I know he escaped and all…"
Snape blinked several times. He was finding it quite difficult to put his thoughts in order. "What are you on about? I'm not talking about that nonsense! I'm talking about you! And me! And how you bloody well fucked me out of the Defence job again! I'm not going to take it, you self-important little bitch."
Harry flinched. "Jeez. Are you drunk or something? I smell alcohol." A corner of his mouth curled up. "I can't believe you just called me a bitch," he muttered. "Look, you don't have to be angry about that; Dumbledore wanted you to have the position, he really did. But until all the Death Eaters are destroyed, this is the only safe place for me. I'm sorry I took your job. You'd be really great at it. You helped me a lot last year. I…I don't want you to be upset with me."
Green eyes gazed soulfully at Snape, pleading and sad. Against his better judgement, or perhaps without any judgement at all, Snape's fingers dug into the brat's robes and hauled him forward, smashing their lips together, thrusting his tongue into the boy's mouth. On some level, Snape knew things were not going exactly as he'd planned. His libido was making him do things without his consent. "That's what you get, you devious pain in the arse," he grumbled after they came up for air.
"That's what I get?" Potter exclaimed, surprised. "What are you talking about? I thought you said that this meant war. Maybe you should sober up; you don't seem to be thinking very clearly."
The man was not about to admit that it all wasn't part of his strategy to defeat Potter. Severus' eyes narrowed as he appraised Harry's body. "You don't understand war at all," he sneered.
"I didn't think it involved quite so much tongue, I'll admit," Potter said amiably. "I rather thought that was something more along the lines of sex. Not that I'm objecting, or anything," he added quickly.
Snape stalked into the room, backing the unfortunate new professor up until he was against the far wall. "War and sex are not so different as they'd have you believe," he purred, enjoying the way the young man's eyes widened, the way his hands splayed against the wall. "The objective is exactly the same; to get your opponent flat on his back."
Potter whimpered loudly as Snape plundered his mouth again, insinuating a slender thigh between the youth's legs, pinning both shoulders against the wall. After a short time, Potter began moving, rocking shamelessly into the Potions Master. One slender hand slipped between them, stained fingers creeping to the youth's fly, unbuttoning, stroking and pulling. Severus felt the thrill of victory as Potter's hands clutched at his robes, humming in a needy sort of way, until Potter broke off with a sigh and a cry, his head slamming back against the wall in his enthusiasm.
"And my idea of romance is to see you writhing in a pool of rose-red blood," Snape whispered in the boy's ear.
Harry pulled away, giving him an unimpressed look. "You really are plastered, aren't you?"
Severus straightened, attempting to look down his nose. "So? I distrust the unnaturally sober. So should you."
"Christ, Snape! It's our first week, and already you've gotten pissed and molested me."
Snape scowled. "Five points from Gryffindor for being a cheeky monkey," he said succinctly.
"I'm not even in Gryffindor, anymore!" Harry protested.
The man did not relent, merely shrugging as though he didn't care.
Harry's cheeks burned. "Five points from Slytherin for getting shit-faced, sexually assaulting the Defence professor, and casting unfair aspersions on him."
The Potions Master's eyes flamed. "Five points from Gryffindor for mimicking me in an astounding display of your lack of originality. And another five for being a bad kisser."
"I am NOT a bad kisser!" Harry shouted, outraged. "You just took me by surprise, that's all!"
"Oh, and I suppose if you'd had warning, you'd be adept at it?" Snape yanked him forward again, and again their tongues battled for supremacy for several heated moments. They broke apart again, staring at each other. "Five points from Gryffindor, for thinking you're special," Snape gasped out, when he had enough air.
Harry frowned. "Take all the points you want," he growled petulantly. "It doesn't make me any less special." He was glaring at Snape myopically, his glasses shed sometime during their mutual manhandling. "And if this is your idea of war, I really don't see how I'm losing."
Severus leaned in until he could whisper in Harry's ear. "Mr. Potter, I am going to bring you to your knees," he rumbled in a deep, silky voice.
Harry shivered for a long moment, his face softening. "Ten points to Slytherin, for having the balls to come up here and molest the great Harry Potter," he said, pressing his lips to Severus' jaw.
Severus' head jerked back. "Don't patronize me," he warned.
"Wouldn't dare," Harry assured him seriously, although the hint of a smile played at the edges of his mouth.
The Potions Master gave a great, derisive sniff, straightening up, and dusting himself off. "I think," he announced with dignity, "That I shall go and drink a hangover remedy, as well as something to sober me up a little bit. I have actual teaching to do tomorrow, rather than your little dog and pony show." He whirled and managed to make it to the door without stumbling. "I should warn you to watch your back, because if we're seen to be intimately involved, we'll both lose our jobs," he said, pausing for a moment at the threshold. "All's fair, after all…"
Harry sighed as the man glided out, slamming the door behind him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering why the Potions Master couldn't develop a more acceptable hobby, like croquet or philately, rather than spending his time either desecrating Harry or attempting to get him canned. Snape would try to get him fired, just out of spite. Shaking his head, the new teacher went to get himself a glass of firewhisky, and bone up on Defence tactics. He had the feeling that he was going to need them.