Chapter 9
Not to have control over the senses is like sailing in a rudderless ship,
bound to break to pieces on coming in contact with the very first rock.
- Mahatma Gandhi
Severus did not like, indeed had never liked, school dances.
He also at the moment, more specifically, did not like loud music, noisy crowds, punch and cookies, and erotically-overcharged teenagers pawing each other right in front of him, as if his presence were no more than a nuisance, as if he didn't have erotic needs of his own, as if it wasn't ruddy awful enough watching Harry Potter literally waltzing around the Great Hall on every possible arm, it seemed, but Severus' own.
There. That should cover it, he thought, having thus catalogued his miseries of the moment. He did not want to be here.
Minerva, though, had been exceedingly clear about her expectation that all staff would be attending this last all-school event of the year. It was intended to be some sort of cheer-leading, team-building experience for staff and students alike, apparently, and to send them all off for the summer hols with happy thoughts about all the other Houses in their heads. "Remember that we're trying to help them learn to live with each other, to be friends, not to fall into those ridiculous and dangerous House disputes of previous years," she'd said as she lectured them at the staff meeting a few days previous. "How are they to see what we expect if we don't model good, cooperative, all-for-one-and-one-for-all behavior among ourselves?" Severus had rolled his eyes at this, sure that he, at least, would not be quickly accepted into the jolly camaraderie she was imagining. But he had known when not to pick a fight—she had seemed very determined on this one—and here he was.
It gave him an opportunity to keep an eye on Potter, of course, for which he was always glad, if also irritated. But a dance, of all places … he'd known it could be more than usually awkward and frustrating to watch the boy in this situation. He'd had no idea, however, just how bad it could get.
He grown so used to Potter's peace-keeping and friend-making activities around the school that he'd stopped really noticing them. They weren't all happening under his nose, most of the time, so he didn't actually have to keep count of how many sobbing first-years Potter had picked up off the sidewalk, or how many hormone-crazed fifth-years he'd diplomatically kept apart. But here …
Potter wasn't the best-looking male student in the place, Severus told himself sternly. There were others, among the older ones, who were taller, more muscular, more classically handsome. But it seemed that all the girls, every last simpering one of them, wanted him as her dance partner. Severus suspected that a few of the boys might even have the same designs, but heaven help any of them if they laid a hand on the Saviour; Severus planned to be instantly in the middle of any such attempted liaison.
He couldn't touch the boy himself, of course, but that didn't mean any other male had a right to. Not that Potter would ever be interested in such a thing. Though Severus wondered if he had considered the potential value of an alliance between two powerful boys, in his efforts to keep peace between Houses. He fervently hoped not.
At any rate, Severus found himself on the night of the dance sitting alone at a table in the corner of the Great Hall, ostensibly as a chaperone for the entire crowd, but actually intent only on watching Harry Potter. As the evening crawled by, he was calm as he watched the boy dance in the early hours with first-year girls who giggled and seemed to clutch his bigger hand very tightly. His eyes followed more suspiciously as the hour grew later and girls got older, and were positively narrowed when the mature and obviously determined seventh-years took their turns with him. They put their hands on him in ways that Severus did not like at all, though he supposed Potter probably liked it quite a bit.
Potter, though, he had to admit, handled himself with grace and restraint through the whole evening. He seemed to dance with every girl present—and even a couple of younger staff members, the unfairness of which made Severus seethe—without showing any favoritism at all. He was the universal dance partner, almost as skilled, Severus thought bitterly, as a gigolo, in appearing to love them all without giving himself to any.
And when, Severus wondered, had he even learned how to dance?
Severus sat at his table, undisturbed by any of the other staff members with whom he was supposed to be setting an example of camaraderie, drinking punch that he wished was stronger and watching Harry Potter cavort. It was miserable, except when it was lovely, such as when he got a good look at Potter's smiling, sweaty face as he whirled past this corner of the room, some foolish girl in his arms. After three hours of this, however, Severus was ready to throw himself off the astronomy tower.
He decided, as a momentary distraction, to refill his punch glass. A bit more sickeningly sweet, alcohol-deficient drink was just the thing, he thought, to keep him awake for the last hour of this nightmare. He was walking toward the refreshment table, staying carefully off to the side of the dance floor, when he realized that Harry was headed in the same direction. This could make for a sticky moment, he thought, but it seemed less conspicuous to keep walking than to inexplicably turn around and retreat to his table. Throwing back his shoulders and lifting his chin, he walked the remaining distance without allowing himself to so much as glance at the boy.
"Evening, Professor," Harry said as Severus approached the table. He was already in front of the huge punch bowl, ladling a bit of the frothy orange stuff into his glass.
"Potter," Severus said stiffly.
"Having a good time, sir?" the boy had the nerve to ask, with a look that was far too knowing for Severus' comfort.
"Excruciating."
"Ah. Sorry." He grinned.
"And you?"
"Just great, thanks. Good music, don't you think?" Severus snorted, but said nothing. "Not your taste, eh?"
"Not quite."
"Suppose that's why we haven't seen you dancing yet?" The boy's grin was positively evil.
"I do not dance, Mister Potter, a fact that I'm sure will not surprise you."
And then Harry Potter, a boy who did extraordinary things all the time, did one of the most extraordinary things Severus had ever seen him do. He looked Severus right in the eye, with a calm, not-quite-smiling gaze that carried just a hint of naughtiness, and said softly, "Pity." Then without asking, he took Severus' empty punch glass from his hand, deliberately allowing their fingers to brush as he did so. He refilled the glass, but in a sloppy manner that allowed the luscious-looking, bubbly liquid to drip almost obscenely down its side. Finally he handed it back, this time with a an unmistakable press of his fingers, which Severus felt but could not see as he was looking at Potter's face, where one corner of his mouth was curled in a mockingly tempting smile.
It was all Severus could do to keep from dropping the glass. He tried to speak, but found his mouth hanging silently open, no words at the ready.
"You really should think about dancing, sir," Potter said, as softly as he could and still be heard over the painfully loud music. "I think you'd enjoy it." He sidled up as close to Severus as he could without leaning against him, and said, even more softly, "I know I would." Then, while Severus stood there with his mouth refusing to speak and his brain refusing to click into gear, the boy was gone, across the floor and into the middle of a crowd of fourth-years that opened to him with cheers and hand slapping.
Stunned, Severus managed to get himself back to his solitary table without spilling his punch. He dropped into his seat and took a deep, gasping breath. What was that? he wondered. I know he seemed to flirt with me once before, but this … With tremendous effort, he pushed the thought aside, and with it a whole cascade of devastating mental images that he knew would ruin him if he gave in to them. He sternly forced himself to reason through what had just happened: He's just playing with me as he is with everyone, that must be it. He's being the good host, the good gigolo, to the entire bloody school tonight.
Besides, he reminded himself harshly, even if he actually were flirting with someone, that someone would never, under any circumstances, be me.
He sat numbly with his frothy cup of punch as the lights were dimmed for the last few songs. He groaned. This would be either a good thing or an awful one, he was sure, as he wouldn't be able to see any maneuvers being attempted on the boy, but would therefore fret even more that they must be happening.
To his surprise, he realized Harry wasn't in the dancing crowd anymore. He appeared without warning at a nearby table, sitting with the Headmistress and looking to be in serious conversation about something. He seemed to be asking her questions; she seemed to be giving him encouragement. All very chummy, Severus thought, wondering what they were talking about.
He glanced around the dance floor again. He found his eyes had adjusted to the light, and that he could see what was happening there, after all. And without Potter out there with the dancers to absorb his attention, he noticed something he hadn't before. It was perhaps a small thing, but Severus imagined Potter wouldn't think so. It was this: nearly every couple dancing was a "mixed-House" pair. Where in previous years, the Houses had traditionally stayed mostly segregated from each other, sometimes rigidly so, now they were commingled until even Severus had to stop and think, to remember each student's affiliation. They appeared to have chosen dancing partners with no consideration for House status whatsoever.
This, Severus thought, was what Potter had been aiming for all year long. He had wanted the walls to come down, and it appeared that they had, though without any destruction required. They had simply melted, and the children of Hogwarts had reached across them and joined hands.
What if it had been like this in my day? he wondered. Perhaps Lily … And then he scowled and rebuked himself. Too late for that, you bloody fool. And look at you, making an arse of yourself, mooning after a boy, her boy.
It was in that state of mind, choking on bitter thoughts and mixed-up jealousy, that Severus watched Harry Potter as he returned to the dance floor. This time he was escorting the Weasley girl, he saw, and it made the bitter herbs in his heart begin to heat up, soon reaching a simmer that needed just a nudge to erupt into a full boil.
He saw the Weasley girl's arms go around Potter's neck, just as naturally as if she put them there every day. Potter held her close, and they smiled at each other and leaned together, seeming to whisper, as if sharing the secrets and confidences that Severus knew Potter would never whisper into his ear. The music was slow and sensuous, and watching them, listening to it, Severus felt himself beginning to unravel.
You have to deal with this, he thought furiously. They are simply dancing. There's nothing wrong with it. It's not like you're going to dance with the boy in her place, are you? There's nothing for you there, Severus. Even if he seemed to be flirting with you earlier—his heart raced at the thought—it was nothing, just a game for him. He isn't interested in you, isn't interested in men, surely you can see that from the way he's holding her … and what could you possibly offer him even if he were interested? You're his bloody teacher, an old man …
Severus began to twist his hands together, knotting his fingers and then tugging them apart, trying to somehow release the tension inside him. He feared he was losing ground, and the tension was rising dangerously high, when the song that was playing ended, and to his horror he saw Harry and Ginny hold each other closer … and then exchange a kiss, a brief one, but real, with a full press of lips on lips.
He was sure that he heard his own heart breaking, with a sharp little popping sound, inside his chest.
He bolted from his chair, knocking the table and rattling his punch cup in the process. Without a word or a look at anyone, he practically swooped from the room, arms swinging, cloak snapping, boots pounding the stone floor in a way that suggested no one ought to get in his way, and no one did.
He strode just as firmly through the entrance hallway and down the wide stairs to the dungeons. The entire school was at the dance, so he encountered no one on his way back to his rooms, no one who could stop and stare, and look frightened at his terrible expression.
He stormed into his rooms, knowing exactly what he was going to do. He did not even bother to remove his cloak. He kept storming all the way to his bedroom, fists clenched, face angrier with every step. He went to his bedside, opened the small chest there, and rummaged through it with hands that shook, but what he wanted was not there. Desperate now, he stood up straight again, and waved a hand at the front of his body, undoing in an instant all the buttons of the various layers of Victorian repressiveness with which he clothed himself. He dug a hand into those layers and pulled his cock, hard and equally angry-looking, free of them, then put his hands together in front of him and whispered, "Manus unguere."
His hands immediately grew warm and slick from the magical substance that had materialized between them. He growled with satisfaction at the sensation, then put both hands on his cock and began pulling and stroking, trying to find release from the agonizing want within him. He put his hands everywhere, all the places that felt good, all the places he wanted so badly for Harry to touch him, getting the oil all over him, all over his clothes, and not caring a bit. He rubbed his chest and pinched his nipples, imagining Harry sucking them; he cupped his balls and squeezed them, a bit too hard, wishing Harry were mouthing them; he stroked his own thighs and saw in his mind's eye Harry's cheeks rubbing against them as he swallowed Severus' cock. It was a glorious, maddening fantasy, but he let it go on only for a few moments, because he had to come, damn it, or surely his head would explode instead, from longing.
Harry, he thought to himself, stroking smoothly, faster. "Harry," he whispered, imagining he saw Harry's mouth nearby, ready to kiss his. "Harry … " he said with a deep groan, looking inside himself and seeing a naked Harry poised over him, ready to fuck him or impale himself, waiting for Severus to choose …
He came, almost painfully hard, right there standing on his feet in his bedroom. It seemed to last a long time, and he stroked himself through it, feeling as though he was collapsing inward as the climax emptied him out. Finally, exhausted, he leaned on folded arms against his bedroom wall, his head buried in the crook of one elbow and sticky, greasy hands further soiling his jacket and cloak. His breath came in shaky gasps, filling him with relief and misery.
It was the first time he had ever done this, pleasured himself while thinking of Harry, deliberately and while wide awake. His desires had overcome him in his sleep many times, leaving him feeling disgusted with himself but at least not entirely responsible. This, though … this, he thought, feeling more pathetic than ever before, was the act of a man truly out of control.
