And then it's all so simple. It has happened so many times in dreams, he knows exactly what to do next. And no one stops him. Not the boy, not waking.

He takes the glass from his hand in silence and sets it on a narrow table next to the chaise. Presses him back at the shoulders and kisses him, not caring if he forces the boy to taste his own blood on his lips. Takes off his glasses and drops them beside the glass. Half expects the boy to push him away, kisses him harder when he doesn't. Leans in with a knee in the boy's groin, feeling him harden there, moving against the friction of his knee.

And then he's pushing him down on the length of the chaise, on top of the boy, knee intruding between his legs, holding down one of his hands above his head at the wrist. He's testing him, seeing how far he can command the situation until the boy pushes back. Again, he does not push back. It is all very satisfactory.

He uses his free hand to open the clasp at the boy's neck, letting the robes fall open to expose the veins running down his throat, licking his collar bones and the small hollow between them. Unbuttons the dark shirt below, button by button. The boy lets this all happen, lips parted, watching keenly to see what will happen next, helping to shrug off the shirt sleeves as he is undressed.

He takes a moment to survey the boy, relishing the sight of him lying back half naked, appreciating the tautness that Auror training must have given him. The boy has several scars, from the one he is famous for, to others he never knew he possessed – battle scars, he supposes. There is a round mark, the size of a coin, above his heart, the skin lighter there, the scar tissue shiny and smooth. Long white lines on his arms that can only have been made by knives. The pale writing on his hand that bitch gave him. Many more than the two perfect circles on his own neck he keeps covered with a high collar. The boy's chest is not quite hairless, a small patch of down touches upon it, unlike his own smooth, blanched chest.

He dips his head to give a small bite to the nipple, bringing a moan from the boy.

Only when he runs a hand down to the groin does the boy speak. 'Ah, Professor, please. I've never… not with, you know…'

He pauses. 'Do you want me to stop?' He does not correct the boy. He gains peculiar enjoyment from being called Professor in this moment.

'No…'

'Do you want me to continue?

The boy bites his lip.

*** To be continued… Thanks for reading so far. Please review and let me know how you think this is going. ***