AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed parts one and two!
Reading your thoughts totally made my day :-) So...here's part 3!
9.
Harry froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. He felt sort of stretched, frozen in time. He was standing less than a foot from Snape, his right hand flush against Snape's lips and cheek, pressed against the prominent, hooked nose. He could feel Snape's breath, alternately warm and cool on his palm.
The seconds ticked by, and Snape did not move. Harry was beginning to wonder if this wasn't a dream; maybe something had gone wrong with the truth serum, and he was still in Potions class, having a bizarre hallucination.
But that was impossible; the potion had been Hermione's, and Hermione didn't make mistakes.
Snape looked...strange, somehow. His face lacked its usual air of studied intensity. His lips were slightly parted, pursed against Harry's skin, frozen in a startled expression that Harry had never seen before. His eyelids fluttered minutely, like butterfly wings. He shook almost imperceptibly; the vein at his temple twitched rhythmically, and the skin around his eyes was pinched, as if he were in pain.
Harry's arm was beginning to ache, but he didn't dare move. The moment was so charged, so fragile; any second now it would shatter, and reality would reassert itself. And then Snape might actually kill him.
His only chance was to run for it, bolt back to Gryffindor tower before Snape realized what was happening and went off like a bomb. There was no way Snape could keep up with him physically, and if Snape tried to hit him with a spell--well, he'd dodged curses from angry Death Eaters before, hadn't he? He ought to be able to deal with anything Snape could throw at him.
Still, Harry did not move. His legs felt peculiarly heavy. Something squeezed at his heart, making it difficult to breathe. He could not take his eyes off Snape's face.
His mind screamed for him to go on! Do it now! Run! Hurry!
Instead his hand, shaking slightly, stroked down the side of Snape's cheek, his fingertips lingering over the thin lips. Snape's face was sandpapered with uneven patches of stubble, but his lips were unbelievably soft, like velvet. He traced Snape's mouth slowly, lightly, and the vein at Snape's temple throbbed harder than ever. When Snape exhaled in a rush of hot breath, a shock of sensation traveled down Harry's arm and shuddered up his spine. Suddenly, Harry was breathing very hard. Suddenly, he didn't want to go anywhere.
He swayed dangerously close to Snape, slid his hand down the man's neck and clutched the thin shoulder to steady himself. The next thing he knew a vice- like grip had closed on his wrist. When he looked up, Snape's eyes had opened, blank, bright slabs of obsidian flickering with little sparks of cruelty. The heat in those eyes took Harry's breath away.
Snape moved with the speed of thought, lunging at Harry, swooping down on him like a great bird, capturing Harry's face in shaking hands and jerking him forward into a deep, startling kiss.
Harry had kissed and been kissed before. But never like this. Kissing Snape was nothing at all like kissing Cho, with her soft, timid lips and dainty, hastily retreating tongue; nothing like kissing Oliver Wood, who had planted a firm, wet kiss on Harry's mouth in the locker room after the Quidditch Cup Harry's third year (and then blushed, stammered an apology, and never mentioned the incident again).
Snape's kiss was bruising, clumsy. He gripped Harry's face hard with both hands, pulling him forward, clutching him with clawed, trembling fingers. The world contracted to a single point, a single thread of awareness of harsh, hot sucking. Snape seemed to want to dive into Harry's mouth, twining their tongues together, making soft, deep noises that vibrated in Harry's throat. His teeth bit into Harry's lips, and struck Harry's teeth jarringly.
Harry's tongue was melting into Snape's, their mouths a tangle of searing heat. Shudders flowed through his body like hot liquid, turning his muscles to jelly. His knees wobbled and he grabbed at Snape for support, clawing his way up the long back, and finally locking his arms around Snape's neck, the invisibility cloak still clutched in one hand.
He was kissing Snape. He. Was kissing. Snape. And he liked it. It was an odd feeling, to be thrilled and horrified at the same time.
Thrilled, horrified, and suddenly, hopelessly aroused. Snape must realize-- he couldn't help but notice--their bodies were so close, almost touching--
Snape arched his long body against Harry's, and Harry felt something unmistakably hard rub against his stomach. He gasped, pulling the air out of Snape's lungs in a burst of suction. Snape jerked away, panting.
For a long moment the only sound was heavy, ragged breathing, oddly synchronized, echoing through the hall. Snape's greasy hair was in disarray, his nostrils flared, his eyes wild. He was staring at Harry with an expression of...was it loathing? No, Harry realized, it wasn't loathing. It was panic.
"Get out of here," Snape's voice was high and brittle. He was breathing hard, bent, almost doubled over, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
Harry shook his head. He wasn't sure what was happening, and he wasn't sure where it was leading. But something had shifted in his mind. The disconnected images of Snape in his head--the sadistic bastard, the hunted teenager, the man who had touched him so gently that afternoon--seemed to have merged, and the sum and total was standing in front of him, snarling and panting and looking absolutely terrified.
Harry stepped forward.
"I'd rather not," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet and calm, if a little out of breath.
Snape glared at Harry, his teeth bared, his eyes narrow and bright. Harry did his best to keep his face impassive, his heart hammering in his ears.
Finally, Snape dropped his eyes. When he spoke his voice was quiet and rough, his lips still curled back in a snarl, barely moving around the words.
"If we are going to persist in--this, we ought to go back to my rooms."
For a moment, the air around them seemed to gel with tension.
"All right," Harry replied. A shiver of sensation moved through him. His skin was on fire; his head was swimming.
Snape's hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening against his robes. He was glaring at the floor, his face distorted with frustration and disgust, but something about him seemed almost broken, overwhelmed. Harry could feel his own heart thundering through his body. His cock throbbed and rushed with sensation, bending awkwardly against the front of his trousers. His lips felt swollen and raw.
Snape nodded once, curtly, and turned his back on Harry in a whirl of black fabric. Harry followed him down the stairs, into the dungeons. They made several abrupt turns, and stopped halfway down a corridor that Harry had never seen before. Snape moved in close to a door and whispered a few words.
The door swung open, and Harry followed Snape through a spacious, dimly lit room. A few torches burned on the walls, illuminating some shadowy pieces of furniture. Enormous oak bookshelves lined the walls, holding not only books, but jars and beakers of all shapes and sizes, elaborate mechanical contraptions, and a few creepy-looking artifacts that Harry would not have been surprised to see on sale in Knockturn Alley.
They entered a short hall, passed a dimly lit kitchen, and stopped in the doorway to what was obviously Snape's bedroom. Snape hesitated a moment, then whipped around to face Harry.
"This is your last chance, Potter," he spat. "The door is behind you. Leave now."
Harry did not move.
Snape pressed his lips together and nodded briefly. He turned and led Harry through the open door.
The bedroom was completely dark until Snape lit the fireplace ("Incendo!"). It was smaller than the first room, and sparsely furnished. There was a large, unmade four-poster bed to Harry's right, and a bureau pushed against the wall to Harry's left, next to a closed door. A set of wilted-looking black robes lay on the floor by the bed, and a gray nightshirt was flung carelessly over a haphazard pile of books on a nightstand. Snape's eyes flickered over the mess.
"I wasn't expecting company," he said.
Harry drew in a shaky breath, wondering what he was supposed to do now. The tension was unbearable, but he didn't what to say, how to start. It was a peculiar kind of torture, standing there, more aroused than he had ever been in his life, his mind racing, feeling terribly young and terribly ignorant. His hands felt clumsy and useless at his sides. Snape watched him intently, the long body shaking as if in a strong wind.
Finally, Snape spoke.
"Are you certain that you want to--"
"Yes!" Harry moved further into the room and set his cloak on the bureau. Snape did not object. Harry started unbuttoning his trousers, then stopped, stricken, and looked up anxiously. "Do you want me to--"
"Yes!" Snape bit his lip. "I mean, if you wish."
"I--I do." Harry stopped, suddenly bashful. "Will you--"
"Of course."
But neither of them moved to take off their clothing.
"Should we put the lights out," Harry suggested hesitantly, "or--"
"If you would prefer--"
"Well, I don't care--"
"It's no bother--"
"No, this is fine, really."
Snape had a haggard, desperate look about him, and Harry was sure that he didn't look much better. He was lightheaded; all the blood in his body seemed to be rushing and pulsing in his groin. And Snape was so close.
Before Harry could lose his nerve, he closed the space between them in a few long strides, and reached up to capture Snape's face between his hands. In one swift, sweet motion, he pulled Snape down and kissed him hard.
Snape's tongue plunged into his mouth. And that was it, oh yes, that was it, the culmination of everything. The kiss was jerky and uncoordinated, unbearably sweet, exquisitely, explosively fine. Harry's mouth closed desperately around Snape's. Their lips bruised, and their teeth occasionally clattered together, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered except for the ragged, steady current of energy shooting through Harry's body, making his muscles tense and ripple, setting every nerve on fire. Snape clutched Harry's shoulders, and his hips jerked forward, an exquisite hardness jabbing Harry's stomach--Merlin--rubbing against his--oh Merlin--
Harry's knees wobbled. A spasm of sensation turned the world inside-out for an instant.
They tugged ineffectually at each other's clothing. Finally, Harry tore his mouth away from Snape's, disengaging for long enough to open the front of his trousers, releasing the pressure on his erection. Sweet Merlin, that felt fine.
Snape swept forward, catching Harry off-balance, his body connecting powerfully with Harry's. Harry stumbled backward to avoid falling. Snape's hands clutched at the back of Harry's head, pressed him into a deep kiss, raked hard over his neck and chest, then circled around to his back and clawed at the fabric of his shirt. The kiss was a tangle of hard and soft, wetness and heat, sliding, slippery mouths and faces. Cold air rushed into Harry's mouth as Snape's lips left his, slid over his chin and sucked hard along the edge of his jaw.
They were moving, Snape was steering them in what felt like circles and Harry was stumbling backward, losing all sense of direction. Everything seemed to shift around them until Snape was the only solid thing in the world, and Harry clung to him. Finally Harry's legs connected with the high edge of the four-poster bed and he fell onto the mattress. Snape fell on top of him, breathing raggedly.
9.
Harry froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. He felt sort of stretched, frozen in time. He was standing less than a foot from Snape, his right hand flush against Snape's lips and cheek, pressed against the prominent, hooked nose. He could feel Snape's breath, alternately warm and cool on his palm.
The seconds ticked by, and Snape did not move. Harry was beginning to wonder if this wasn't a dream; maybe something had gone wrong with the truth serum, and he was still in Potions class, having a bizarre hallucination.
But that was impossible; the potion had been Hermione's, and Hermione didn't make mistakes.
Snape looked...strange, somehow. His face lacked its usual air of studied intensity. His lips were slightly parted, pursed against Harry's skin, frozen in a startled expression that Harry had never seen before. His eyelids fluttered minutely, like butterfly wings. He shook almost imperceptibly; the vein at his temple twitched rhythmically, and the skin around his eyes was pinched, as if he were in pain.
Harry's arm was beginning to ache, but he didn't dare move. The moment was so charged, so fragile; any second now it would shatter, and reality would reassert itself. And then Snape might actually kill him.
His only chance was to run for it, bolt back to Gryffindor tower before Snape realized what was happening and went off like a bomb. There was no way Snape could keep up with him physically, and if Snape tried to hit him with a spell--well, he'd dodged curses from angry Death Eaters before, hadn't he? He ought to be able to deal with anything Snape could throw at him.
Still, Harry did not move. His legs felt peculiarly heavy. Something squeezed at his heart, making it difficult to breathe. He could not take his eyes off Snape's face.
His mind screamed for him to go on! Do it now! Run! Hurry!
Instead his hand, shaking slightly, stroked down the side of Snape's cheek, his fingertips lingering over the thin lips. Snape's face was sandpapered with uneven patches of stubble, but his lips were unbelievably soft, like velvet. He traced Snape's mouth slowly, lightly, and the vein at Snape's temple throbbed harder than ever. When Snape exhaled in a rush of hot breath, a shock of sensation traveled down Harry's arm and shuddered up his spine. Suddenly, Harry was breathing very hard. Suddenly, he didn't want to go anywhere.
He swayed dangerously close to Snape, slid his hand down the man's neck and clutched the thin shoulder to steady himself. The next thing he knew a vice- like grip had closed on his wrist. When he looked up, Snape's eyes had opened, blank, bright slabs of obsidian flickering with little sparks of cruelty. The heat in those eyes took Harry's breath away.
Snape moved with the speed of thought, lunging at Harry, swooping down on him like a great bird, capturing Harry's face in shaking hands and jerking him forward into a deep, startling kiss.
Harry had kissed and been kissed before. But never like this. Kissing Snape was nothing at all like kissing Cho, with her soft, timid lips and dainty, hastily retreating tongue; nothing like kissing Oliver Wood, who had planted a firm, wet kiss on Harry's mouth in the locker room after the Quidditch Cup Harry's third year (and then blushed, stammered an apology, and never mentioned the incident again).
Snape's kiss was bruising, clumsy. He gripped Harry's face hard with both hands, pulling him forward, clutching him with clawed, trembling fingers. The world contracted to a single point, a single thread of awareness of harsh, hot sucking. Snape seemed to want to dive into Harry's mouth, twining their tongues together, making soft, deep noises that vibrated in Harry's throat. His teeth bit into Harry's lips, and struck Harry's teeth jarringly.
Harry's tongue was melting into Snape's, their mouths a tangle of searing heat. Shudders flowed through his body like hot liquid, turning his muscles to jelly. His knees wobbled and he grabbed at Snape for support, clawing his way up the long back, and finally locking his arms around Snape's neck, the invisibility cloak still clutched in one hand.
He was kissing Snape. He. Was kissing. Snape. And he liked it. It was an odd feeling, to be thrilled and horrified at the same time.
Thrilled, horrified, and suddenly, hopelessly aroused. Snape must realize-- he couldn't help but notice--their bodies were so close, almost touching--
Snape arched his long body against Harry's, and Harry felt something unmistakably hard rub against his stomach. He gasped, pulling the air out of Snape's lungs in a burst of suction. Snape jerked away, panting.
For a long moment the only sound was heavy, ragged breathing, oddly synchronized, echoing through the hall. Snape's greasy hair was in disarray, his nostrils flared, his eyes wild. He was staring at Harry with an expression of...was it loathing? No, Harry realized, it wasn't loathing. It was panic.
"Get out of here," Snape's voice was high and brittle. He was breathing hard, bent, almost doubled over, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
Harry shook his head. He wasn't sure what was happening, and he wasn't sure where it was leading. But something had shifted in his mind. The disconnected images of Snape in his head--the sadistic bastard, the hunted teenager, the man who had touched him so gently that afternoon--seemed to have merged, and the sum and total was standing in front of him, snarling and panting and looking absolutely terrified.
Harry stepped forward.
"I'd rather not," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet and calm, if a little out of breath.
Snape glared at Harry, his teeth bared, his eyes narrow and bright. Harry did his best to keep his face impassive, his heart hammering in his ears.
Finally, Snape dropped his eyes. When he spoke his voice was quiet and rough, his lips still curled back in a snarl, barely moving around the words.
"If we are going to persist in--this, we ought to go back to my rooms."
For a moment, the air around them seemed to gel with tension.
"All right," Harry replied. A shiver of sensation moved through him. His skin was on fire; his head was swimming.
Snape's hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening against his robes. He was glaring at the floor, his face distorted with frustration and disgust, but something about him seemed almost broken, overwhelmed. Harry could feel his own heart thundering through his body. His cock throbbed and rushed with sensation, bending awkwardly against the front of his trousers. His lips felt swollen and raw.
Snape nodded once, curtly, and turned his back on Harry in a whirl of black fabric. Harry followed him down the stairs, into the dungeons. They made several abrupt turns, and stopped halfway down a corridor that Harry had never seen before. Snape moved in close to a door and whispered a few words.
The door swung open, and Harry followed Snape through a spacious, dimly lit room. A few torches burned on the walls, illuminating some shadowy pieces of furniture. Enormous oak bookshelves lined the walls, holding not only books, but jars and beakers of all shapes and sizes, elaborate mechanical contraptions, and a few creepy-looking artifacts that Harry would not have been surprised to see on sale in Knockturn Alley.
They entered a short hall, passed a dimly lit kitchen, and stopped in the doorway to what was obviously Snape's bedroom. Snape hesitated a moment, then whipped around to face Harry.
"This is your last chance, Potter," he spat. "The door is behind you. Leave now."
Harry did not move.
Snape pressed his lips together and nodded briefly. He turned and led Harry through the open door.
The bedroom was completely dark until Snape lit the fireplace ("Incendo!"). It was smaller than the first room, and sparsely furnished. There was a large, unmade four-poster bed to Harry's right, and a bureau pushed against the wall to Harry's left, next to a closed door. A set of wilted-looking black robes lay on the floor by the bed, and a gray nightshirt was flung carelessly over a haphazard pile of books on a nightstand. Snape's eyes flickered over the mess.
"I wasn't expecting company," he said.
Harry drew in a shaky breath, wondering what he was supposed to do now. The tension was unbearable, but he didn't what to say, how to start. It was a peculiar kind of torture, standing there, more aroused than he had ever been in his life, his mind racing, feeling terribly young and terribly ignorant. His hands felt clumsy and useless at his sides. Snape watched him intently, the long body shaking as if in a strong wind.
Finally, Snape spoke.
"Are you certain that you want to--"
"Yes!" Harry moved further into the room and set his cloak on the bureau. Snape did not object. Harry started unbuttoning his trousers, then stopped, stricken, and looked up anxiously. "Do you want me to--"
"Yes!" Snape bit his lip. "I mean, if you wish."
"I--I do." Harry stopped, suddenly bashful. "Will you--"
"Of course."
But neither of them moved to take off their clothing.
"Should we put the lights out," Harry suggested hesitantly, "or--"
"If you would prefer--"
"Well, I don't care--"
"It's no bother--"
"No, this is fine, really."
Snape had a haggard, desperate look about him, and Harry was sure that he didn't look much better. He was lightheaded; all the blood in his body seemed to be rushing and pulsing in his groin. And Snape was so close.
Before Harry could lose his nerve, he closed the space between them in a few long strides, and reached up to capture Snape's face between his hands. In one swift, sweet motion, he pulled Snape down and kissed him hard.
Snape's tongue plunged into his mouth. And that was it, oh yes, that was it, the culmination of everything. The kiss was jerky and uncoordinated, unbearably sweet, exquisitely, explosively fine. Harry's mouth closed desperately around Snape's. Their lips bruised, and their teeth occasionally clattered together, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered except for the ragged, steady current of energy shooting through Harry's body, making his muscles tense and ripple, setting every nerve on fire. Snape clutched Harry's shoulders, and his hips jerked forward, an exquisite hardness jabbing Harry's stomach--Merlin--rubbing against his--oh Merlin--
Harry's knees wobbled. A spasm of sensation turned the world inside-out for an instant.
They tugged ineffectually at each other's clothing. Finally, Harry tore his mouth away from Snape's, disengaging for long enough to open the front of his trousers, releasing the pressure on his erection. Sweet Merlin, that felt fine.
Snape swept forward, catching Harry off-balance, his body connecting powerfully with Harry's. Harry stumbled backward to avoid falling. Snape's hands clutched at the back of Harry's head, pressed him into a deep kiss, raked hard over his neck and chest, then circled around to his back and clawed at the fabric of his shirt. The kiss was a tangle of hard and soft, wetness and heat, sliding, slippery mouths and faces. Cold air rushed into Harry's mouth as Snape's lips left his, slid over his chin and sucked hard along the edge of his jaw.
They were moving, Snape was steering them in what felt like circles and Harry was stumbling backward, losing all sense of direction. Everything seemed to shift around them until Snape was the only solid thing in the world, and Harry clung to him. Finally Harry's legs connected with the high edge of the four-poster bed and he fell onto the mattress. Snape fell on top of him, breathing raggedly.
