11.
Harry arched upward into Snape's smooth, long-fingered hand, losing track of the sensitive, subtle movements, losing track of where and how he was being touched, aware only that a great wave of sensation was building in him, rising and cresting and threatening to crash. Snape leaned forward and his face swam into focus, the dark eyes flickering with gold in the firelight.
Harry's eyes slid closed as the wave of sensation overtook him. Snape's erection was moving desperately against his thigh, Snape's hand was--oh yes- -sliding into the opening at the front of his boxer shorts, pulling his erection free. God--it was so good he could taste it, little wisps of pleasure, slightly metallic, curling at the back of his throat. The sliding, shifting pressure of Snape's hand--the sounds Snape was making, grunting hotly in Harry's ear--the hardness grinding against Harry's hip-- and now something else was fluttering against Harry's hip in a burst of motion, and Harry realized that it was Snape's other hand, that Snape was stroking and grabbing at himself under his robes--it was just too much, and Harry exploded. His muscles spasmed to his fingertips and he heard himself cry out, heat pulsing through his body, explosions like firecrackers going off in his head; he was spinning, shuddering, drowning, whirling on the axis of Snape's furiously pumping hand.
* * *
Harry slowly came back to himself. At first he was only aware of his own gasping breath, and the last, illusive sparks of pleasure crackling through his body. Then he felt the cold dungeon air chilling his groin and stomach. His boxers clung to his skin in goopy patches, and there was a large damp spot on the side of his pants, low on his hip. But he couldn't have--which meant Snape must have--oh.
He opened his eyes and sat up, straightening his glasses. Snape was no longer beside him. In fact, Snape was nowhere to be seen. But a sliver of light shone from under the door by the bureau, and Harry could hear a muffled sound of running water.
Harry tucked himself back inside his boxers and stood shakily, holding up his sticky pants with one hand. He made his way across the room knocked at the door. The sound of running water abruptly ceased. Silence.
"Er," Harry said. What was he supposed to call Snape? Severus? His mind balked. Alright, not Severus. But it didn't seem right to call him Professor after what had just happened. "Er," he said again.
The sound of running water resumed, and he waited uncomfortably for another half a minute. At which point the door swung open and Snape stalked past him without so much as a glance. Harry turned and looked after him, mouth hanging open.
"Hey--" he called. Snape swept out of the bedroom.
Harry looked into the bathroom, brightly lit and inviting, and then looked after Snape. Finally he chose the bathroom, reasoning that when he faced Snape, he might as well be comfortable. He retrieved his invisibility cloak from the bureau, entered the bathroom, and shut the door.
He sat on the edge of the tub and tried a few cleaning spells, which helped some, but he couldn't seem to get the damp spots out of his clothes. Finally he gave up and zipped his trousers over his clammy boxers. He splashed his face with cold water, and finished with a perfunctory glance in the mirror.
He looked awful, his eyes still bloodshot, his hair standing on end, his clothing rumpled and untidy. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he shrugged and left the bathroom.
Light poured out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Harry squinted and approached uncertainly. Inside, he could see a small round table and an assortment of cabinets and cupboards.
"Oh, do come in." Snape appeared at the far end of the kitchen holding a steaming teapot. His hair was standing up even more than Harry's, and it had an unsavory, greasy look, clumping together in tangled strands. His eyes moved over the wet spots on Harry's trousers, and he sneered. "Have a seat. Make yourself at home."
Harry sat at the table, watching Snape warily. Snape dropped the teapot onto the table, stalked toward a cupboard, retrieved two mugs, and slammed one of them down in front of Harry. He dragged his chair all the way around the table, as far away from Harry as possible, poured himself a cup of tea, and sat. When he didn't offer Harry anything, Harry helped himself to some tea. There was no milk or sugar in sight. He took a small sip, and almost choked; it was nearly as strong as Hagrid's.
He took a deep breath, his stomach fluttering nervously.
"Er, I'm not sure what to call you now," he said. Snape stared coldly at Harry.
"You will call me 'professor' or 'sir,'" he said, his face stiffly blank. The fluttering in Harry's stomach froze and hardened, and something tightened in his throat. "What happened tonight was" Snape paused, his lip twitching, "regrettable. I hope you are not operating under the misapprehension that it changes anything."
A short silence. Somewhere, a clock ticked.
"So you still hate me," Harry blurted, before he could stop himself. Snape looked uncomfortable. "Well?"
"There's no need to be melodramatic, Potter," he snapped. Harry leaned forward with a glare that was worthy of Snape. To his surprise, Snape's eyes flickered away. "I don't hate you," he said irritably, not meeting Harry's eyes. Words bubbled out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them.
"You've hated me from the moment I met you! 'Mr. Potter, our new celebrity,'" Harry mimicked. "I hadn't done anything!" Rather than responding with anger, Snape seemed to retreat. Harry was expecting anger. He didn't know how to handle this...evasiveness.
"Oh, hadn't you?" Snape said darkly, staring fixedly at his tea. "You were exactly like James, you know, the same--"
"No," Harry cut him off, "I wasn't."
There was a short silence.
"No," Snape said softly, "you're not."
The moment stretched. Harry was now thoroughly confused. He could hear the vague, comforting rumble of the castle shifting. Snape stared moodily at his tea, his long fingers clutched around his mug. The silence between them seemed immense.
"This...changes things," Harry said. Snape recoiled, his face twisting with a familiar sneer.
"You really are simple-minded--" He stopped short, and closed his eyes. When he opened them his voice was quieter. "Think about it, Potter. Do you really feel differently about me than you did yesterday? Of course not. Certain things are...clearer now. But nothing has changed."
"So you still hate me," Harry confirmed. He watched in disbelief as Snape actually smiled, a small, twisted, tight-lipped smile.
"And I suppose you like me?" Snape asked, amusement--amusement! lacing his voice. "I put you under truth serum and left you to the tender mercies of Draco Malfoy. I did my best to turn your godfather and the werewolf over to the Dementors. Do I need to remind you of these things?" Snape's voice grew colder as he spoke. "Do you think I'm sorry, Potter? Do you think I've reformed?"
"But--" Harry struggled for words, and his brain refused to cooperate. "You- -" He tried again. "We--" Another false start. Snape seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. "There was--" And finally, he found his tongue. "You can't just ignore what--what happened. Things have changed--"
Snape's smile widened.
"I haven't changed," he said, "Have you?"
"But you--"
"Obviously not," Snape cut in, "you're as thick as ever, Potter."
"Oh," Harry said.
There was a moment of silence. Snape leaned back and steepled his fingers.
"Do you remember your first year at Hogwarts? You and your friends were convinced that I was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone." Harry nodded. Snape smiled nastily, his eyes gleaming. "And you learned a lesson, didn't you? You learned that being," he paused briefly, "an 'utter bastard' does not necessarily make one evil. Right, Potter? Well, this is another lesson: an ill-advised wank in the middle of the night does not make up for six years of enmity."
Harry struggled to suppress a wave of fury and resentment. Snape was shrinking in Harry's mind, losing his humanity, once again becoming the spiteful, unfair bastard who Harry had resented since he was eleven years old. Harry was shrinking too, being pulled back into the familiar role of frustrated, righteously angry student.
No. He didn't want things to go back to the way they had been between himself and Snape. He remembered Snape in the hallway, eyes filling with terror, pressing against Harry's palm like a small child hiding its face, and later, the surprising gentleness with which Snape had held him. He did his best to ignore the contempt and malicious enjoyment in Snape's eyes.
"I'm sorry I called you a bastard," he said. Snape shot him a derisive look.
"You shouldn't be. I'm not sorry I called you stupid."
Harry's hands clenched around his mug. He did not trust himself to speak.
"You cannot walk into class tomorrow expecting anything to have changed," Snape continued.
"Don't worry," Harry said curtly, "I won't."
Snape regarded Harry for a long moment. Harry glared at him.
"So I'm supposed to just forget about...this?" he asked.
"I certainly hope so." Snape said. He continued before Harry could speak. "You need to get back to your dormitory, Potter. Breakfast is in three hours."
"Yes, I'll have to walk back to my dormitory. Can I keep my cloak, then?"
"Yes, you may keep your cloak," Snape replied without interest, and Harry felt a vague stirring of disappointment. He gathered his cloak and stood up.
He hesitated a moment, and then marched over to Snape's side of the table, threaded his fingers through Snape's greasy hair (which was so snarled that he didn't get far), and pressed his lips against Snape's mouth. It was not a kiss, exactly. He was proving a point: things had changed. He could not have done this to Snape yesterday. Things were different now.
Snape did not move. His lips yielded softly.
Harry pulled back a few inches and stared at his Potions professor. Snape's eyes were closed, his face pinched. The only sound was the hiss of his soft, nasal breathing. Snape looked...exhausted. Defeated.
Harry felt his anger fade. He was suddenly very tired; his limbs were heavy, and his eyes watered. His shoulders sagged. The only thing he wanted in the world was to curl up in bed and forget that any of this had happened.
He picked up his things and moved toward the door. When he paused to look back, Snape was staring at him, his eyes burning with something that was not quite pain, not quite resentment. Harry turned away quickly. Swallowing hard, he pulled on his invisibility cloak and headed back toward Gryffindor Tower.
Harry arched upward into Snape's smooth, long-fingered hand, losing track of the sensitive, subtle movements, losing track of where and how he was being touched, aware only that a great wave of sensation was building in him, rising and cresting and threatening to crash. Snape leaned forward and his face swam into focus, the dark eyes flickering with gold in the firelight.
Harry's eyes slid closed as the wave of sensation overtook him. Snape's erection was moving desperately against his thigh, Snape's hand was--oh yes- -sliding into the opening at the front of his boxer shorts, pulling his erection free. God--it was so good he could taste it, little wisps of pleasure, slightly metallic, curling at the back of his throat. The sliding, shifting pressure of Snape's hand--the sounds Snape was making, grunting hotly in Harry's ear--the hardness grinding against Harry's hip-- and now something else was fluttering against Harry's hip in a burst of motion, and Harry realized that it was Snape's other hand, that Snape was stroking and grabbing at himself under his robes--it was just too much, and Harry exploded. His muscles spasmed to his fingertips and he heard himself cry out, heat pulsing through his body, explosions like firecrackers going off in his head; he was spinning, shuddering, drowning, whirling on the axis of Snape's furiously pumping hand.
* * *
Harry slowly came back to himself. At first he was only aware of his own gasping breath, and the last, illusive sparks of pleasure crackling through his body. Then he felt the cold dungeon air chilling his groin and stomach. His boxers clung to his skin in goopy patches, and there was a large damp spot on the side of his pants, low on his hip. But he couldn't have--which meant Snape must have--oh.
He opened his eyes and sat up, straightening his glasses. Snape was no longer beside him. In fact, Snape was nowhere to be seen. But a sliver of light shone from under the door by the bureau, and Harry could hear a muffled sound of running water.
Harry tucked himself back inside his boxers and stood shakily, holding up his sticky pants with one hand. He made his way across the room knocked at the door. The sound of running water abruptly ceased. Silence.
"Er," Harry said. What was he supposed to call Snape? Severus? His mind balked. Alright, not Severus. But it didn't seem right to call him Professor after what had just happened. "Er," he said again.
The sound of running water resumed, and he waited uncomfortably for another half a minute. At which point the door swung open and Snape stalked past him without so much as a glance. Harry turned and looked after him, mouth hanging open.
"Hey--" he called. Snape swept out of the bedroom.
Harry looked into the bathroom, brightly lit and inviting, and then looked after Snape. Finally he chose the bathroom, reasoning that when he faced Snape, he might as well be comfortable. He retrieved his invisibility cloak from the bureau, entered the bathroom, and shut the door.
He sat on the edge of the tub and tried a few cleaning spells, which helped some, but he couldn't seem to get the damp spots out of his clothes. Finally he gave up and zipped his trousers over his clammy boxers. He splashed his face with cold water, and finished with a perfunctory glance in the mirror.
He looked awful, his eyes still bloodshot, his hair standing on end, his clothing rumpled and untidy. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he shrugged and left the bathroom.
Light poured out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Harry squinted and approached uncertainly. Inside, he could see a small round table and an assortment of cabinets and cupboards.
"Oh, do come in." Snape appeared at the far end of the kitchen holding a steaming teapot. His hair was standing up even more than Harry's, and it had an unsavory, greasy look, clumping together in tangled strands. His eyes moved over the wet spots on Harry's trousers, and he sneered. "Have a seat. Make yourself at home."
Harry sat at the table, watching Snape warily. Snape dropped the teapot onto the table, stalked toward a cupboard, retrieved two mugs, and slammed one of them down in front of Harry. He dragged his chair all the way around the table, as far away from Harry as possible, poured himself a cup of tea, and sat. When he didn't offer Harry anything, Harry helped himself to some tea. There was no milk or sugar in sight. He took a small sip, and almost choked; it was nearly as strong as Hagrid's.
He took a deep breath, his stomach fluttering nervously.
"Er, I'm not sure what to call you now," he said. Snape stared coldly at Harry.
"You will call me 'professor' or 'sir,'" he said, his face stiffly blank. The fluttering in Harry's stomach froze and hardened, and something tightened in his throat. "What happened tonight was" Snape paused, his lip twitching, "regrettable. I hope you are not operating under the misapprehension that it changes anything."
A short silence. Somewhere, a clock ticked.
"So you still hate me," Harry blurted, before he could stop himself. Snape looked uncomfortable. "Well?"
"There's no need to be melodramatic, Potter," he snapped. Harry leaned forward with a glare that was worthy of Snape. To his surprise, Snape's eyes flickered away. "I don't hate you," he said irritably, not meeting Harry's eyes. Words bubbled out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them.
"You've hated me from the moment I met you! 'Mr. Potter, our new celebrity,'" Harry mimicked. "I hadn't done anything!" Rather than responding with anger, Snape seemed to retreat. Harry was expecting anger. He didn't know how to handle this...evasiveness.
"Oh, hadn't you?" Snape said darkly, staring fixedly at his tea. "You were exactly like James, you know, the same--"
"No," Harry cut him off, "I wasn't."
There was a short silence.
"No," Snape said softly, "you're not."
The moment stretched. Harry was now thoroughly confused. He could hear the vague, comforting rumble of the castle shifting. Snape stared moodily at his tea, his long fingers clutched around his mug. The silence between them seemed immense.
"This...changes things," Harry said. Snape recoiled, his face twisting with a familiar sneer.
"You really are simple-minded--" He stopped short, and closed his eyes. When he opened them his voice was quieter. "Think about it, Potter. Do you really feel differently about me than you did yesterday? Of course not. Certain things are...clearer now. But nothing has changed."
"So you still hate me," Harry confirmed. He watched in disbelief as Snape actually smiled, a small, twisted, tight-lipped smile.
"And I suppose you like me?" Snape asked, amusement--amusement! lacing his voice. "I put you under truth serum and left you to the tender mercies of Draco Malfoy. I did my best to turn your godfather and the werewolf over to the Dementors. Do I need to remind you of these things?" Snape's voice grew colder as he spoke. "Do you think I'm sorry, Potter? Do you think I've reformed?"
"But--" Harry struggled for words, and his brain refused to cooperate. "You- -" He tried again. "We--" Another false start. Snape seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. "There was--" And finally, he found his tongue. "You can't just ignore what--what happened. Things have changed--"
Snape's smile widened.
"I haven't changed," he said, "Have you?"
"But you--"
"Obviously not," Snape cut in, "you're as thick as ever, Potter."
"Oh," Harry said.
There was a moment of silence. Snape leaned back and steepled his fingers.
"Do you remember your first year at Hogwarts? You and your friends were convinced that I was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone." Harry nodded. Snape smiled nastily, his eyes gleaming. "And you learned a lesson, didn't you? You learned that being," he paused briefly, "an 'utter bastard' does not necessarily make one evil. Right, Potter? Well, this is another lesson: an ill-advised wank in the middle of the night does not make up for six years of enmity."
Harry struggled to suppress a wave of fury and resentment. Snape was shrinking in Harry's mind, losing his humanity, once again becoming the spiteful, unfair bastard who Harry had resented since he was eleven years old. Harry was shrinking too, being pulled back into the familiar role of frustrated, righteously angry student.
No. He didn't want things to go back to the way they had been between himself and Snape. He remembered Snape in the hallway, eyes filling with terror, pressing against Harry's palm like a small child hiding its face, and later, the surprising gentleness with which Snape had held him. He did his best to ignore the contempt and malicious enjoyment in Snape's eyes.
"I'm sorry I called you a bastard," he said. Snape shot him a derisive look.
"You shouldn't be. I'm not sorry I called you stupid."
Harry's hands clenched around his mug. He did not trust himself to speak.
"You cannot walk into class tomorrow expecting anything to have changed," Snape continued.
"Don't worry," Harry said curtly, "I won't."
Snape regarded Harry for a long moment. Harry glared at him.
"So I'm supposed to just forget about...this?" he asked.
"I certainly hope so." Snape said. He continued before Harry could speak. "You need to get back to your dormitory, Potter. Breakfast is in three hours."
"Yes, I'll have to walk back to my dormitory. Can I keep my cloak, then?"
"Yes, you may keep your cloak," Snape replied without interest, and Harry felt a vague stirring of disappointment. He gathered his cloak and stood up.
He hesitated a moment, and then marched over to Snape's side of the table, threaded his fingers through Snape's greasy hair (which was so snarled that he didn't get far), and pressed his lips against Snape's mouth. It was not a kiss, exactly. He was proving a point: things had changed. He could not have done this to Snape yesterday. Things were different now.
Snape did not move. His lips yielded softly.
Harry pulled back a few inches and stared at his Potions professor. Snape's eyes were closed, his face pinched. The only sound was the hiss of his soft, nasal breathing. Snape looked...exhausted. Defeated.
Harry felt his anger fade. He was suddenly very tired; his limbs were heavy, and his eyes watered. His shoulders sagged. The only thing he wanted in the world was to curl up in bed and forget that any of this had happened.
He picked up his things and moved toward the door. When he paused to look back, Snape was staring at him, his eyes burning with something that was not quite pain, not quite resentment. Harry turned away quickly. Swallowing hard, he pulled on his invisibility cloak and headed back toward Gryffindor Tower.
