Author:
Little Needle
Category: Angst, Drama
Keywords: AU, Harry Potter, Snape, cross-dressing, shotacon
Rating: R, overall
Summary: In 1940's muggle England Professor Snape takes a boy called Harry into
his home when his widowed Aunt Petunia can no longer care for him. Skirts,
kisses, soda shops, love, tea, cakes and tragedy occur.
A/N & Dedications: For Lux who's beta was sex itself (read 'Over the Fence'!)
For Jade who wrote it better. For Annika Twist who inspired it. For Lunarennui
because I love you. For Libertine who abhors chan but loves this. For Glockgal
who's drawing of the first kiss inspired the last half of this piece. For the
gang at my beloved 'hpchan', I live for you! And for Venivincere who loves 'ATB'
more than anyone else.
I must thank Vladimir Nabokov for the plot 'advice' and Jeremy Irons for his portrayal of Humbert Humbert. This novella was inspired in part by raspberry ice pops and my love of school boys. In answer to questions asked; yes, Charlotte from chapter's three and four is my tip of the hat to Charlotte Haze. skirt!potter was inspired by a boy called Christopher Fair I knew in grade school. The actual skirt was inspired by my inherent loathing of the skirt I had to wear at the academy.
---
A Troubled Boy
Chapter One: Strumpet
This boy, I think, will be the end of me. He consumes me always; in my sleep and
in my work. I have tried to shut him out. I have tried and failed to discipline
the boy (and myself) and now it is time for me to admit my defeat.
---
I reach the top of the stair that blistering day and my world comes down around
my shoulders in little more than a thud. For there, in all of his graceless
glory, stands my Harry; bent over his suitcase, scrawny, scuffed knees knocking,
his bottom arched just so, a tiny white triangle of material displayed between
his straining thighs, and his skirt... his skirt, already much too small to be
worn in public, pleated and perched over his hips in a fringe of coarse gray
wool. It occurs to me then that nothing coarse ever need touch that flawless
skin again if I have any say in the matter.
He turns to me upon hearing my audible thud in the archway and stands up proper
to face me. His cheeks flush as his eyes meet mine and I realize I must look the
fool leaning in the doorway, gaping, arms crossed over my chest, hat still in
hand. I stand as proper as he, looking down upon his little dark head and for
the life of me I cannot keep my eyes from roaming up the length off those
endless stems and to that skirt.
He wears the same shirt he did with the matching shorts but untucked now and
slightly rumpled around the hem. I note that the waist line in cinched to the
furthest button and would be pinching his frail form had he any flesh to spare.
The boy is in dire need of new clothing. I will have to remedy that immediately.
My mind drifts to the clothes I will dress him in and lingers much too long on
his undergarments for my own liking. I frown distastefully and to my surprise
his little mouth droops, straight lashes laced suddenly with bright, glittering
tears. The breath rushes from my chest as if I had been struck there. The boy is
crying and it is because of something I have done. Those tears are my doing.
His lip trembles and he sucks it quickly into his mouth. He is fidgeting with
the pleats in the wool, trying to smooth a few ruffled ones around his thighs,
not looking up at me, not daring, his achingly narrow chest hitching and
stuttering beneath his thin white shirt. I take a step forward and he bolts into
activity, head down, rummaging through his dresser drawers. I look on somewhat
bemused as he has still not let on to what has upset him.
He pulls a bundle of creamy material into his hands, unfolding it. Another
skirt. Pleated and very, very white. He holds it out for me, fingers bunched
tightly into thick folds. I take it from his hand without any resistance and
look back at him. 'Aunty t-told me I was to wear my Sunday skirt and I didn't
listen. N-now you are displeased. Please don't be angry, Sir. Don't leave me
here with her. I promise I won't do it again.'
He looks up at me as if waiting for me to strike, shame faced, his teeth still
tugging and his glistening lip. I have to force myself not to smile. Instead I
frown, brow sinister, crossing my arms thickly over my chest. A tiny gasp breaks
from his lips and he looks down at his shoes, barely bothering to feign interest
in the contrast of polished black and white leather.
Slowly, he raises his eyes back to meet mine. 'Please, Sir.' Gently I nod my
approval, secretly disturbed at his reaction to the very thought of my
displeasure. This look does not fair well on such a pretty face. I tell him so
chidingly.
'Now, now boy. Tears do not fair well on such a pretty face.'
It appears as if I really have struck him now with the jolt his little form
receives it as. His eyes widen, if that is possible, and then I watch as the
most delicate flush feathers its way across the ridge of his collar, down his
neck and finally vanishing under his neck line. He smiles shyly at the floor,
fingers toying playfully with the hem of his skirt, accidentally exposing the
smooth area between his thighs.
I force myself to look away. I must not do this.
I step back toward him, my expression grim and determined as I tug him toward me
and begin tidying his appearance, (and if I must admit it) a little too roughly,
jerking him this way and that until his shirt is tucked neatly beneath his
miniscule waist line. He doesn't protest for even a moment the way I would have
expected after having seen him with his aunt just minutes before. In fact, if I
did not know otherwise, I would start to think that he had enjoyed being handled
in such a gruff way. I smile at this.
The little strumpet.
He does not preen or go to look over himself in the mirror but I cannot help but
notice the way he very deliberately smoothes the flats of his pink little palms
from the swell of his ribcage and down to reach the narrow arch of his tiny
hips. Satisfied that all is in order he looks back to me, his expression
quizzical, almost bewildered. I stare at him unblinkingly for a moment and then
realize what he must be waiting for. 'Well. Don't just stand there, dear boy.
Gather your belongings, you are to come with me earlier than expected.'
I have learned over our short time spent together to simply expect the boys
sudden moods, so it is no surprise to me when he shrieks with laughter before
very quickly remembering himself, clapping his hand over his mouth. I look at
him just as sternly as ever but I'm not sure he minds my stern face as much as I
had hoped for. He drops a clutch bag from his grasp, face red but eyes bright
behind little round spectacles before taking one step, then two toward me.
Rocking up onto his round-toed feet, his hands held tightly behind his back and
pressing the hot little line of his mouth to my cold, stale lips.
I want to scream. I want to hit the boy. I want to push him down on his
trembling little bed and just *split* his wet little mouth open with my tongue.
He pulls away, tongue lapping over his lips, finding a steady footing before
turning from me and tearing from the room, skirt flaring and giving me one last
glimpse of the little scrap of material beneath.
I want to die.