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.
HPCFC: Please make sure to join in on our
wonderful fiction fest! (www.livejournal.com/~hpchan)
---
A Troubled Boy
Chapter
Four: Precious
It rains nearly everyday now. It rains when I lay to rest each morning before
the sparrows wake, it rains each afternoon while I sit alone at the table where
we once shared our breakfast. (Remember, by the goldfish pond?) It rains and it
floods and it simply drowns a man until there is nothing left of him but a soppy
mess of a soul in place of a once fine, robust mind.
I once told you the boy would destroy me, did I not?
---
Disaster struck, I think, for me that same night he ran away from me at that
table. He ran from me because he was afraid of what was happening to him, to
us... and I followed.
Foolishly, I followed.
I went to the boy, his precious underpants still damp in my breast pocket, and I
kissed him. I kissed him the way I had for so long yearned.
I gave in.
I pressed him to his closet door and I did what any sane man ought to have known
better of. I held him there with my clumsy, trembling hands clenched through his
hair, holding him captive as I took and plundered and ached into his precious,
precious mouth.
The way he cried haunts me now; sorrow, fear, hunger, pain. All of this, you
see, because I could not control myself when it came to this one,
insignificant... boy. Because I could not quell the urge to take what I thought
was mine.
---
It was the maid who found us, dear Charlotte, with her unfortunate timing; one
oven-mitt still on, face split between her righteous indignation and utter
shock. She struck me with her chubby, purple fists and pulled the boy from my
tender grasp.
She stole him from me stumbling and crying down the stairs and out the parlour
door. I ran after them, of course, but in the dark and through the downpour I
thought I saw them vanished for good.
She would take him to the police, I knew that. My only chance, I was sure, was
to try and get there first. I got into the car, turned the ignition and---and,
there stood my Harry.
Sopping wet, yes. Sock-less of course.
But smiling, smiling at me through the passenger window; eyes squinting, hair
flat against his lily cheek. He plucked the door handle, wrenched it open with a
heave of his little arms and squirmed in up close to me, damp skin on leather
seats squeaking, knees scuffed and red, boy giggling, and my world suddenly,
blissful upright. 'I would get going if I were you, mister,' he said to me
'she'll be furious when she figures out I crawled out the back seat window.'
---
We ran away together, his warm, sweaty little hand in mine. We drove on for
hours that way, the boy asleep on my lap, fingers curled into loose fists,
crescent mouth slack in his dreams, mouthing careful, unintelligible words every
few miles we drove. I kept my eyes between the winding, pitch road ahead and his
beautiful, childish face. Watching over him this way, I resolved to love the boy
from afar. I could never allow myself to lose him again, and for however long it
took, if that meant not touching him, I would welcome the pain it brought.
Around midnight he woke, rubbing the sleep from his heavy lashes, wanting to
know if it would be alright to stop. He was hungry, he said, because he never
did get to finish his dinner.
With my new resolve at mind we set to finding a safe, comfortable place to tuck
in. Eventually we found a small diner off the road some ways. A quaint little
greasy spoon with chequered floors, wooden blinds, red leather booths and a
gleaming chrome soda bar at the counter. Immediately his eye went to the counter
and I knew it then that he must have one. I could give him that. I took him to
the counter, the boy still clutching my hand and watched him arch up onto his
toes, tilting the ruffle of his skirt and place his order in a little whisper he
usually reserved for very special occasions. 'Chocolate soda please.' he
breathed and then added as a side note in his most imposing tone, 'Without the
cherry.'
---
The boy acted very peculiar once we reached our booth. He could not seem to sit
still with his feet dangling from the too-tall booth and his damp clothes
sticking in odd places. He snuggled up very close to me and took each indulgent
spoonful of his thick soda with his mouth open like a little bird. I thought
nothing of his behaviour until halfway through my second cup of coffee.
He still had not stopped his squirming but something had definitely changed. He
was anxious now in his movements; feet jiggling from the ankles when he was
seated, and when he wasn't, crawling over me to get up and down from the
lavatory and back.
When our plates arrived he quieted down enough to dip each crisped, golden
potato into the sweet ketchup pooled in one corner of his warm plate, taking
small nips and then dipping again before finishing with a contented sigh. He
then set to popping each one of his five fingers into his mouth to suckle the
last remains of salt and tomato from his sugar-sticky skin. I could not help but
to notice how closely this dainty, achingly thorough act resembled one much more
adult in nature. He seemed not to be at all aware of my gaze and so I continued
on with my traitorous thoughts, taking on the role of the filthy voyeur.
---
My coffee grew cold and I asked for another cup, and that too ran cold because
my darling boy was now causing me the most insufferable distraction. I had been
lazily stirring the last of the cream into my cup when a round, pudgy sort of
woman with a plump, red mouth tip-toed over to collect our plates. I tipped her
graciously and while she paused to tuck the coins into her apron pocket I
distinctly felt a very naked set of toes slip their way up my calf, stopping
halfway to my knee, and with a flick of a no doubt pink toe, snap the clasp of
my stocking brace free.
I looked directly at the boy and by way of his expression I could tell nothing
of his secret, roving limbs. He kept his eyes to the woman who winked jovially
his way. I looked to her rather more in a daze than I had expected, watching her
thick mouth move at a lethargic pace around her large, square teeth. I thought I
saw a smudge of her lipstick smear its way along the top row of her teeth but I
wasn't sure as I was easily distracted by the arch of a small curved foot
skipping its way in little taps up the inside of my thigh, coming to rest no
less than an inch shy of my cock. I shifted guiltily in my seat and tried to
slip from the boys' reach without rousing the waitresses suspicion (who, by the
way, was still giggling coyly about something or another to poor Harry) .
I dart a sour look his way and he blinks, yawning, stretching widely (arms in
the air, back arching) and then slumping back into the booth, his precious foot
now nudged securely between my thighs.
I start, gasping, forgetting myself, shocked at the boys audacity. I look at him
again and he doesn't so much as breath my way. But there is, I suspect, a
suspiciously satisfied smile twinkling across his smug face that is perhaps a
slight too brilliant for that of a reward to the batty waitress' wit. The boy
laughs brightly at something she says and discreetly as possible I grasp my hand
around his protruding ankle and push it from my lap with an angry flick of my
wrist. His face falls just slightly and it is enough for me to understand the
game he plays. The waitress finally takes her leave, and I see the most
wonderful shade of red as a little foot lands heavily between my legs once more.
Furious, I turn with my shoulders to face him but he does not appear to notice
at all, slouched there, eyes shut, head tilted back against the quilted booth.
Free of any eye witnesses I shove the heel from my lap and hear the ring of the
hollow steel table leg tickle the air as his foot collides. The boy flinches and
now I can see that he is furious, maybe even a little hurt.
My heart wilts and I reach out to place a hand on his shoulder. He jerks from my
reach, snarling the best way he knows how; lips curled but the sound escaping
him more of a simper. I reach further, somewhat put off and admittedly
possessive and pull him back toward me. He struggles briefly and then there is a
scuffle in which the boy sets a fine row of tiny white teeth into my arm and I
cuff him lightly around the ear.
This cannot be done publicly. I panic.
Squealing the way, I drag him by the scruff of his jumper, his feet skipping and
dragging along the way, tiny clawing fingers clutching and digging into any
piece of me within reach. I push him in through the first door to my right and
he falls to the floor. He scrambles to his feet, eyes wide, barely gaining
himself before I have him in my arms, my lips to his hair. He pounds his fists
to my chest and I break away, backing him into the counter to the flat space
between two sinks and push him quickly onto his back. I hear the panic in his
voice but I cannot, will not, hear him now.
He is mine.
I run my hands up his thighs, hooking my thumbs into the buttery wool of his
skirt and bunch it up around his navel. He squirms, wrapping his calves but
arching his back. I catch his ankles in one hand and tear at the fragile cream
lace of his underpants. He gasps, struggling, biting sharp fingernails into my
straining shoulder. I cannot believe how heavily I am breathing now as the
material catches on his clenched knees. I leave him that way, tangled in his own
knickers, and wrench his legs further above his head so that I may reach down to
feel the bud of his anus twitch and grasp under my finger.
I cry out. I almost lose myself. He is wet already.
Trembling shamefully I bring myself back to look at what I have for so long
wanted; gleaming, swollen red, gasping and protruding as if to push out against
me. I trail the flat of my thumb over his scrotum; the round tight sack strains
deep and plump, trapped and pinched firmly between his thighs. He whines truly
now as if it pains him and I force my eyes to his face. His cheeks are as red as
his entrance, two pinpoints of pomegranate colour staining the rounded apples.
He's biting his mouth ragged and his chin is wobbling, but he will not look at
me. I close my eyes, trying to calm myself, trying to rationalize but the only
thing that comes to me is the vision of him this way with his legs splayed and
three little white fingers jutting in and out of that hungry little part of him
that has driven me this far to my own inevitable downfall.
I twist my longest finger into him and the boy arches obscenely, flicking his
hips and settling with my finger stretching him over my third knuckle. I can
barely breath. I want to fall to my knees and cry. Because if all of those
touches and kisses, those looks---if he--
'Filthy, filthy---'
'This is what you wanted---tell me this is what you wanted!'
'No--'
'Is this what you were doing with that man, boy---if he touched you--if--'
'No!'
'Tell me the truth!'
'I wanted---I wanted you to find me and come a-and--'
"You're mine.
'Yes!'
'Mine.'
'Oh!'
He cries as I push into him. Despite his slickness my cock tears at the tight
muscle of his tiny anus. It feels like a terrible, terrible sort of communion.
He moves with my cock as I move, slowly at first, the tears streaming down his
face, pooling in the hollow of his throat and into the dips of his ears. I
double over him, trying to protect, pulling the bit of cloth from his knees and
off of his ankles. Immediately he clings to me, wrapping new thighs around my
waist. I will die if he moves.
He moves.
He lifts his bottom from the cold, hard counter, trying to take all of me and I
help him, lifting him gently with my palms. He moans his very first moan and I
devour him, catching his abused mouth underneath mine and stroking my tongue
over delicate tissue and muscle in time with my hips. The squeals straining from
his throat are too much of a cry for attention and I steal them away with a
kiss.
No one must hear us.
His throat still works and when I pull back for air I am transfixed to the sight
of his effort to contain himself; throat swallowing around large, thick
syllables, muscles pumping and neck arching as if it where my cock slipping down
his pretty little throat instead of his pleas for more! and now! and everything!
---
I came deep inside of him with the tip of my jealous heat pressed knowingly to
the little gem of pleasure no boy-child should ever know he possesses. He cried
for me when he came in one hot spurt against my tie and the sorrow in his voice
told of a much more worthy tale than I could ever have given to you. He was
losing something he had just found and he somehow knew this long before I could
ever have comprehend such a deluded tragedy.
We left the diner, his newly ruined knickers in my trouser pocket, his Sunday
skirt smooth and in place once more and my tie in the trash. From there we
walked directly into that 'doom' I have been so fond of referring to over these
past hours. For there, at the end of our first blissful walk, stood Charlotte.
In the end I surrendered her the boy. He went quite unwillingly (or so he spat
in my face), little legs kicking, teeth bared.
She would care for him, she told me, and protect him from the monsters like
myself, 'Mr. Snape'. She wouldn't tell a soul, she gave her word, and so I gave
the very life of me away and in turn received the very 'death' of me.
---
My story ends thus far, with me standing here in the empty room of a boy I once
loved where there was once a small desk, a small bed and a troubled boy called
Harry.
©anti-clique