* * * Interlewd***
In retrospect, Snape knew exactly what would happen. His subconscious had done a good job of keeping the more alert parts of his brain in the dark, but a Slytherin did not lie to himself. Certainly not post facto and certainly not with the evidence sprawled across his bed.
At the time, however, it had merely seemed like prudence and good housekeeping to fold away the cot Potter had been sleeping on for the past few nights. Then he read a back issue of Potions Quarterly and the cover article of Quidditch Weekly, took a long, hot bath, snarled at Pomfrey's polite inquiries and went to bed. Alone.
Which was not how he awoke.
Sometime long after midnight, Snape slid from sleep to wakefulness in the space of a breath. More specifically, a warm, whiskey-tainted breath against his cheek. Harry Potter was face down on top of the covers, one heavy arm thrown across Snape's chest, effectively pinning him in place. The drunken sot's head was resting on Severus' pillow, taking up more than his fair share in Snape's assessment. When Snape squirmed a little, trying to get away from the scent of recycled firewhiskey, Potter murmured in his sleep and then nestled his head into the crook of Snape's neck. Now that warm breath was stroking and tickling at Snape's throat, causing all kinds of unlikely ideas to flit across his mind.
"Potter!" he hissed and squirmed again. The arm across his chest merely tightened and Potter turned on his side, the better to plaster himself against his former Potions master. He gave a happy grunt and sleepily kissed Snape's throat before subsiding again.
Snape lay on his back and considered the play of firelight on the ceiling, listened to Harry Potter's sleeping breath and thought long and hard. After serious reflection, he felt that he could reasonably state that this particular Christmas holiday was the worst he had ever experienced.
It easily outstripped the humiliation of being forced to wear a bespelled reindeer suit three straight years in a row at his great-aunt Ermintrude's Yule Revels. The heart attack alone would have done that; falling victim to one of his own potions was a stab at his professional pride that would not soon heal. Being nursed by Harry Potter, bane of his existence for the past seven years, was almost as bad as enduring Dumbledore's twinkling care after one of Voldemort's disciplinary excesses. And lying beside Harry Potter, whose drunken kiss still burned against his skin, was infinitely worse than the holiday season spent with the Malfoys, during which father, mother AND son had all attempted to seduce him, with varying degrees of success. This was, without question, the most disastrous holiday he could remember. It simply wasn't fair.
Then Potter shifted and rubbed his half-hard penis against Snape's hip and mumbled, "Severus," then sighed out a cloud of alcohol that made Snape dizzy with the fumes.
It was especially unfair when Potter began to grind himself gently against Snape's body while lapping at the man's neck like a sleepy kitten. Or a very contented viper. Snape tried to distract himself with similes while Potter's drunken befuddled tongue traced warm, wet patterns against his skin. The similes stopped working as soon as the professor realized that he was comparing parts of his own anatomy with wood, stone and dragon scale. He was almost lost when Harry Potter's moist lips moved up his throat and across his cheek and were one lip-length away from his dry mouth.
Snape shoved Potter away and sat up before the other man could recover. "Potter! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" The shout rang reassuringly around the room and he was pleased to see Potter wince. Then a hurt expression crept onto the boy's face and he almost pouted as he said,
"What you told me to do. I got pissed. Now I'm trying to get fucked."
Snape suppressed a groan. This really was the worst Christmas of his life. Everything he could finally admit to wanting... sprawled in a drunken heap in a place he'd never dream of gracing were he sober.
"I didn't mean me, you idiot!"
"You said," Potter stabbed a wavering finger in the air, "to get pissed, then get shagged, then figure it out in the morning. Well, 'm definitely drunk," he smiled crookedly and just a little blearily in Snape's direction. "So let's fuck," he said and reached for Snape. He overbalanced and fell face first into the mattress, where he lay giggling, head wedged against Snape's thigh.
Snape sighed and laid a hand on the drunken man's hair, petting it gently. "I am going to make your life a misery to you in the morning," he promised, reaching for his wand on the bedside table. "Dormos," and Potter was safely asleep again. Another short spell and a blanket from the chest at the foot of his bed snaked its way up to cover Potter's sleeping form. The young man murmured, then curled into the blanket, rolling away from Snape.
Snape took a precautionary dose of Heartsease straight from the bottle and tried to tell himself the bitter taste in his mouth was merely the potion. He lay back down and listened to Potter breathe noisily through his mouth, the scent of firewhiskey hanging in the air.
It really wasn't fair.
* * *
In retrospect, Snape knew exactly what would happen. His subconscious had done a good job of keeping the more alert parts of his brain in the dark, but a Slytherin did not lie to himself. Certainly not post facto and certainly not with the evidence sprawled across his bed.
At the time, however, it had merely seemed like prudence and good housekeeping to fold away the cot Potter had been sleeping on for the past few nights. Then he read a back issue of Potions Quarterly and the cover article of Quidditch Weekly, took a long, hot bath, snarled at Pomfrey's polite inquiries and went to bed. Alone.
Which was not how he awoke.
Sometime long after midnight, Snape slid from sleep to wakefulness in the space of a breath. More specifically, a warm, whiskey-tainted breath against his cheek. Harry Potter was face down on top of the covers, one heavy arm thrown across Snape's chest, effectively pinning him in place. The drunken sot's head was resting on Severus' pillow, taking up more than his fair share in Snape's assessment. When Snape squirmed a little, trying to get away from the scent of recycled firewhiskey, Potter murmured in his sleep and then nestled his head into the crook of Snape's neck. Now that warm breath was stroking and tickling at Snape's throat, causing all kinds of unlikely ideas to flit across his mind.
"Potter!" he hissed and squirmed again. The arm across his chest merely tightened and Potter turned on his side, the better to plaster himself against his former Potions master. He gave a happy grunt and sleepily kissed Snape's throat before subsiding again.
Snape lay on his back and considered the play of firelight on the ceiling, listened to Harry Potter's sleeping breath and thought long and hard. After serious reflection, he felt that he could reasonably state that this particular Christmas holiday was the worst he had ever experienced.
It easily outstripped the humiliation of being forced to wear a bespelled reindeer suit three straight years in a row at his great-aunt Ermintrude's Yule Revels. The heart attack alone would have done that; falling victim to one of his own potions was a stab at his professional pride that would not soon heal. Being nursed by Harry Potter, bane of his existence for the past seven years, was almost as bad as enduring Dumbledore's twinkling care after one of Voldemort's disciplinary excesses. And lying beside Harry Potter, whose drunken kiss still burned against his skin, was infinitely worse than the holiday season spent with the Malfoys, during which father, mother AND son had all attempted to seduce him, with varying degrees of success. This was, without question, the most disastrous holiday he could remember. It simply wasn't fair.
Then Potter shifted and rubbed his half-hard penis against Snape's hip and mumbled, "Severus," then sighed out a cloud of alcohol that made Snape dizzy with the fumes.
It was especially unfair when Potter began to grind himself gently against Snape's body while lapping at the man's neck like a sleepy kitten. Or a very contented viper. Snape tried to distract himself with similes while Potter's drunken befuddled tongue traced warm, wet patterns against his skin. The similes stopped working as soon as the professor realized that he was comparing parts of his own anatomy with wood, stone and dragon scale. He was almost lost when Harry Potter's moist lips moved up his throat and across his cheek and were one lip-length away from his dry mouth.
Snape shoved Potter away and sat up before the other man could recover. "Potter! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" The shout rang reassuringly around the room and he was pleased to see Potter wince. Then a hurt expression crept onto the boy's face and he almost pouted as he said,
"What you told me to do. I got pissed. Now I'm trying to get fucked."
Snape suppressed a groan. This really was the worst Christmas of his life. Everything he could finally admit to wanting... sprawled in a drunken heap in a place he'd never dream of gracing were he sober.
"I didn't mean me, you idiot!"
"You said," Potter stabbed a wavering finger in the air, "to get pissed, then get shagged, then figure it out in the morning. Well, 'm definitely drunk," he smiled crookedly and just a little blearily in Snape's direction. "So let's fuck," he said and reached for Snape. He overbalanced and fell face first into the mattress, where he lay giggling, head wedged against Snape's thigh.
Snape sighed and laid a hand on the drunken man's hair, petting it gently. "I am going to make your life a misery to you in the morning," he promised, reaching for his wand on the bedside table. "Dormos," and Potter was safely asleep again. Another short spell and a blanket from the chest at the foot of his bed snaked its way up to cover Potter's sleeping form. The young man murmured, then curled into the blanket, rolling away from Snape.
Snape took a precautionary dose of Heartsease straight from the bottle and tried to tell himself the bitter taste in his mouth was merely the potion. He lay back down and listened to Potter breathe noisily through his mouth, the scent of firewhiskey hanging in the air.
It really wasn't fair.
* * *