Chapter Two

Harry shot a nervous glance at his watch – his third in as many minutes – before bringing a hand up to his disobedient hair to try to flatten it. This too was a gesture fueled by anxiety, one that he repeated more and more often as the minutes ticked by and his unease grew.

It was only six fifty-two, eight minutes until Snape was to meet him. And in those eight minutes, Harry had no doubt he would continue to do what he had been doing for the last ten minutes while waiting for the man; standing here and nursing the beginnings of a nervous breakdown while lamenting this convoluted mess he had gotten himself into.

Of course, a few more minutes of panicked reflection was hardly worth fretting over. In the three days since his unnerving conversation with Snape, Harry had done nothing but reflect. He'd spent his every waking minute in a sort of deep cogitative daze while trying to sort through the myriad of thoughts engendered from that one encounter, desperate to make some sense of it all.

It was those damned rules! Those ambiguous, enigmatic, nonsensical yet strangely enthralling rules! The first two alone were enough to send his thoughts into overdrive. Harry was still amused by the sheer juvenility of the first one – no hand-holding – especially when contrasted with the more predictable second one – no tongue. However, it was Snape's final rule and his explicit comment regarding it – not to mention Harry's own fervent response to said comment – that had Harry thrown completely off course, his mind a veritable whirlwind of confusing ideas and emotions.

No mind play.

Harry still had no clue as to what the bloody hell mind play even was, but truth be told, he was now dead curious about it. How could he not be after hearing Snape's tantalizing endorsement? But his own burning curiosity about the subject of mind play was not what had driven him into his current state of emotional panic and irritating bafflement. No – it was how Snape had acted while making that comment!

That low, seductive purr in his ear.

That hot breath huffed out against his tingling skin.

And those words Snape had used... so dirty... crude... indecent! Merlin, they were practically pornographic!

The startling combination of those filthy words, spoken in that silky, liquid drawl of hot breath and low, seductive tones had caused Harry to harden more than he ever had right there in Snape's office. Later that night, in the privacy of his own shower with eyes closed and lips parted, head thrown back in ecstasy while his gripping fingers pumped an erection that refused to be ignored, he had replayed the moment when those words had escaped that cruel mouth over and over again in his own mind. The result was the most intensely pleasurable orgasm Harry had ever experienced, an explosion of white hot bliss that had him almost sliding down the tiled wall. It was immediately followed by a desperate feeling of confusion, one that would surely thrust him to the verge of madness soon if he was unable to make some sense of this mess.

Another quick look at his watch. Six fifty-eight. Two minutes. Two minutes left to decipher the madness. And Merlin, was it madness!

Not that it was madness the way his body had reacted. Disconcerting and embarrassing, yes, but he was a gay man, fresh out of the closet with not a scrap of same-sex experience – physical, emotional or mental. It was natural, even expected, that his body would react to the first real sensual stimuli he'd ever received from another man. No, his state of arousal was not the biggest factor in this conundrum, nor was the crude nature of the man's words or the fact that those words were spoken to him by a former teacher of his – teasingly and with intent to arouse.

The true madness in all this lay in the underlying implication behind those shocking, erotic words.

Mind play can be quite... stimulating... especially while in the throes of full-on, penetrative sex, when your lover is deep inside your mind... and even deeper inside your arse.

Harry had tried. He really had! He had tried to convince himself that a heterosexual man was capable of saying something like that to another man while breathing seductively on said second man's neck – perhaps under the pretense of conducting an off-color joke or an ill-conceived prank. But the more Harry tried to rationalize it in this way, the more confused and frustrated he became because the simple truth of the matter was that it just didn't fit!

No straight guy – even a tolerant one without an ounce of homophobic leaning – would ever do and say what Snape had done and said to him. It was impossible!

Hence, the logical assumption to draw here was that Snape wasn't straight at all, but gay. And this was what was driving Harry to the brink of swift, all-consuming madness! Severus Snape could not possibly be gay! He had been in love with Harry's mother nearly all his life! Harry knew this to be fact; there was no chance in hell he could have misunderstood the overall message behind the man's deathbed memories. Snape's love for Lily Evans was romantic – unrequited, yes – but still romantic.

So then was it possible that Snape was bisexual? Or that his adolescent preferences had somehow changed over time?

It seemed improbable, even absurd. If anyone had posed these questions to Harry a week ago, he would have laughed himself hoarse in amusement and disbelief. Now, he was not so convinced of the idea's absurdity. Worse, any amusement the notion may have once held for him was now replaced by an intense, burning desire to know... to understand this craziness... to satisfy his own consuming curiosity and sudden longing for... for...

"It seems hell has finally frozen over. Nothing less than that could have heralded your punctual arrival for an appointment," came the deep, resonating drawl of the very man he had been thinking about.

Harry's head whipped around, his anxious ruminating fracturing into a million shreds of disparate thought as he took in the sight of the man in front of him. Snape looked, in a word... gorgeous... and Harry only barely managed not to gape.

As was typical for Snape, every stitch of fabric covering him was black. However, in lieu of his more traditional teaching robes, he now wore a more modern-cut, stylish robe that opened in the front to reveal form-fitting black trousers and a black silk shirt, two buttons of which were casually undone at the top. A thin silver chain hung from his neck where a silver pendant, which looked to be a curled-up snake, lay amid a smattering of fine chest hair. Boots made of rugged dragon hide leather replaced the man's usual footwear and his hair, cleaner and softer looking than Harry had ever seen it, was pulled back and tied low at the nape of his long, pale neck.

With difficulty, Harry dropped his gaze to the floor, feeling that same tightness in his throat as before. His neck muscles felt as though they were locked into place and there was a burning lump of anxiety lodged in his airway, making normal breathing and coherent speech next to impossible. He swallowed hard, noticing as he did so that his heart was now pounding at a very fast pace. Again, he brought a nervous hand up to his hair, trying once more to flatten the flyaway strands and hoping the gesture would buy him some more time, seeing as his voice seemed to have jammed... along with his brain. Again.

"I... um, yeah... I-I got here early," he replied, his voice a bit higher pitched and shakier than normal. He cleared his throat and then lifted his eyes to those dark, piercing ones, feeling his heart give a particularly hard lurch against his ribcage when he saw that they were not returning his gaze. They were traveling the length of his body instead, roving over every inch of him as if drinking him in.

Snape was checking him out. Unabashedly checking him out, slowly, meticulously and with an almost indecent avidity.

Harry froze on the spot. He knew he had dressed well for the party, wearing new robes that Hermione had picked out for him – green velvet a few shades darker than his eyes, paired with a grey shirt and dark grey trousers – but his distracted mind had only one thought in it.

Snape was definitely gay. Or bisexual. One or the other. Because there is no possible way that a straight bloke would ever...

His train of thought was abruptly obliterated for the second time in less than a minute when Snape lunged at him without warning, pushing his back against the wall and pinning him there. Harry immediately felt the same arousing sensation he'd felt in Snape's office: hot breath huffed out against his neck along with a low, sultry whisper.

"Bellamy just rounded the corner. Game time, Potter."

Before Harry could even blink in acknowledgement, Snape's lips were on his neck, just below his ear, brushing against the sensitive skin with tentative, barely-there touches and warm, shaky breath. Harry found himself unable to breathe, his heart thundering in his chest and his stomach muscles taut and quivering. His eyes slid shut and his head fell back onto the stone wall, his body trembling in anticipation and desperate yearning.

Please, he thought, his heart racing and his mind pleading. Please, just do it!

As if wholly aware of Harry's escalating desire, as if Snape had heard his desperate entreaty inside his mind, those soft lips suddenly became firm, attacking his neck with urgent, driving kisses while a warm, wet tongue darted out, licking, caressing, teasing. Tongue and lips then slid down his neck in a long, slow decent of hungry, feverish kisses, ending their downward excursion only when they reached the base of Harry's neck where eager teeth joined in, nipping and biting at his collarbone while the man's fingers fisted the material of his shirt, drawing it roughly aside for more access. Snape's other hand was gripping Harry's hair at the nape of his neck, those long fingers clutching and squeezing, twisted around tangled raven strands.

Harry heard himself cry out – a shocked and needy, whimpering mewl. Something like embarrassment filtered in through the haze of tantalizing pleasure overtaking him and he bit down on his lower lip to prevent any further noises from escaping him, fingertips digging harder into Snape's sides to ground himself. His anxiety over needy-sounding cries was soon wiped clean from his mind, superseded by the realization of just how hard he had suddenly become. Terror flooded him when he became aware that his arousal was currently pressed against Snape's thigh. Hoping the evidence of his escalating need had gone unnoticed, Harry shifted, attempting to put some distance between their bodies.

Snape would have none of it though. He chuckled against the hollow of Harry's neck and then pushed forward with more force, driving his hips into Harry's in a swift powerful thrust, pressing him harder against the wall.

A second whimper escaped Harry's now gasping mouth as he felt the exquisite sensation of an answering hardness pressed against his own, the never-before-felt friction causing a tidal wave of pleasure to tear through his entire body, skin rippling with goose bumps.

Out of his mind entirely now, he moaned – loudly – and his hands, as if in total disregard of all logic and sensibility, grabbed onto Snape's hips, thumbs digging into the front of the man's waistband with fingers curled around the back, squeezing and gripping and pulling. Lost in the moment, completely oblivious to their surroundings or to the fact that their target audience was most likely watching, Harry threw his head back and tightened his grip on the man, thrusting his own hips forward to feel more of that hard length driving against his own.

"You like that?" Snape breathed against his neck, his voice husky and broken, breath ragged. "Yes, Harry. Show me what you want... what you need..."

"'Arry? 'Arry, iz zat you?! What iz going on here?! Get off 'im, vous putain! Get off 'im or I will 'ex you!"

The grating voice crashed through Harry's aroused stupor and wrenched him back to reality with almost violent force. His whole body stiffened, eyes snapping open and chest heaving as he whipped his head around toward the disliked owner of that voice.

Bellamy.

Despite the sluggishness of his flustered and aroused state, his mind slow to process, Harry had no problem deciphering the absolute indignation emanating from the French Menace. Bellamy was tall, slender and blond, dressed in robes of sky blue that mirrored his eyes, flamboyant lace embellishing the hems of his wrists and neckline. Right now, his eyes were cold and his wand was aimed at them.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, his torpid brain trying to come up with something to say that would persuade the man to stand down, but Snape beat him to it.

"Ah, Bellamy," he drawled, a devious grin on his wet lips, dark eyes alight with mischief and wild abandon. "I see you have once again inserted yourself into matters that do not concern you, whipping out your wand where it is most assuredly not welcome."

Harry blinked at the suggestive words, very much aware of the hand now curled around the back of his neck, fingertips tracing small circles on his hot skin as Snape leaned against the wall beside him, his demeanor relaxed, confident.

"You may run along now," Snape added in that dismissive tone he had perfected, perhaps even patented. "Harry and I would very much like to be alone."

"I will do no such thing!" Bellamy raged, taking a step closer to them with wand still aimed at them. "You... you are violating 'Arry! 'E surely does not desire your filthy 'ands touching 'im! 'E iz not meant to be your plaything; 'e iz mine!"

Familiar fury pulsed inside Harry like poison at hearing Bellamy's delusional profession voiced out in that condescending tone, burning away the aroused haze surrounding him. Before his brain could catch up with his instinct, his wand was drawn and he was lunging forward, teeth bared in a feral snarl and a dangerous hiss escaping his pulled back lips.

"You arrogant prick! I am not your damned plaything! And I wouldn't let you touch me if you were the last gay man on this earth!"

""Arry!" Bellamy pleaded, taking a step back, his free hand snapping up in supplication. "You are taking zis all wrong! I only want ze best for you. Surely zis... zis ugly Death Eater... iz not what you want. I doubt 'e iz even capable of satisfying you! I, on ze other hand, can make all your fantasies come true. You are just a boy right now, 'Arry. But I can make you a man. I can instruct you in the pleasures of loving a man. Let me be your guide, your lover, your teacher."

"That won't be necessary, Bellamy," Snape bit out, his tone now holding a sharp edge of warning as he stepped closer to Harry, approaching him from behind. He wrapped his arms around Harry's chest and pulled him back, embracing him, his hold tight... possessive... safe.

"He already has someone like that in his life. Don't you, Harry?" he asked, face turned toward his pretend lover now as if awaiting his confirmation.

A confirmation Harry was more than eager to give as he leaned back further into the man's warm embrace, his hands coming up to fold around Snape's, reinforcing the appearance of their intimacy.

"Yeah, I do," he whispered, feeling a fluttering in his stomach as he locked gazes with the smoldering eyes of the older man holding him close. With difficulty, he tore his gaze away and looked back at Bellamy, knowing he must bring his focus back to putting an end to the Menace's persistent advances.

"Severus and I are together, Bellamy," he said in a much firmer voice. "He's all I need... all I want. And he's more of a man than you'll ever be."

Harry heard Snape's in drawn hiss of breath the same instant those strong arms tightened reflexively around him, the intimate gesture prompting a new wave of heat to travel through him. His skin tingled at the telltale hardness pressing against his lower back, his already racing heart speeding up. He gave an instinctive answering squeeze to Snape's embracing arms and then continued with the game, itching now to cut to the quick, to sever all ties with his harasser.

"You're nothing to me! Do you understand now? Nothing but a pathetic irritant and that's all you'll ever be. Now you'd better heed my lover's warning and run along before I decide to inform Headmistress McGonagall that you drew your wand on us. I assure you, Bellamy, she won't be pleased."

Bellamy looked as though he was about to burst, handsome face a mottled crimson and features twisted with outrage. His glacial gaze, eyes narrowed and glare hard as ice, darted from Harry to Snape and then back again before finally settling on his own wand, still gripped in his right hand. After a moment of obvious introspection, during which he was no doubt weighing his options, he lowered his wand and thrust it into his robe pocket.

"Fine! 'Ave it your way! But you will regret it, 'Arry!" he spat before spinning on his heel, retreating back down the Charms corridor from which he came.

Harry almost sagged to the floor, legs trembling as he breathed out a long and shaky sigh of relief. He closed his eyes, feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks that he might finally be free from Bellamy's unwanted and distasteful attentions. As his relief started to fade, other emotions took its place – confusion, vulnerability, a curious sense of anti climax and to add to the mix, more than a touch of desperate yearning.

What now? What the hell was he supposed to do with Snape's arms still wrapped around him, holding him close, his hot breath on his neck and his heart beating an anxious cadence against Harry's back – a rhythm that was just as fast and hard as his own heart?

What was he supposed to even say to Snape, now that it was all supposed to end?

Because Harry had just realized with absolute clarity that he didn't want it to end. Not at all.

After a long moment of awkward silence, Snape withdrew from their embrace, the absence of those warm arms causing Harry to shiver. At a loss for words, Harry wrapped his own arms around his middle, a poor substitute for the intimacy they had shared only seconds earlier, and turned around in time to see Snape straightening his silk shirt which was askew and partially untucked from the waistband of his trousers.

Ignoring the surge of heat sweeping up his neck and burning his cheeks, Harry cleared his throat, waiting for those ebony orbs to lift and lock with his own. He wanted to thank Snape for his assistance, for his subterfuge, for his believability in their now completed mission, but what escaped his lips when his voice finally kicked in was far from a thank you.

"Was any of that real?" he asked, trying hard to quell the faint tremor in his voice, to mask the confused longing in his tone. "Or was it all just… just acting?"

Snape face was reposed, his features holding an open, honest appearance and Harry realized with a start that never before had he seen the man look like this. It gave him hope and strengthened his courage, a thrill of promise surging through him. Emboldened, he took a step closer, but froze as Snape's face changed in the space of a heartbeat, morphing into impenetrable impassivity, his features tight and closed off and as unapproachable as before.

"Of course it was acting, Potter," Snape replied, his tone abrasive and cutting, black eyes empty and cold. "And it worked, did it not? Bellamy won't be bothering you any longer."

"But–"

"Potter, go to the damned party and leave me be. Surely even you are intelligent enough to realize that our business together has ended and I have no intention of suffering your company any longer by accompanying you to Minerva's wretched celebration."

And then he was gone, leaving Harry to stare down the corridor after him, at the billowing black of retreating robes whose wearer had just sliced open his heart with words sharper than any blade.

There was no denying it; Snape had wrecked him. With meticulous, biting precision and carefully executed savagery, the bastard had wrecked him! Eight years of mockery and vicious remarks and not once had the man ever succeeded in making Harry feel this raw, this gutted, this torn apart.

Until now.

And all because of an elaborate deception in which Snape played his part all too convincingly: the embrace, those protective, impassioned words, the fiery want and desire in those dark eyes. All of it pure fabrication.

Harry stood there, still staring down the corridor where Snape had disappeared, his body trembling in reaction.

Even Snape's sensual assault was a farce – every passionate touch of his lips and teeth, breath and tongue. It was all a goddamn lie! It was a… it was…

Wait.

Snape used his tongue! He used his tongue and in doing so broke a rule – a rule that he himself had insisted on creating in order to provide limits to their interactions! And Merlin, he didn't just break the rule; he demolished it! The man's tongue hadn't just accidentally grazed his skin. No – it was insatiable, sliding all over his neck as if preparing to devour him.

Harry shook his head in bewilderment, his heart pounding even faster inside his chest.

Why would Snape deliberately break his own rule? It didn't make any sense!

Unless he couldn't help himself?

Unless, in the heat of the moment, he lost that tightly wound measure of control he had acquired through years of acting the part of bitter, angry spy and gave in to his true desire?

Unless he desperately wanted more and in one moment of weakened resolve, allowed himself to go after what he craved?

Then afterwards, when faced with the truth of his slip up, he reverted to his norm, to what was easy and familiar – too afraid to admit what was in his heart… too terrified of rejection… too wary of getting hurt.

A part of Harry knew he was just grasping at straws, that his desperate thoughts mirrored his situation rather than Snape's. But it all felt so real and he was sure that Snape had not been unmoved. No, he had been as aroused as Harry and...

"Oh God."

Chapter End - TBC

A/N: I hope you're all enjoying this story so far. If you are, don't be a stranger! Drop me a review and be sure to check out the next chapter of Breaking the Rules when it's posted – hopefully in the next week or so. Lots of snarry moments to come, I promise! ;)

Please review.