Severus

The faint odor of burnt rubber fills my nostrils as I stride up the aisle of my dungeon classroom. Someone has added the powdered bicorn horn to their Pepper-Up Potion before allowing it to simmer, rendering it completely useless and earning themselves a zero for the day. I start to wonder to whom I will be imparting the failing marks when the smell grows stronger. My heart leaps with malicious glee as I find myself standing before Harry Potter's work station. A waterfall of green smoke is issuing from his potion, cascading over the rim of his cauldron, as he flips frantically through his textbook, no doubt searching for a way to rectify his blunder.

"Something wrong with your potion, Potter?" I ask him.

He answers me without looking up from his book. "No, sir," he says through clenched teeth. "My potion is fine."

I smile and lean so closely to him that the bristly hairs sticking out of the crown of his head nearly brush the tip of my nose. "Ah, you see, Potter," I whisper to him. "That is where you are very much mistaken."

Without another word I straighten. A quick glance at the clock on the back wall tells me there are ten minutes left in the lesson. Perfect, I think to myself.

"You should now be adding the finishing touches to your potions," I say to the rest of the students, breaking a solid hour of silent concocting, "and if you're not, ten more minutes won't be enough to save you. When you have finished, bring a sample of your work to my desk for grading. If any of your potions look like Potter's,"—I pause to allow the other students to eye Potter's work—"then you need not turn in a sample at all because it is so poorly crafted that you would be better off receiving a zero than the marks that such shoddy workmanship would earn."

I hear a few stifled sniggers come from the cluster of Slytherin students on the right side of the room, but my eyes are on Potter, who is glaring at me with murder in his eyes.

"In fact," I continue, fueled by his fury, "You may all leave after bringing me your samples, for Mr. Potter will be making up for his utter ineptitude by spending his dinner hour cleaning up each and every one of your work stations. Without magic."

The Slytherin students make no attempt to hide their amusement this time, openly applauding and jeering in the direction of Potter's work area. Their mirth pleases me, but it is quickly eclipsed by the look of contempt that Potter is sending my way. His green eyes bore into mine and I feel a shock of arousal pulse through my body. It leaves me thankful for the layers of billowing robes that conceal my now rock hard member.

I cock a taunting eyebrow at him in response before returning to my desk. As soon as I sit down, surreptitiously adjusting my undergarments to accommodate the recent protuberance, the students begin to bring their samples to me. None is brave enough to endure my criticisms, however, and the room empties before I am finished grading the first.

I take each flask in turn, peering into it in search of telling changes in hue, sniffing it for traces of mistaken ingredients. Draco's is nearly perfect; his heavy hand with the salamander scales will lose him a mere half-point. Gregory Goyle's and Vincent Crabbe's are far too viscous, suggesting they boiled their potions rather than simmered them, and Weasley's, to my absolute amusement, is utterly unrecognizable, earning him bottom marks.

As I scribble a zero next to his name on my grading parchment, I hear Potter laboring about the dungeon. I watch him take hold of one of the large pewter cauldrons and heave it to the far side of the classroom, hear him mutter oaths under the cover of the cauldron clamoring over the lip of the sink. What I would not give to catch a sliver of the curses he is surely laying to my name, to finally have a justifiable excuse to carry out one of the many punishments I've dreamed up for his wickedness.

The sharp crack of leather hitting tender, white skin...A tortured wail as each blow lands...The flesh rising into hot, red welts...

Another shiver of pleasure ghosts through my body and crests in between my thighs, where my cock grows ever harder. I cannot give it the attention it craves, so I reach for another flask—Ernie MacMillan's—, promising to allow myself proper indulgence in my fantasies once Potter has left.

MacMillan's potion seems to have been crafted with a degree of skill that far exceeds what I know him to be capable of. Its flamelike appearance flickers red orange and gold in nearly the same way Draco's does. In fact, when I compare the two, I can hardly see a difference between them. Suspicious, I bring MacMillan's flask to my nose. The potion's characteristic burnt cinnamon scent fills my nostrils, but beneath it lies a faint odor that I can only describe as deceitful.

I take my wand from the pocket of my robes and tap MacMillan's flask three times.

"Aparecium," I mutter under my breath.

The Pepper-Up Potion turns an oily black as the true nature of the concoction is revealed. A Mimicking potion—a cheap one, at that. It seems MacMillan has turned to contraband materials in order to pass his classes. Relieving him of the burden of N.E.W.T. Potions will be a necessity. Giving him detention every weekend until he leaves Hogwarts—either by graduation or expulsion—will be an absolute joy.

As I make a note next to MacMillan's name, I hear a yelp of pain followed closely by a clang of pewter on stone and spilled potion sloshing across the dungeon floor.

I look up. Potter is doubled over at the back of the classroom, clutching one hand with the other, his face a portrait of agony. I cross the room in less than half a dozen strides.

"Show me," I command, holding out my hand.

"It's nothing," he gasps. "I'm—"

My patience for his frail attempt at bravado lost, I take his wrist and wrench it toward myself, silently delighting in the pain that leaps to his face in response.

"Your hand," I say with forced indifference as I examine the ridge of red, blistered flesh forming across his palm, "has suffered a severe burn as the result of direct contact with undiluted salamander bile." I look at his face, screwed up with pain, and try to resist the smile fighting its way to my lips. "Unfortunately," I say with ill-concealed glee at the opportunity that has dropped into my lap, "the bile has been absorbed into your wound. I won't be able to mend it properly until the bile has been...extracted."

"Please," Potter gasps, "I need to see Madame—"

"This will be painful."

I take my wand from my pocket and place the tip at Potter's burn before he can even think to protest. With a whispered incantation, his screams fill the empty dungeon. Shivers of pleasure reel up and down my spine, across my skin, and straight to my cock as the sounds of his agony bounce off the stone walls. I am more aroused, now, than my robes can conceal, but no matter. Potter is far too preoccupied to notice the slight tenting in the fabric.

Suddenly, a blast from behind me propels me forward, onto Potter. In an instant, the room fills with thick purple smoke. We both fall forward, onto a nearby work table. I land on top of him, my erection connecting with the soft flesh of his backside. Despite the apparent danger, I let out an involuntary moan at the unprecedented contact. He tries to push me off, but I force him down, bending back him over the work surface. I force myself to ignore how much I am enjoying the way his struggling feels against my arousal as I squint through the dense fog, searching for the source. Finally, I spot it: a cauldron in the front corner of the classroom, formerly occupied by the small cluster of Slytherin students. I take aim.

"Finite incantatum!" I shout.

The smoke begins to siphon back into the cauldron at once, as if the explosion were happening in reverse. Within seconds, the room is clear, the only evidence of its disturbance a slight ringing in my ears.

I lift my hand from Potter's back. He pushes hard against me, knocking me back into another workstation, and runs.

"Potter!" I call after him as I try to right myself, but he is already at the door. As he reaches for it, the door swings open. He dodges it wildly, narrowly avoiding being buffeted to the floor.

"I need to speak to you, Severus!" Draco Malfoy shouts as he blusters into the classroom. Upon seeing Potter at the doorway, he stops short. "What's going on, here?" he asks, eyeing us both suspiciously.

Neither Potter nor I have an answer for him. Potter stares at Draco, equally stunned by his appearance.

"Potter, wait!" I call again. Without a word, he glances back at me, terror and disgust etched upon his face. Then, he strides past Draco and through the open door.

Anger and frustration fuel the fire within me past the point of restraint. My eyes fall upon Draco, with the question still on his lips, and I charge.

AN: I couldn't sleep, so I posted another chapter. Don't get used to this. My profile bio may be almost eight years old, but the part about posting in a regular and/or timely manner is still true. You know where to leave your thoughts. -Mimi