Severus knew the moment Draco and Potter started dating. They didn't announce it to the school, and Potter didn't show excess displays of affections, but it was rather obvious from looking at Draco. The boy looked like he had swallowed a thousand-watt bulb. Severus' insult seemed to have been completely forgotten, which both elated and pained him. He avoided them, Draco in particular. The boy had come down no doubt to give him the happy news, but Severus had made some excuse about brewing and shut the door in his face.

He was thankful that Potter seemed to have the sense to keep the dalliance on the sly. He had no doubt that the rest of the Golden Trio knew about it. (He couldn't expect Potter to be that reserved.) Though the Death Eaters had been rounded up or were too deep in hiding to attack him, Potter's celebrity status was almost as dangerous as rogue war criminals. His fanmail ranged from messages from fanatical cults to disgustedly descriptive death threats. Minerva had the elves sorting through the fare before it reached the boy so the only letters that reached his table and could cause a fuss were the marriage proposals and political tripe.

Severus had seen quite a few of the unsavory letters though. More than enough to worry for the safety of his godson should it be known that they were even amicable. Minerva had enlisted the elves to intercept his own mail and any of the Death Eater children's as well, and even that invasion of privacy didn't spurn him after a house elf suffered the flogging curse meant for him.

For being a disgusting, emotional Gryffindor, Potter didn't really wear his heart on his sleeve, sporting foolish grins (like Draco) or exchanging clandestine touches. He was sure Potter had been more demonstrative as a child. Severus couldn't be that badly mistaken. But now, maybe because of the war (if Severus still didn't doubt that he could possibly be that mature), he'd become a solemn adult.

Oh, he smiled and laughed and reacted to his peers like he was nothing more than a normal eighteen-year-old. There was some difference, that introspectiveness and quiet that he'd noticed after the trials, so atypical of Potter. It took him longer than it should have for him to notice it, that it only wasn't his secret lover (Severus had to sneer the word even in his head) that he hesitated to touch in public.

The Weasley hung around him like a repulsive, loyal hound but didn't initiate contact. No adolescent ribbing. No manly slaps on the back. For how close they were, they were remarkably distant. And the Granger-girl, she'd tap him for attention, but she displayed none of the cloying clinging that were usually attributed to childhood friends.

It was so unGryffindor. Not when he wasn't noticeably standoffish or didn't display any characteristics of violence. (It took Severus even longer to realize he'd disregarded arrogance without even thinking about it.)

Despite Draco's – slightly subtle – attempts to grope him, the boy didn't seem to mind his reticence that much, which meant Potter was probably more personable in private. Which Severus did not want to think about.

No. Unfortunately, he had to witness it.

The professors drew slots each year to monitor the halls and the prefects, who seemed to have trouble doing their duties while they themselves engaged in illicit affairs, after curfew. But thanks to Severus' insomnia, typically the hours were pushed onto him in return for small favors, such as his favorite cognac. He'd developed a myriad of detection charms over the years that he used equally between the war and finding clandestine students.

Now, the prefects had all been sent off, and Severus was left alone to haunt the shadowed castle. One of his charms was telling him that two students were ensconced in a classroom, and in a foul mood all week, he was going to scare the bloody miscreants to death. The spell he used was second nature.

However, he had not been thinking about the most recent relationship between the houses when he was dismantling the ward around the Arithmancy classroom. He was prepared to burst in with his usual flair when some sudden instinctual foreboding stilled him, causing him to glance through the crack.

He gasped through his nose, burning through his lungs.

Potter was lying on a conjured mattress with Draco in his lap. From the vantage of the door, Severus could see exactly how his prick was straining to thrust into Draco, who kept irritably flicking his hands away from his hips as he rode him. Severus collapsed to his knees. He should have moved away. He should have broken them up or cursed them or left them alone or anything besides watching from between that narrow frame.

Potter clawed the mattress, looking very much like he wanted some sheets. His head was thrown to the side, thighs quivering with the need to arch. Draco must have put a spell on his hips because his heels kept kicking but gained no ground. A look of sin was on Draco's face, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead like a catamite. His smile was almost cruel, sharp with his work. When Potter finally abandoned control and flung his nails against the rim of the mattress, he hands spread over Harry's chest, claiming the sweat and pectorals like for a moment he owned them. He sank down and up, squeezing his abdomen with perfect practice. Potter looked like he was in more pain than pleasure, bruises around his lips, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched so tight Severus could watch his molars. His tongue seemed stuck at the back of his throat, pitted against even his moans.

Severus felt the tremendous urge to aid in unsticking that jaw. He wanted to hear the sounds Potter could make when he gave up everything. He wanted to hear him scream. He wondered what it was like to feel him thrashing, writhing, clawing like a wild cat being ridden. He wondered what it was like to taste it, how it felt to have someone as righteous and willful as Potter surrender to him.

The image knocked the breath from him. He was supposed to be concentrating on Draco, how pale and beautiful he looked while being fucked. He had caught him with partners before, and he had slunk away feeling ashamed and furious. But this time, Potter's submission outshone even the familiar temptation of Draco's confidence.

Severus watched the orgasm coming. Potter's body stiffened, abdomen so tight that his ribs shone. He threw his head back and almost choked on his tongue. His toes curled, and even his legs curved, breaking the spell at last with a single uncontrolled thrust. His hips fell as his back arched so wild that it almost drove Draco from his seat. The blond reached down and captured his hands like reins. He closed his eyes and whimpered, mimicking the bow of Potter's sublime spine. The blond's orgasm was less intense but no less pleasurable, his untouched cock splattering Potter's chest and all the way up to his chin.

The tension fled from Potter like a potion. He rested his back against the mattress, sliding out his feet. He came back down from the high with the grace that had been absent in gaining it. Releasing the mattress and Draco's limp fingers, his breathing was only slightly erratic. Nothing like Draco, who panted like he'd won a marathon, even his smirk dimmed and exhausted.

He watched Harry smile. Ignoring the cum on his chest, he smoothed his hand along Draco's neck, running behind his ear and into his hair. He leaned up and kissed him. Severus had seen snakes dance and birds dive less graceful than the way Potter moved against Draco's mouth, nodding and turning and pulling with a patient slowness that shamed the most devoted hunter.

When at last Draco stopped panting like a workhorse, Harry drifted away into pecks, holding onto Draco's face as he did so. They stared at each other and Severus left.

This was the first time he had watched Draco to completion and the usual rage and shame, so strong he burned, was absent. He felt sick. He'd learned to accept his desire of Draco. The boy enjoyed learning how to give and take pleasure, and it was hard to feel guilt for admiring the way he'd built his craft. And even if he could admit that Potter was beautiful (fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck), even if he could find it in him not to be revolted that Potter had his nasty prick inside his godson (FUCK), he shouldn't feel like this.

He should have left right as they climaxed. He could have continued believing that he was just a randy bastard, that this was a pleasant daydream that he could tell no one. Simple smut. But that kiss, that look, he'd invaded on something private, something he never wanted to see. And curse him but Potter had wrists he wanted to chain, such a bendable spine, and patience that he longed to break. And his own prick was so painful.

He collapsed against a wall. His finger strayed to the front of his robes before he bit back a furious scream. He didn't like beauty! He didn't like boys with integrity in their eyes because they only lived to die bitter. He didn't like men like Harry Potter!

He palmed himself through his robes, biting his lip. God, he could feel the picture frame in front of him. He was in the middle of a hall in a school.

He didn't like Harry Potter!

And Severus Snape knew himself damned.

o.O.o

Draco played with Harry's hair. He'd tried to charm the locks calm, and Harry had only let him, amused. They weren't any softer than he expected, rather ratty in fact and in need of a good trim. He fiddled with the split ends and dreamed of getting Harry into a bathtub with enough potions and creams to fix it.

Harry didn't care one way or the other, and other than give Draco a look that told him he knew exactly what he was thinking, continued to doze. Draco sometimes wondered if Harry even cared whether he cleaned the semen off of them. It was the first thing he'd done after they settled into the afterglow and Harry had only stretched and sighed like a great cat from a nap.

Once, Draco thought that would have annoyed him. It certainly would have bruised his ego, but now, he understood a lot of things better.

Harry did not cuddle. He'd assumed he would and was slightly disappointed, but it hadn't taken long to realize that he didn't complain with whatever Draco did after they had sex. When he'd decided to press up beside him, Harry had opened his arm and closed his eyes.

Draco traced his face. He only did it because he was sure no one else was allowed. He was so trusting, and that more than the sex was what made Draco love him.

Tonight was the first time Harry had let him top. Harry had started as a lover by memorizing him. Draco wasn't quite sure what he'd done with other people and was too hesitant to ask, but he'd learned every spot that Draco liked in just two nights. Fucking natural talent in bloody everything, he couldn't help but grumble. But he'd asked Draco to lie still and ran his hands over everything, and Draco couldn't decide whether or not that was cheating.

He was a giving lover, so gentle and determined and damned curious that even though Draco was far more accustomed to rough fucking, he couldn't help but be overwhelmed. It felt strange and wonderful to be adored like that. He got so impatient with the foreplay though that he nearly always ended up shouting, which Harry found a tad too entertaining.

Draco admitted that he liked feeling dirty (emotionally not physically). He liked being bent over desks or pushed against walls in public places, but he knew Harry wasn't as crass.

Harry was a good lover but a horrible fucker.

Draco had planned to try to treat Harry with the same adoration that Harry gave him but it was so much bloody work. He wondered how Harry did it. The type of dedication it took to really worship his body was so tiring. So he settled for the smutty torture that he was used to, that he knew he was good at. The problem was though, that he wasn't sure if Harry had really enjoyed it.

Sure, he'd had a rather violent orgasm but… Draco didn't like thinking that Harry restricted his worth to sex games.

He ran his nail down the side of Harry's face. Anyone else he'd done that with had shivered or scowled at him, but it didn't faze Harry at all.

"Harry?"

"Hnn," he responded sleepily.

Draco watched his face for signs of revulsion. He really didn't know how to ask what he wanted without sounding like a fool.

"What are you thinking?"

Harry sighed, raising the arm he had beneath Draco's waist to brush lightly against his hipbone, making a lazy swirl.

"I was thinking that I wish we had a better place to be together because meeting like this isn't enough."

"I could always go to your common room," he said. "You know, if you want to see me for stuff besides sex."

Harry turned to look at him. Draco felt oddly vulnerable and had the strange sensation that he was going to be rejected.

"I would love to see you ever moment of the day," Harry said, his eyes like molten jade in the darkness. "But we've already talked about this."

Draco huffed glumly, resting his brow on Harry's chest. They had talked about it. Harry didn't want Draco involved with the press. Someone had sold some of his hair on the black market, and a letter had come in from a woman claiming to be carrying his child. Letters like that came in every once and while, but this one had been rather serious. The woman was a witch who sent him weekly post, one of the few that Harry read with any regularity. She was sweet, but he hadn't wanted to encourage her, but she didn't really ask anything of him anyway. Some wizard across the street had gotten his hands on the hair and polyjuiced himself. They'd had intercourse, fake-Harry extracting a promise from her never to tell anyone, and it had resulted in a child and a very sentimental, scared letter from a very good if gullible person.

Harry had paid to care for the child and the woman and made sure the rapist was in for a long stay in Azkaban, but the fact remained that someone close to Harry had gotten some of his hair and made a quick galleon off of it. Draco wasn't safe being in a public relationship with him. Draco had to admit that he was rather scared of it too. The public barely tolerant him even when he wasn't in a relationship with their darling saint.

After the whole Dumbledore's Army fiasco, the Room of Requirement had become as public a place for shagging as the Astronomy Tower, and they really had nowhere to go without leaving campus. Draco had flat out refused the Shrieking Shack. That place still creeped him out. He didn't care what Harry said about Lupin and werewolves and rumors. Not to mention it was probably filthy.

So they had to settle for a conjured mattress on a classroom floor. It was better than nothing. It was better than Draco would have dreamed of a few weeks ago. They talked for a little bit about Ron and Hermione's budding romance. Draco still wasn't on the best of terms with Ron, though his prowess in chess had earned him some grace, but Hermione allowed him to use her first name now, which Draco used half the time to piss off Weasley.

The talk didn't last long, as they still had class in the morning and only a few hours to get some sleep. They pulled on their clothes, Draco making his ritual faces at Harry's hand-me-downs, when Harry suddenly stiffened.

"What's wrong?"

"Did you leave the door cracked?"

Draco turned to look at it. He remembered putting up a ward and locking the door, but he couldn't remember closing it all the way.

"It might have bounced back."

Harry looked uncertain and examined it. "The wards are gone."

A shadow passed through Draco, prickling. Some of it was fear, but he'd never held the same phobia of the media as Harry. As long as he was in Hogwarts, he thought he was fine. No, instead, he was focused on how someone had been watching them, had seen Harry at his most vulnerable and they hadn't even realized. It was the first time he considered that distracting Harry could be dangerous, could hurt him.

Draco grabbed his hand. "We'll just have to see what happens in the morning," he said with more calm than he felt.

Harry nodded, looking ill. He demanded another quick kiss before he allowed Harry to disappear beneath his invisibility cloak. And he demanded another when Harry didn't seem to realize that that was supposed to relax him. He gave a nervous smile and vanished.

As he went his own way to the dungeons, cautious of vengeful students, he thought of the fear that ran through him. He found himself surprising blasé about incurring the wrath of England. But what if someone really had seen Harry, seen that most private part of him?

Draco had poised for seedy voyeurs before. He didn't care at all about whether or not saw him climax because that was his power, but the idea that someone might have seen Harry made him sick.

He sighed, pressing along the wall, wary of waking the portraits. He wished Severus were speaking to him. He could have really used his advice.