Severus Snape gulped the goblet of mint-flavoured potion and sighed, sinking back into his favourite armchair. He very much wanted a stiff drink. The acidic churning in his gut suggested alcohol would be a bad idea. Another dinner like that, and he was going to do something he would regret.
What had possessed Albus to employ the werewolf as DADA professor again? Agreed, Lupin was a popular, half-way-decent teacher, not bad company and he even seemed to have forgiven Snape for outing him the last time, but he had one huge disadvantage in Snape’s opinion. He brought his damned friends along with him and those friends included the boy-who-just-would-not-go-away. There they were, invited guests at the staff table, the Dream Team stepping down from Mount Olympus to greet their adoring public. Potter himself, he of the scar and charming smile (ousting Lockhart from Witch Weekly’s record number of votes polled in their annual competition by a huge margin), plus his Gryffindor mates. Weasley and Granger – sorry, Weasley and Weasley now. And going to be Weasley, Weasley and Weasley, judging by the shape of the know-it-all. Snape sighed and folded his slender hands over his own flat, muscular and very uncomfortable abdomen. The roast pork had been a bad idea, he had known that it would disagree with him, but he had been so distracted that he had barely noticed. Then rhubarb crumble and far too much stilton. He felt like hell, and when someone was stupid enough to knock at the door of his private chambers, he lost it.
“What?” He flung open the door, snarling, wand hand twitching, and glared into a pair of slightly alarmed amber eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Snape turned away, suppressing a need to burp. “What do you want, Lupin?”
“I came for my Wolfsbane potion,” the werewolf said reproachfully, “You told me to collect it after dinner. What’s the matter? You look pale – well, even paler than usual, if that’s possible.”
Snape indicated that Lupin should come in and shut the door.
“Your potion is there on the desk.” He pressed his hand against a sharp pang and wished the stomach remedy would hurry up and work. He wondered if he would feel better if he threw up. When Lupin touched his shoulder, he flinched.
“Severus? What’s wrong?”
‘Stomach upset,” Snape muttered, lowering himself back into his chair.
“Have you seen Poppy? Taken anything?”
“Strychnine, but it has not worked yet.” Then he relented just a little and waved a hand. “Yes, I took a potion and there is no point going to see Poppy, she always says the same thing: ‘try to relax, stop stressing, chill out.’” He snorted. “As if.”
“Well you do seem to do stress as a way of life,” Lupin pointed out with infuriating accuracy. “You always have done. Is there anything in particular that sets it off?”
“Now that you mention it, yes,” Snape said, wincing at the very thought. “Harry Potter.”
“Harry?” Lupin sounded a little too amused and Snape treated him to a force eight glower. “What’s Harry done to annoy you this time?”
Snape lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
“He barely spoke to you, that I noticed; he certainly didn’t say anything to wind you up.”
“I can feel him thinking it; Potter does not have to say a word. I cannot even take points off him any more.” Snape rubbed distractedly at his middle. “Has he no work to do, no people to impress or fans to greet?”
“He resigned from the Hit Squad after the last fiasco,” Lupin said. Seeing Snape’s interrogative frown, he added “You know, it was in the Prophet.”
“I never read the Prophet, bloody sensationalist rag – “
“Yes, yes, calm down, Severus,” Lupin said, sounding far too much like Albus Dumbledore, “You’ll only irritate your stomach. Harry and Ron and a couple of other Aurors cornered four Death Eaters but it was a trap and they were lucky to get out alive. Harry brought down the lot with that curse he specialises in – that one that hamstrings the victim at knee level? Shaped curse? Really clever bit of hexing; he followed up with a massive stunning hex and the whole gang are now languishing in Azkaban awaiting trial. Harry decided that he’d had enough of cursing people and handed in his notice. Not much the Ministry can do about it, really.”
“How lovely,” Snape said dryly. He had heard quite enough of how wonderful Potter was, thank you very much. He got it from McGonagall, Flitwick, Dumbledore and Hooch on an almost daily basis and all he really wanted was to forget about the little brat, curl up with a potions journal and nurse his grumbling gut. “You make it sound like a Quidditch match,” Snape added.
“Oh yes, Harry’s coming to the match on Saturday, I forgot to tell you.”
Gryffindor versus Slytherin, that was all he needed. He had promised to go to support his House, especially as three of the team were exceptionally young and talented, and now he would have to sit in the teachers’ box with his Wizarding highness himself. Great. He might as well brew a stock of double-strength stomach potion just for Saturday.
“Thank you, Lupin,” Snape muttered. “Do you not need to go and howl at the moon or something?” Lupin picked up the flask of Wolfsbane and went to the door, but could not resist a parting shot.
“I think you ought to try to get along with Harry. Let go of all the old baggage and forge a new relationship of mutual indifference even if you can’t manage friendship. After all, you and I get on fairly well now. Harry’s likely to be around a lot more in the future.” With that, he went out. Snape doubled over and groaned, resting his forehead on his knees.
Snape found himself staring at the back of Tonks’ hair as she sat next to her werewolf lover. Bright cerise and blond stripes, leaving after-images in his eyes when he looked away. If he had any influence over the Ministry of Magic, Snape would have made it illegal to be so obviously and sickeningly cheerful. He had thought that Lupin would be pining for his doggy buddy, but now he and Tonks were carrying on like hormonal adolescents and Snape had quite enough of that to deal with on a daily basis without them joining in. He pulled his scarf more closely around his neck and huddled into his heavy-weight winter robes as a gust of sleet whirled across the pitch.
“Looks like snow,” a tenor voice remarked next to him. Snape’s head turned as if attached to a wire, he could not stop himself. A pair of bright green eyes gazed steadily into his and Snape’s stomach gave a slow, queasy roll.
“Potter,” he managed with a brief nod. Potter sighed, settling himself on the bench.
“It was ‘Harry’ once,” he said quietly.
“You were a child then,” Snape snapped.
“I was eighteen, and we managed to work together on the same side.”
“We cast the same curse at the same time; I do not think that makes us bosom friends.” Being next to Harry made every muscle in Snape’s body clench tight and the tension was like a red-hot hand gripping his stomach. The pain inside made him want to snap and snarl like a fox caught with its leg in a trap.
“What is your problem, Professor Snape?” Potter sounded genuinely interested and even a little concerned. No doubt it was a tone that he perfected when talking to his many devoted fans. “I’m no longer failing to hand in my homework, I’m not exploding your cauldrons, so why are you unable to have a civil conversation with me?”
Snape truly did not know the answer to that question. He shifted uneasily, his conscience – such as it was – giving him a little prod. The brat – hero – man – whatever – had been indispensable at the final showdown. Had his innate powers not been added to those of Snape and Dumbledore, Voldemort would not have fallen. Snape realised that he had been silent for too long and those radiant eyes were watching him with thoughtful amusement. Radiant? Where had that thought come from? Wasn’t it bad enough that his stomach was out of control, why did his brain have to take a sabbatical and join it?
“I have no idea.” What had happened to his satirical wit and caustic tongue? He had not intended to say that at all; he sounded like Hagrid. How the hell had he ever made it as a spy?
Potter leaned back in his seat, turning a little sideways so that he and Snape were half facing one another.
“Professor?” Potter’s bright gaze swept up and down, then fixed once more on his face. “Are you really Professor Snape or are you someone else using Polyjuice?”
“Don’t be a dunderhead, Potter.”
“Ah, that’s more like it. Come to think of it, Remus said you haven’t been very well. You are looking a bit fragile.”
“Fragile?” Snape snorted. ‘Thank you, Potter, that makes me feel exceptionally vigorous and fit.”
“Well, fit perhaps,” Potter muttered, and unaccountably blushed. “Ah, here’s Madam Hooch, we’re about to start.” He turned away to watch the game and Snape slipped a hand inside his robes and massaged his belly. Something inside Snape was fluttering madly like a trapped bird.
Snape was proud of his little snakes. They had managed to defeat the Gryffindor lions after a very closely fought game but he was glad when it ended. He felt washed-out and shaky; an unusually severe reaction to a simple game of Quidditch. He told himself that he was no longer a young man, and one of the after-effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse was an intolerance to sustained high levels of adrenaline. He watched as Lupin and Tonks accompanied the rest of the staff out of the box and waited for Potter to follow them, but the young Auror seemed to be hanging around for some reason.
“Professor Snape? Are you all right?
“I am fine, Potter!” Irritably, Snape surged to his feet and stomped off down the stairway, robes swirling. What was the brat thinking? Making him feel around ninety years old. Right. Far too old. Far too old for what? Bloody hell, what was he thinking about? Snape clutched at the rail and felt a hand fasten on his arm.
“You’re not all right at all, are you?” Potter murmured.
Snape yanked his wrist free from the strong grasp and whirled, eyes blazing. “Leave me alone, Potter! Just fuck off and leave me alone!” Then he fled to the cold, dark, potion-scented safety of his dungeon.
As if Lupin wasn’t bad enough, now he had Albus Dumbledore twittering around him; Albus with his withered hand and snow-white beard and lined face, all of a hundred and fifty years of age, worrying about a forty-five year old Potions Master with indigestion.
“Albus, for the last time, I have a delicate stomach, that is all. Anyone would think I was dying of some lethal ailment.” This conversation wasn’t helping, either.
“Poppy’s concerned that you might be developing an ulcer, Severus, and that can be serious. You need to take better care of yourself.”
Snape sipped his tea, wishing for a cup of the vitriolic coffee that Sprout brewed in the staff room; you could stand a spoon up in it and it stripped the patina from old coins, but by Merlin, it woke up your brain in the mornings. Probably chewed holes in your oesophagus, too, a small internal voice remarked.
“I am taking care of myself,” he grumbled. Albus raised a snowy eyebrow.
“Yes, so I see.” Did the headmaster really wonder where Snape had learned his sarcasm? “I think you deserve a rest, my boy.”
“You intend sacking me,” Snape said in a flat, cold voice. “Fine.”
Albus gazed at him for a while, sighed, came around his desk and sat down next to Snape, reaching to pat his hand.
“You know I’m not, Severus. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” The unspoken proviso: “Or I’ll read it from your caffeine-marinated, semi-conscious brain anyway.”
“For Merlin’s sake, Albus,” Snape gave in. He said dully, “I just – some days I just feel like shit. My stomach gives me hell and if that wretched brat comes near me once more I shall hex him.”
“Ah,” the headmaster sighed. “Yes, young Mr Potter. You do have a problem with the family, don’t you, Severus? I think you may be in some kind of denial there.”
“Why does he keep coming back?”
“Because I’m going to employ him.”
Snape laughed. He had to, because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about, not in front of Albus anyway. His laughter was sour and tasted like bile.
“As what? Chef? Filch’s deputy? Landscape gardener?”
“Split between assisting Remus with Defence Against the Dark Arts and… assistant Professor of Potions.”
Even Albus had the good sense to say it quietly then shuffle back out of reach. Fawkes made a soft keening sound, breaking the ensuing silence. Snape gathered his robes and his dignity around himself and got to his feet.
“If you will excuse me, Headmaster, I feel very unwell. I need to brew myself a tranquillising potion and lie down for a while.”
He did, but not until he had smashed a number of bottles against the walls of the Potions prep room. Then, he taught the sixth year mixed Slytherin and Gryffindor practical and never had so many house points been deducted so fast from so few. Even the Slytherins didn’t know what hit them.
“Severus,” Lupin began and Snape held up a hand, the one holding the table knife.
“Lupin, do not say a single word.”
“I was going to ask if you’d pass the horseradish sauce,” the werewolf muttered. Snape used the point of the knife to push the jar across the table. He picked at his bread roll, staring blankly at a bowl of mixed salad.
“Severus?” He realised that McGonagall had been speaking his name and turned his head towards her. His skull felt as if it weighed a ton. “Severus, what on earth is wrong?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he said between his teeth, “apart from the fact that I appear to be gaining an assistant, one for whom Potions classes were a daily adventure into the realms of ignition, combustion and effervescence, and for whom a Potions Master was a beast to be poked with a metaphorical sharp stick upon every conceivable occasion.” He took a deep breath, about to mention in passing that he had not been warned, let alone consulted about the appointment, when a familiar voice remarked coolly, “Ah, you’re talking about me, then.”
Snape’s innards ratcheted the pain up another notch.
“Yes, Mr Potter, I am.”
There was a long pause.
“That’s Professor Potter, I believe.”
Snape’s exit from the Great Hall of Hogwarts was just about the best ever. He surged to his feet, thrust back his chair and took a savage delight in augmenting the charm that made his robes snap and billow in his wake. He stalked out, slamming the door behind himself, and stormed off towards the domain of the Slytherins. Once there, he slumped against a dungeon wall, pressing his heated cheek against the cool, damp stones and groaning as his belly clenched. He was going to be sick, this time. The bastards were conspiring against him, driving him out of the only home he had ever loved. His mortification bubbled inside him.
“Severus?” The whisper was soft and hesitant, as if the speaker hardly dared approach him. So, had he even terrified the werewolf at long last?
“Sod off and leave me alone.”
“No; you’re ill.”
“I will live.” He pushed himself upright, but his head was bowed under the weight of his unhappiness and his hair shielded his face from view. His eyes were watering; he certainly did not want Lupin to think he was weeping. He rubbed the back of his wrist across his face. “I am sure I can find a potion to ease even this unprecedented level of humiliation. I shall probably base it on fire-whisky.”
“I’ve never intended you to be humiliated,” the voice said more strongly, “I’m not my father and I don’t want to humiliate you.”
Not the werewolf, this was Potter. Snape clamped his hand over his mouth and breathed steadily through his nose. An arm came around his back, a strong and unwavering pressure. “Come on. You don’t want the students seeing you like this.”
Potter steered him into his office and then shut and warded the door. Snape sank into his chair, just wanting it all to go away. Now Voldemort was destroyed, did he really have any reason to stay at Hogwarts? Snape placed his elbows on his desk and covered his face with his hands.
“What’s this all about?” Potter asked. His voice was unnerving, very gentle and frighteningly strong. There was subtle compulsion in it. Snape had been pulled between two dominant wizards like a carcass fought over by wolves; and guess what – here was a third wizard with the power to control him. Walking back into his life. Unsettling his orderly existence, upsetting his digestion, tearing his heart to shreds. “How have I hurt you?”
“You came back.” Snape was horrified at the sound of his own voice, choked and needy. He bowed his head and clenched his fists in against the front of his tunic. He heard Potter’s crisp new academic robes brush against the desk and then hands settled lightly on his own.
“Severus.” So soft, that voice, so familiar and yet never before had he heard it quite like this. “Severus, do you mean what I think you do?”
“I wish I knew.” Something like a hot wire wound tight inside him and he made a small sound of pain. Then Potter’s arms were around him and Snape could smell him, a faint odour of clean, young male. Potter’s hand flattened against him, rubbing soothing circles against his belly.
“Merlin, you’re wound tight as a spring. I didn’t realise how much I’d upset you; I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Snape heard himself say the words, but it was, it was all Potter’s fault for being himself, for surviving, for saving them all and most of all, for being so fucking beautiful. “Please go.”
“Ssh,” Potter whispered, “You don’t really want me to, do you?”
“I don’t want you to see me like this.” His voice hitched on the words like a jilted girl’s but it felt good, just for a moment, to lean against that uncompromising strength. Potter had been a boy when he left Hogwarts and he had returned as a man. The strongest man Snape had ever met, damn him. Strong enough to possess all that power and walk away without using it. Potter’s hand was still moving gently, easing the ache, softening the taut muscles.
“I want to see you as you are, Severus Snape, all of you.” His voice, as he spoke against Snape’s hair, was almost inaudible. “Am I asking too much?”
“Yes.” But Snape was unable to push Harry away.
“Why? You implied that you want me, and I want you too.”
“You’re too strong,” Snape whispered against Harry’s chest. “I spent my life at the beck and call of two of the most powerful wizards in the world until you eclipsed them both and guess what, here I am, Severus damned Snape, back in the same old routine.”
“Is that what you think?” Harry asked. When had he evolved from Potter-the-brat into Harry-the-man? “That I want to control you? God, as if I could! Don’t you understand? You’re the only person I never did have any power over. Even Dumbledore never stood up to me like you did. You used to put the fear of God into me – well, the fear of Snape, anyway. You’re a powerful wizard and I’ve always respected you, you’re terrifyingly intelligent - except in one currently significant area - and I’ve come back because of you.”
This was all getting away from him. Snape shook his head, trying to shock his stunned brain into coherence.
“But I am far too cynical – ”
“That’s what I like about you!”
“Too old –”
“Bollocks! Look at Albus and Minerva. In a hundred years time, the twenty-one years between us will be totally insignificant.”
“Too fucked up. I’m an emotional wreck, Harry. Look at me, just being around you sends me into a psychological meltdown.”
“I know what you mean,” the young man muttered. “Being around you drives me to distraction, Professor Tall-dark-and-brooding. Hey, you seem to be handling being cuddled pretty well, all things considered. Shall we try raising the stakes?”
Snape discovered that while he had been distracted, his sorry carcass had become way too relaxed under the skilful hands of the boy-who-was-massaging-him. He was unable to stand up, or even fight off Harry’s sudden pounce. A mouth swooped down and captured Snape’s lips. A kiss, that was all, just a simple kiss, oh, but it was so nice. So soft, those lips on his, a tongue that nudged gently for admission, the flavour of – was it strawberries and wine? Snape moaned and took another taste. Something very good, anyway. A hand was gently cradling the back of his head, fingers sliding through his potion-vapour-sleeked hair.
Snape’s stomach was trying to turn somersaults inside him, making him dizzy, but the pain had eased considerably and he no longer felt sick. Just as well, because the hand was rubbing harder now, and moving down, sliding inside his robe and tunic, seeking bare skin, and he found his utterly disloyal belly arching into the contact.
“No!” Panting, wild-eyed, he tried to thrust Harry away and fought as blindly as a trapped animal. Harry immediately released him although one hand did remain resting on his shoulder.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“You’ve gone too far, Potter! I won’t be able to get back!”
“But why should you want to go back?” The voice, so gentle, as if Harry truly wanted to know. Snape owed him that, an explanation for rejecting him so unexpectedly. He closed his eyes, so he did not have to watch Harry’s expression change.
“It hurts too much. When it ends.”
“But why should this end, Severus?”
“It always does.” He pulled in a deep breath, guts churning once more. “It ended the night I left after we faked Albus’ death, it ended for the second time when you came to face the Dark Lord and I thought – I thought that we could not possibly both survive. Then I lost you again when you walked away from Hogwarts. Three times is too much, I cannot do this again.”
There was a long silence, and then Harry said softly “Look at me, Severus.” Deep green eyes, pools to drown his soul. “I went the last time because I couldn’t stay here and see you every day, wanting you but believing that you didn’t want me. I came back to visit my friends, trying to avoid you – did you notice? Yes, I thought you would – and Remus told me that perhaps I did have a chance. That my presence disturbed you as much as you disturbed me. That your frustrated longing smelled like fire and smoke, just like mine. He advised me to try again, even after you told me to fuck off.”
Fire and smoke, then deep pools to submerge in. Snape could only stare, entranced.
“You came back for me?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last fifteen minutes, yes.”
“But – but you are so beautiful.” How could he explain that Harry’s masculine beauty – strong, vigorous, passionate and so powerful – could not possibly be for someone like him?
“And you may not be generally regarded as handsome, but you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met and I want to spend the next – oh, hundred years or so – exploring exactly how sensuous and sarcastic and witty and abrasive and loyal and courageous you really are.”
Harry’s words sank into Snape’s withered soul like rain into parched earth. Harry leaned to kiss the tip of Snape’s admittedly substantial nose.
“But you’re the Boy Who Lived,” Snape muttered.
“I’m the man who’s had a crush on a Potions Master for the last seven years,” Harry corrected him. “Sappy, huh? How’s your stomach?”
“Awful,” Snape snapped, wits once more about him. “Urgently needs compassionate attention.”
“Here?” Harry’s hands moved down, gently rubbing and stroking at the smooth skin, and the little line of hairs that led inexorably downwards, towards Snape’s trousers. Harry seemed to be unfastening buttons as he went by some sleight of hand, a subtle charm that Snape thought he ought to familiarise himself with, some day. His skin was quivering like the hide of a nervous horse and there were things happening in his underwear that would have been against school rules, had Harry still been his student. Harry’s hand dived as if homing in on a snitch and Snape whimpered. “Naughty Professor Snape,” Harry sighed luxuriously, “I shall have to put you into my first-ever detention.”
Snape gave a startled chuckle and Harry unexpectedly plonked himself down onto his lap, winding one arm around Snape’s neck. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that before.”
“Foolish boy,” Snape growled. “How dare you think you can put ME into detention? What on earth would you make me do?”
“Polish my wand.” Harry’s fingers skimmed lightly across flesh already aroused by his proximity and Snape shuddered. “I’ll demonstrate the lesson by polishing yours first, shall I?”
“Prat!” Snape gave a completely involuntary pelvic lunge, almost unseating Harry, who wrapped his hand around the aching length of Snape’s prick. “Oh Merlin…”
“Nope, wrong wizard, this one’s Harry. I’ll send Merlin around later. Although I doubt if he can do this…” Harry slid down from Snape’s lap, dropped to his knees and pulled open Snape’s robes. It happened so fast that Snape could only give a gasp of shocked appreciation, throw back his head and tremble as Harry’s hot, wet, insistent and totally irresistible mouth closed around his cock. It had been far too long since anyone had willingly applied himself to bringing Snape to orgasm. He had become too accustomed to his own hands; he had forgotten that sex could be unpredictable and frightening, that it could swallow his soul and spit it back out into his body in an entirely new configuration. He came hard, long before he thought that he was ready, convulsing with the unexpected raw power of wanting and compulsion.
Then Harry taught him exactly how long Snape could hold on for if he had to. Over and over, he brought Snape to the edge and then slowed right down, until Snape begged him to please just let him come again. When he did, Harry sucked and swallowed it all, licked him gently clean and then tucked him back into his underpants. “Ah,” Harry said with an evil grin, “A puddle of molten Snape, I do declare. How’s your stomach now?” He rubbed it gently with the heel of his hand.
“Guhhh…” Snape burbled, sprawled in his chair with his robes open, bones turning to rubber and muscles to warm syrup.
“Don’t need any potions or anything?”
“Pepper-up,” Snape mumbled, “If I am expected to do anything after that…”
Harry kissed the hooked tip of his nose again, a touchingly affectionate gesture. “I think you still need looking after, don’t you? I’d better take you to your chambers. Just in case you relapse.”
Maybe he used a levitation charm, or perhaps Auror training and amateur Quidditch had given Harry his elegantly understated muscularity. He gathered Snape up in his arms, marched across the office, shouldered the powerful wards aside – how the hell did he do that? – and carried him into his bedroom, depositing him on the bed in a tumble of black fabric and relaxed limbs.
He may not often bother to utilise them but Snape had been taught good manners. When Harry threw off his academic gown and crawled onto the bed to join him, Snape told himself that he was a wizard, damn it, not a flobberworm. He rolled the startled young man onto his back, pinned him down and proceeded to kiss him breathless, purely out of a sense of gratitude, of course. Before Harry had recovered from this sneak attack, Snape produced his wand and dredged up a long unused charm from the depths of his memory. He smirked down at the suddenly naked Boy Who Lived and ran a finger-nail down Harry’s sternum.
“Got you, Potter.”
Harry frowned slightly and then his face relaxed and he whispered the same charm. Cool air swept across Snape’s skin as his heavy robes fell away. Wandless. The brat! The gorgeous, green-eyed nude brat, splayed out on Snape’s bed and grinning up at him. Snape lowered his torso onto the delectable body, skin sliding across skin, and he moaned at the silken beauty of the contact. He reached down and gently folded his fingers around Harry’s erection.
“My turn,” Snape murmured. Something pooled molten in the base of his belly, something more powerful than lust. It was guiding his actions like an Imperius curse. He held up his hand and whispered “Accio!” and caught the little jar as it whizzed across the room. Trapped in the green enigma of Harry’s eyes, he slowly applied a smooth, rich hand-lotion to Harry’s cock, and then to his own opening. He felt loose and eager; he wanted Harry inside him in a way that he had never desired before.
“Are you sure?” Harry whispered but Snape leaned over and sucked away his words and his doubts into his own mouth and swallowed them. Harry groped for Snape’s hand, uncurled his fingers from the jar and reached around behind Snape. He slowly inserted a finger, slicked with lotion, and Snape made a sound deep in his throat, a wordless plea for more, as the finger-tip touched a spot that sent wild heat surging through his viscera. Harry added another finger, then a third, and Snape wanted to writhe on them but he stilled his body and gently withdrew.
Then Snape lowered himself millimetre by slow millimetre onto Harry, settling down, feeling an unaccustomed pressure building inside himself, a feeling of fullness, of completeness and satiation. He sighed. Inside him, everything relaxed and reconfigured, as if his entire body wrapped itself around Harry’s cock, kissed it, swallowed it and made it his own.
“Mine,” he murmured, bending over to place a kiss on Harry’s lips.
“Yours,” Harry agreed, stroking his hands up and down Snape’s sides, “And you’re mine.”
Snape positioned his hands on either side of Harry and began to move, gasping, needing to milk every precious drop from him, wanting to suck him dry. Then Harry wrapped his arms around Snape and surged up, seizing him and throwing him down on his back. Snape gave a rather inelegant squawk, followed by a groan of bliss as the brat began to pound him into the feather mattress, hitting that incredibly sensitive spot every time. It must have been magic. When Harry came, Snape found himself arching into an astounding third orgasm, albeit from a fount wrung almost dry. He felt Harry’s seed coating his insides, laving him in a warm, generous potion that soothed his heated guts and left him filled and desired, gravid with a million tiny possibilities. Anything might happen now. Snape’s life had changed utterly around him. He stared up at his flushed and sated lover and watched as Harry reached to spread his fingers across the pale skin of Snape’s abdomen, pressing lightly at the now pliant muscles. Snape placed his own hand on top, yet again feeling that odd quivering sensation.
“You’ll probably hate this,” Harry whispered, “But I’m falling in love with you, Severus Snape.”
It was an epiphany of sorts. The hot coiled phenomenon inside Snape spread its wings and took flight.
“I’ve beaten you to it,” he sighed and nuzzled against the brat’s muscular shoulder. “I’ve fallen already.”