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Watching Me, Watching You

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Harry hit the door at a run, flung it back and skidded into the dungeon classroom on his heels. "Sorry-" he panted, dropping his bookbag and reaching for his wand, "Quidditch practice -- ran late. Had to-"


And the day's memories swarmed up over Harry's head like furious wasps. He ground his teeth, grappling the image back down as if he was swallowing bile. Ron's shouting face went carefully black as he shouldered the Quaffle back into play. Ginny dodged under a Bludger and disappeared into shadows. The sun-streaked pitch went pitch dark. Harry, though annoyed, was fairly certain he sensed a grudging dollop of respect from his attacker. Who then shoved all the harder, knocking Harry's careful blankness back into motion.

Harry ground his teeth and scrambled to catch up. Dudley hardly ever had a face in his mind anymore, so frequently did Harry have to smudge him out -- which was sort of a relief, actually. Likewise, any memory involving Sirius had a man- (or dog-) sized hole cut out of it by the time Snape could drag it to the surface. Voldemort and the Death Eaters came to light wearing clown faces and huge, floppy bunny slippers, which made Snape snort in amusement, then attack again twice as hard.

So Harry gave them all squeaky little helium voices, and set them to quoting Monty Python. All except for Lucius Malfoy, who had to be the dead parrot.

"Do you imagine this is funny, Mr. Potter?" Snape's thought poured like vitriol over the Death Eaters of the Round Table's chorus line, "Are these lessons some sort of puerile game to you?"

Which, of course, it was. And far more successful as such than when they had been a trial of misery and abuse. Harry made his answer by having Snape himself Silly Walk across the scene, briefcase in hand, with a bowler hat to offset his robes.

Snape made his answer by crashing into Harry's comedic resistance like an enraged dragon -- clawing, smashing and crushing the tin-foil ka-nighets, exploding livestock, and clopping coconuts into so much sparkle. Before the Potions Master's wrath, even Tim the Enchanter (who looked a bit like Dumbledore) stood no chance.

"Owfuck!" Harry reeled but managed not to fall. His carefully crafted deflection, however, collapsed under the onslaught. Before Harry could recover, Snape had sunk his claws into a fresh scrap of memory and was hauling it into view. Harry set his teeth as the locker room arose before his eyes -- steam-clouded and draped with casually flung red and gold practice robes.

Head still throbbing a bit, Harry choked back a surge of rage and took a steadying breath, reminding himself (rather louder than necessary) that Snape was only being an arsehole to wind him up because he couldn't win by playing fair anymore.

As if in reply, the memory snapped into sharp, immediate focus just as Harry's memory-self tugged off his sweaty undershirt and sat down to haul off his boots. He could feel once more the sticky chill between his sore shoulders, and how the damp leather of his trousers chafed where the pad straps had bound. The bruise on his right knee from the pileup with Ginny and Alicia throbbed, and the impatient, longing ache that hard exercise always brought on coiled restlessly in Harry's groin.

"Fine then," Harry thought grimly as his memory-self wriggled out of the buff leather trousers and pants beneath them in one go, revealing an already half-hard cock to the steamy air, "you want a peek in the showers, Professor? Then a peek in the showers you'll have!"


Snape did not want a peek in the showers.

He wanted the wretched boy to cease his cheek and take the bloody lesson seriously, and if that meant hauling Potter's private, naked-time out to light, then so be it! After the debacle of the previous year, he would not have it said that any squeamishness of his put the bloody Boy Who Couldn't Be Arsed To Learn Anything at risk. And if Potter found himself humiliated by what Snape saw, then so much the better. Perhaps the boy would learn to keep his mental filing straight. After all, when Snape bothered to bash through a wall, there bloody well ought to be something worth protecting behind it, not this… this…

Potter stood and stretched like a cat -- hard and thoroughly. He groaned with pleasure as his muscles twitched and his young joints popped.

How different Potter looked without his student robes.

Taller, for one. He looked taller, or perhaps it was the elegant length of his spine, rolling like a string of pearls under the velvety skin. How pliant that skin must be to move so smoothly, so subtly. How like velvet where the light caught a sheen of sweat along the winging scapulae, the faint-ridged ribs, the mesmerizing dimples which flanked his sacrum, the flexing curve of his arse…

*How pale he is.* Snape mused as the boy walked into the shower and repeated his stretch under the sudden downpour of hot water, *Like new milk, but for his hands and face. I'd not thought but that he'd be bronzed and bulky, like his father was. James the hedonist -- never a shirt to be found on him, given the slightest hint of a sunny day…*

A sound, very like a mental snort of laughter, brought Snape back to his senses.

"Oh, spare me! As if I hadn't already put up with more than my share of Potter vanity from Golden Boy the Elder!"

Potter rose to the bait.

"What's that about my father?" he asked archly. His naked memory whipped about on his heel, drenched and gleaming under the spray, eyes narrowed as he searched the shadows. As if he'd heard a noise in the now-empty locker room. As if he knew he was not alone.

The heat of the shower had brought the pale skin to bloom, from the dusky, rosy nipples to the young cock, already half-erect and peeking shyly from under its hood. The water sheeted over it, slicking the cushion of sparse, dark hair into long, rippling patterns as without a touch, the cock continued to twitch and bob up toward the boy's taut belly.

He was looking again. Damn it!

Snape shook himself, then aloud, "Just commenting that you seem to share your father's rampant-" (not rampant, you fool! Some other word! Something like…Ah!) "flagrant exhibitionism! I have had enough of this display!" And he cut the spell.

Or rather, he tried to do so. Except that the spell, once released, refused to release him. Memory-Harry gave the shower room one final myopic glare, and then turned back to his work, ghosting frothy hands over his skin while the steam clouded around him. There was something indecently luxurious in the way his face went dreamy and slack, upturned to the spray.

"What the devil are you playing at?" Snape demanded, fixing his eyes determinedly on the dolphin shaped showerhead so he wouldn't notice the boy's tawny, soap-slicked hands carefully washing his now erect member. There came no reply beyond a subtle, pervasive smugness, a cloying perfume across Snape's senses. "ANSWER ME!" he roared, *And for Merlin's sake, rinse that mess off before you give yourself a rash!* But that last, he managed to keep private.

"Occlumency, Professor, Potter answered. Under the shower, his lips opened to breathe a trembling moan. His elbow worked in slow, easy flexes -- long strokes that rippled the muscles up the back of his arm and across his shoulder. The boy's bollocks were just visible when he leaned forward and braced his free hand on the wall.

"This…This is not Occlumency, Potter," Snape made himself reply, "this is shameless self-indulgence. You are wasting my time!"

Then the wretched boy did laugh -- a low, wicked chuckle that made Snape's belly clench. The figure under the spray shouldered into the wall and delved his fingers behind, and suddenly Snape could see the cock disappearing and reappearing into the fist. The long, tight strokes rolled the foreskin back and forth across that engorged purple head, revealing a glint of…dear Merlin, was that a ring?

"Then make me stop, why don't you?"

A challenge! Just the thing to clear his head. Snape gathered the core of his affronted dignity and sharpened it into a point. So the brat had thought of a trick. Clever enough, but if Potter imagined he could twist Occlumency into a shape his teacher could not recognize, he had another think coming!

The Memory-Potter groaned again, though it was more like a whimper -- face knotted in concentration, plump lower lip caught between his teeth as a flush spread across his cheeks. His wrists corded as he pumped his cock with one hand and probed his anus with the other. The narrow hips flexed and bucked under the onslaught.

But Snape was ready for the distraction. No seventeen year old boy took this long to bring himself off -- Potter was clearly manipulating the memory. Pierced cock, indeed! Clearly the fabrication of a twisted mind, intended to shock his straight-laced old Professor. Which meant all Snape had to do was… "Finite incan-"

A shadow loomed out of the billowing steam, and before Snape could finish his spell, he felt a terrific yank, as though a portkey had hooked into the root of his bollocks. Concentration shattered, he could only brace himself as he suddenly became the boy under the spray -- teetering on the edge of orgasm, clenched before and prodded behind and close, so achingly close.

"Merlin!" he gasped, spray blinded, spitting water, and quite unable to stop either hand, "You cannot - AUGH!"

A hand closed over his, pinning it to his cock as his other hand was pulled away and held in a grip of iron. Snape-Harry jolted and bucked in alarm. A body, bare and brandingly hot, pressed against him from behind, crowding his feeble struggles into the wall while stroking his cock. Snape wanted to lash out, but… the feeling of that thumb rolling his foreskin across the gleaming gold ring utterly destroyed his concentration. The boy moaned, and Snape promised himself fiercely that it had not been him.

When Harry did not fight, the form behind slithered low with a liquid chuckle. "Got started without me, I see," the voice, sultry, male, and heavy with lust, tickled gooseflesh across his hip, "tsk. That's hardly polite, is it?"

"I wasn't-" Snape heard Harry's voice babble. His erection wilted just a little. "I didn't expect-"

"Shhh," and Snape could feel the smile against his arse cheeks as his attacker -- or perhaps his lover -- nuzzled into his cleft with a long, determined, and very wicked tongue. He leaned forward, thrust his hips shamelessly back onto that invasion. As though by way of reward, his left hand was released. Snape splayed it against the tiles, turned his face into the curve of Harry's own shoulder, and bit down hard.

"Ow! Hey!"

Snape smirked around his mouthful, tasting soap and sex and sunlight on the wet skin. "Make me stop…" he breathed, shuddering, arching up onto his toes as the water pounded his back and his unseen lover tongued him toward heaven.

"Don't want to make you stop," his lover replied. Snape stifled a whimper as the assault ceased, but then a thumb replaced the tongue at his spit-slicked entrance. His lover rested a raspy cheek against Harry's thigh, and Snape could feel his jaw shaping those rumbling words

"Want to make you beg." The thumb pressed in, deep, smooth, and sure. Snape shoved back until he felt the second knuckle slide through the tight ring of muscle, his mouth frozen open and his eyes rolled shut. The heel of that hand ground into him for a moment, and his lover nipped a trail across his quivering flank.

"Want to make you scream." A second thumb, worming in beside the first -- tight, so tight! Too fast, almost. Snape caught his breath, hovering on the cusp of pain as his- (No! Harry's! It's Harry's!) anus spasmed and twitched around the invasion. Unbidden, his right hand resumed the slow, torturous pace of stroke and pull which the lover had set, only now he made sure to catch the ring with his thumb on every pass. It helped. The blinding sensation edged quickly back from the brink of pain.

"Want to make you come," the lover breathed, and inside him -- sweet Merlin! -- the thumbs began to writhe! He keened and locked his trembling knees to keep from collapsing as first one then the other nudged his prostate. They tugged him, they stretched him, they tormented him beyond belief, but somehow Snape kept his orgasm at bay.

Will. Pure will. The will that kept a hundred deadly secrets safe from the most vicious prying mind his lifetime had ever known. Severus understood the unspoken rules; if Harry could make him come before he broke out of this…(heaven) perversion, then Snape would lose. To a Potter. Again.

The Hell he would!

"My wand is in my hand." Snape offered a very un-Slytherin fair warning.

Which, as he had expected, Harry ignored. "Is it?" the brat hummed, "Looks to me as though that's my wand, not yours."

The wriggling assault inside him changed angles as his lover/tormentor stood, muttering a charm which Snape knew quite well indeed. Cool, slippery magic filled him as the thumbs hooked and the blunt heat of the lover's cock nudged at his opening. Severus threw back his head and shouted.


And the smugness around him shattered into panic as Harry Potter found the tables turned. The spell yanked him into Snape's place -- pinned, panting, and pierced by a cock of his own imagining. "Oh my GOD!" The cry echoed off the tiles.

Filled to bursting, Harry's pirated Occlumency could not contain himself and Snape as well as their building orgasms. Snape felt the seams give just as the blood began to roar in his ear, as his bollocks clenched tight and hard against his body, as his arse began to ripple around that merciless, plundering cock.

Another tenor wail split the air. Snape hurled himself headlong through the gap.

He crashed back into his body one heartbeat before his own very real orgasm sizzled like lightning up his spine. Teeth locked tight around a groan, Snape clung to the edge of his desk as his cock pulsed against his belly, and slick, hot come drenched his trousers from within.

He allowed himself three shaky breaths before forcing his eyes open.

Potter sprawled beside the door, still helpless, torn between spell backlash and what looked like an astounding orgasm. His back arched away from the stones, his mouth strained wide and his rolled-back eyes fluttered white. The boy's sharp, bitter musk filled Snape's senses, a volatile counterpoint to the smell of his own spend -- antagonistic elements in a descending spiral, wanting only a single brush to explode.

A whimper escaped through Potter's panting gasps, and the sound of it wrung another throb from Snape's softening cock. He could see Potter's erection through his clothes, pulsing like a heart as the wet spot around it grew and grew and… Oroborous loop, he realized with a shiver, What a moment to get trapped in! Most wizards could break out of such a memory trap in two, perhaps three repetitions, but… that had been one hell of an orgasm, even second-hand. Who could concentrate through that?

He set his teeth and took a very deep breath. "This," he decided aloud, "has gone far enough!" And then he strode across the room, swooped down on the helpless boy and indulged in one of his long-denied dearest wishes.


Just when Harry had decided that it was possible to die from coming one's brains out, an angel came to his rescue, stooping from Heaven in a rustle of wings, seizing him by the shirtfront and slapping him silly.

The never-ending orgasm shattered like a prophecy sphere, leaving Harry twitching and gasping in the shards. Bet he's wanted to do that for years… Harry thought as Snape's sallow face swam into focus. Still too dazed to hold back the grin that invoked, Harry could only hang on as Snape growled and shook him like a rag doll.

"Ugh," he protested weakly, "Sir-" And the shaking ceased.

"Potter, that was without doubt the most reprehensible and shameless display of exploitative hedonism I have ever witnessed!" Snape shouted in his face, kneeling astride Harry's legs, "What possessed you to parade yourself like that! What, in your self-obsessed little brain made it seem a good idea to entangle your teacher in such a-"

Harry could see the man struggling against a shiver, as though just speaking of it had been enough to invoke Harry's fantasy. (Wait. Trap -- that had been a trap, not a fantasy!) Two spots of colour stained the ivory pallor as Snape released Harry's shirtfront, and struggled to his feet. He smoothed a hand down the front of his vest, glaring coldly.

"I decided if you could cheat, then so could I," Harry replied as anger leapt into his throat. But then he remembered the intensity of Snape's responses, his pliancy and passion, and found he could not keep a triumphant smile hidden. "And besides, it worked, didn't it?"

Snape glowered for a moment more, then sheathed his wand in his sleeve with a swift, practised motion, like sliding a dagger home. "Get up, Potter," he growled, "get up and get out of my office. I will send a house elf to collect the books I loaned you in one hour."

Harry scrambled to his feet. "But I'm not through with-"

"Yes you are," Snape smirked, satisfaction curling in his black eyes, "I see no point in continuing with this charade when you are clearly-"

"No! You can't throw me out again!" Harry cried, "Professor, you promised!"

"CLEARLY incapable of learning anything more from me on the subject." Snape folded his arms over his breast, "You are finished here."

Harry stumbled across the room, outraged, furious. "No! I won't let you do this! Not just because I won -- I'll tell Dumbledore-"

"I intend to inform the Headmaster of your…achievement myself," Snape leered, and his soft, smug voice set Harry's teeth on edge, "and I think you'll find that he agrees with me this time. You're through here, Potter."

"But Voldemort-" Harry grabbed Snape's arm, ready to beg, ready to fight, ready to throw up at the terror knotting his guts. The memory of haunting blue flames tickled at the back of his throat, and Harry hoped Snape couldn't feel him shaking through the grip. "What if he- He'll try to use-"

Snape prised loose his grip. Strangely hot, the Potions Master's fingers curled around Harry's, stilling the tremors. "Should the Dark Lord for some reason determine it worth his effort to mount an assault upon that morass of hormonal impulses which seems to do service as your brain," Snape's breath gusted across Harry's fringe, making it tickle his scar, "then it is my studied opinion that he shall deserve precisely what he finds there!"

Wait. Harry thought, looking up into that furnace black gaze, wait. Did he just say…?

Snape's thin lips twitched. "Really, Potter, I am surprised at your protestations. Surely this was the intended purpose of your little demonstration -- indeed, of the entire tutorship."

He did just say that! Harry blinked. "So you…you're not throwing me out?"

"Oh, I am throwing you out," This time Snape's smirk was different… almost… reassuring? "but not before your time. You are finished here, Mr. Potter; I have nothing left to teach you…about Occlumency. Your approach of fabricated nonsense and sensual assault is, in my considerable experience, a wholly unique strategy."

Harry felt his cheeks heat, the right one recalling the sting of Snape's palm. "But what about the…er…" he squirmed, "that feedback thing"

"Feed-back?" Snape eyebrowed.

Harry blushed harder. "That spell you did. The one that…" he nodded down at his soaked and sticky trousers, "Well, shouldn't you teach me how to defend against that?"

"That was not Occlumency," Snape replied, "that was fighting dirty, which cannot be taught. The Dark Lord hasn't the luck for such an accident of timing, even should he think to use an alchemy spell against you whilst you are molesting him. You need no further lessons in Occlumency." And giving Harry's hand a squeeze, Snape let it drop then stepped away.

Harry blinked again, and a slow smile spread across his face. The cool dungeon air brought gooseflesh in a wave and Harry found himself shivering with it. Snape opened a side door out of the office, revealing his private rooms beyond -- clearly leaving, the lesson at an end. "Then… what do you reckon I need, Sir?" Harry was mortified to hear his own voice asking.

Snape paused on the threshold, cast one arch look over his shoulder, his black eyes lingering on the sticky spot at Harry's groin. "A shower," came the smooth reply. And then Snape strode away, his black robes whispering suggestively as he worked the buttons down.

He did not, Harry noted with a grin, close the door behind him.