Snape leans back, the chair stiff and fortifying against his shoulder blades. He levels the two boys, his brilliant protégés, with a hard stare.
“You both know,” he says, voice tight and controlled, “I don’t suffer intrusions at this late hour.”
In a sliver of moonlight on the desk in front of him, a small lopsided cake sits, oozing white icing onto the parchment littering the desktop. Snape curls his lips into a well-worn snarl. “And I don’t eat cake.”
“I told you it was stupid,” Harry murmurs, glowering at Draco through his unruly fringe. His magic, spicy and warm, rolls off him, filling the room in unrelenting and all-encompassing waves.
Snape closes his eyes for an extra beat, affecting annoyance, but reveling in Harry’s magic. He allows it to press against him, familiar like auburn hair spread on a verdant lawn—a rare indulgence. His lungs fill, an inhale held with anticipation, craving what will come next.
As expected, Draco’s magic, biting and evergreen, cuts like a steel blade through spongecake and pricks at Snape’s skin, a barb inflicted. Snape exhales in a swift rush. The shiver coursing through him tightens his groin.
Draco lifts his chin, exposing his slender neck. “We wanted to honor your birthday, Headmaster.” His Adam’s apple, a tall peak above the neat Windsor knot of his Slytherin tie, throws a high shadow that hides the rosy bruises Snape knows Harry has given him.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, but for the record, the stupid cake was Malfoy’s idea.”
“You’re stupid, Scarhead,” Draco hisses.
“That’s not what you said while we were baking it,” Harry says, his voice a smug purr that vibrates through the next breath filling Snape’s lungs.
Draco’s magic ignites, his ice-grey eyes flaring. Harry holds Draco’s gaze, biting his grin, his own eyes gleaming as green as the tie hanging haphazardly at the open neck of his shirt. Draco doesn’t bother to hide the wicked smile curling his lips.
Unbidden yet welcome—and intentional, Snape is sure—an image floods Snape’s mind of Harry sucking and tonguing at pale skin, lips swollen and spit-slick while Draco ruts against him in the Hogwarts kitchens. The cake sits forgotten on the butcher-block counter.
Snape digs his elbows into the solid wood of the chair arms and presses his fingers together in front of his expressionless face, a talent honed. Beneath his robes, his cock twitches.
The boys’ magic shifts, aligning with his own, a liquid current quickening through a narrow chasm.
“You know, Malfoy,” Harry says. A devious smile overtakes his bitten smirk, and Snape acknowledges, again, that Slytherin house has been blessed with the one and only, the inimitable Harry Fucking Potter. “I think I know what our Headmaster wants for his birthday.”
Draco hums in agreement. He captures Harry’s pinky with his own and moves closer to Snape, skirting the desk, pulling Harry to follow. It never ceases to amaze Snape how commanding Draco Malfoy is, especially over the nearly uncontrollable Potter. It’s aggravatingly heady and unfathomable. Harry follows easily, his magic simmering in his veins—Snape can feel it—a palpable burn on the back of Snape’s tongue.
“Boys,” Snape intones, drawing out the sinuous syllable, a warning caress that draws the boys closer. The anticipation that surges through Snape overwhelms his alarm and quickens his pulse. “You know nothing about me,” he says. He hears the waning conviction in his voice.
The beautiful 7th-Year boys standing next to him hear it too. Pride swells Snape’s cock as much as the intense desire that blows both boys’ eyes wide.
Draco inserts himself between Snape and the desk, sliding up to sit on the desk’s edge, proud and regal, as if he owns the room. He tilts his head and silver hair falls over his face. “I think we do know you. Headmaster." He hooks a glob of icing from the ridiculous cake on his fingertip and holds it out to Harry.
Harry settles himself in Snape's lap, smirking over his shoulder at Snape’s quick inhale.
“Steady on. Sir,” Harry says. Cheeky bastard.
Snape pinches Harry’s arse, cheek for cheek, a painful reminder of who has the upper hand, though Snape is well aware that he’s fast losing control.
Harry laughs. His magic bubbles over, a boiling warmth that cuts through the chill radiating off of the stone walls. He takes Draco’s proffered finger in his mouth and sucks off the icing, grinding his arse into Snape’s cock, now fully hard beneath his robes.
“Merlin, he’s hard,” Harry informs Draco.
Draco combs Harry’s fringe off of his damp forehead with elegant fingers, a fondness flickering across his hooded gaze. “As am I,” he says. His eyes harden like asphalt, and he fists Harry’s hair tightly. “Get on with it, Potter.”
Snape allows the heat coursing through him to push the words from his mouth. “Yes, Potter. Get on with it.”
Draco’s lips twitch and Harry laughs again, easy and carefree, happy to obey. He slides the leather of Draco’s belt through the shiny metal of the buckle. The prong clangs joyfully against the silver frome. Harry takes hold of the zipper in his mouth and slides it open slowly, the teeth spreading wide to reveal flushed skin centimeter by centimeter. Draco’s not wearing pants beneath his trousers, and his cock is stiff and beautifully pink against the dusting of blond hair on his taut stomach.
“Fuck, Malfoy,” Harry breathes.
“That’s the idea,” Draco says. He holds Snape’s gaze and hitches a corner of his lips into a half-smirk.
Snape’s own magic roils, stark like mottled pewter, expanding and barely contained by his skin. He watches his own hand reach out, as if from afar, his corporeal body acting of its own volition, his soul suspended in time and space. He takes Draco’s cock in hand. It is velvet soft yet firm, perfectly weighted in his fingers.
Draco moans, head lolling back, Adam’s apple protruding. Harry—as if reading Snape’s mind, and Snape thinks maybe he is, fuck—lunges forward and runs his mouth over Draco’s neck. Harry’s magic flares, a bright beacon, and he soundlessly, wandlessly loosens Draco’s tie. Buttons pop free of buttonholes to reveal a bony clavicle and a muscled chest mottled pink. Harry carves a slick path with his tongue, pausing to curl over stiff nipples, and then continues down, down, down.
Saliva pools under Snape’s tongue as Harry takes Draco fully into his wide mouth. His lips graze Snape’s fingers encircled firmly around the base of Draco’s cock, his nose pressing a divot into Draco’s abdomen. Harry’s tongue blankets Snape’s knuckles, wet and soft, pushing under Snape’s grip, lapping at the fat veins running along the underside of Draco’s cock. Draco cries out, plunging a hand into Harry’s hair again and bucking up into Harry’s willing mouth.
Snape grabs Harry’s hip with his free hand, drawing his arse flush against him, grinding Harry against his erection. A growl escapes through his clenched teeth, and he pushes his back harder into the chair. The ornate carvings dig into his back, a painful reminder that anchors him to this moment. A fantasy come to life.
“You like that,” Draco says. His matter-of-fact statement is aimed at both his peer and at his Headmaster. His snarky and satisfied tone urges Snape to grip hard, cinching Draco’s cock and Harry’s hip, digging his fingers into soft flesh. Draco and Harry moan in unison, and Snape shoves Harry forward onto Draco only to pull him back, driving him back and forth.
Magic fills the room, spicy hot and sharply cool, the perfect blend of yin and yang. It swirls around Snape, building, mounting, cresting, plunging him into a white-hot bliss as he climaxes, cock pulsing beneath his robes.
Draco arches his back, his orgasm a cloud of breath made solid in the cold air.
Harry sits up and leans against Snape, his heartbeat pulsing through his magic, his chin wet and glistening. He’s opened his jeans and is thrusting into his own slick fist in time with the erratic staccato of Snape’s quieting heartbeat. Snape encircles his hand around Harry’s, squeezing tighter. He catches Draco’s hungry gaze and lifts a brow—a silent command.
Draco swipes his finger through the cake icing once more, and with eyes glittering like broken glass, slides to his knees between Harry’s trembling thighs. He smears the icing onto his tongue, and sucks the bead of pre-come welling from the slit of Harry’s ruddy cockhead peeking out from Snape’s fist.
Heat pools anew at the base of Snape’s spine, and his cock twitches despite having climaxed moments before. Harry clutches Snape’s thigh and orgasms, ejaculating ribbons of come over Snape’s fingers and Draco’s face.
Draco rises and smothers Harry’s whining gasps with a sloppy kiss, and Snape lets the boys indulge in his lap, a satisfied hum buzzing through him.
Draco breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against Harry’s, his hand clenching the sweat-drenched curls at the back of Harry’s head.
“Better than a fucking cake,” Harry gasps, voice raspy.
Snape’s lips quirk pleasantly, for the first time in months.
Draco sucks Harry’s bottom lip into his teeth, pulling it taut for a moment's punishment, before releasing it. “Better,” he concedes, leering. “Happy birthday, Headmaster.”
Harry’s responding laugh rumbles comfortably against Snape’s chest.