The old man had always wanted them to get along, after all; it was only fitting that he should see how well they were…getting along. That was how Snape excused himself, anyhow, for spreading Harry out on the Headmaster’s desk and pulling the oversized clothes from his delectable limbs, for leaving bite-marks on that lovely throat and scratch-marks on the slender shoulders, for spreading the boy’s legs (not such a boy now, twenty years old and Slayer of Voldemort, but to Snape he will always be the boy) and sliding into him, hard and fast and who cares if he cries out, here, with no one to hear except the portraits of the old Headmasters, and Dumbledore sitting painted and helpless in his frame, watching as his spy debauches his golden boy, as the golden boy begs for more, harder, faster, as Snape takes from the son what he could not have from the mother. It is only fitting that he should have Harry, as a reward for long years of service; and if all it takes is a few sweet words and some hard fucking, well, that is not a hardship at all, at all. See, old man, Snape wants to snarl at the portrait, you do not control him anymore. He is mine, all mine; Golden Boy and office and position and all, mine.