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“Confess and Be Hanged”

~Christopher Marlowe


The edges of reality began to drip and smear, stinging his eyes, before flickering dimly and snuffing out like a candle in a dark room.

There was only the warmth of his lover’s body cradling him so gently.

(He loved the way those arms protected him. So safe in the embrace of…)

There was only the thought that this was all wrong.

(He didn’t have a lover….lover? Did he? No. They didn’t, he and ….)

There was only a pale “I’m sorry” kissing his brow.

Then nothing. 




“Mr. Potter, are you incapable of the simple mechanics involved in moving one's feet across the threshold of a doorway?” Snape sneered from behind his scroll-covered desk. “It’s no wonder you have such a nauseating love of Qudditch. Flying disguises the simple fact that you are severely limited in manual mobility.”

Silently sighing, Harry reluctantly walked into the chilly dungeon classroom for his detention. Snape was now ignoring his entrance in favor of condemning some poor soul’s homework to the ranks of “Trolldom”. Harry hoped that the damned parchment was not his own work, though he had a sneaking suspicion that it was. It would be just like Snape to tear him to shreds on paper moments after eviscerating him with words.

Making his way to the front of the room, Harry instinctively replayed the mantra that got him through his encounters with Snape: in a month he would be free of this man who plagued his days and nights. He would finish with Hogwarts and be free. Well, as free as he could be given that he was The-Boy-Who-Lived-Again.

With Voldemort’s defeat six months ago, he had gained an almost cult-like following; owls delivered letters and presents daily. He’d never kept any of the gifts, though. It felt wrong to accept such expensive things when he could afford to buy them with the money he had inherited from both the Potter and Black family trusts. Instead, he donated everything to the War Orphans Fund Hermione had helped him create.

In addition to the fund, Harry, compelled by his own upbringing, converted Grimmauld Place into a group home for wizards, witches, or Squibs who had lost all of their family and were still minors. He couldn’t stomach the thought of any magical child experiencing the malicious neglect that he had suffered at the hands of the Dursleys and being able to give children an inviting, warm environment in which to thrive made Harry feel a sense of pride.

With the group home and the WOF, he felt he was making a difference, helping people. Killing Voldemort, that had been destiny; he didn’t think he should be thanked for a fate not in his control, he didn’t feel worthy of such adoration and praise. He still failed to understand why he received “fan mail”. He wasn’t one of the Weird Sisters, he wasn’t anyone special. It made him feel awkward to read letters gushing over him, his final battle with Voldemort, giving him sole credit for the downfall of such a reviled figure, but those couldn’t hold a candle to some of the more…racy ones he had received.

He really didn’t know what to do about those. Witches and wizards alike threw themselves at him offering one night stands, promising things Harry didn’t know were humanly possible to do in bed. Ron thought that he should take up some of the offers, that he was young and should sow his wild oats, move on, make a fresh start. Hermione, of course, would glare at Ron and tell Harry to use his better judgment.

A grimace tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought. Move on? How did someone do that? There was no way he was going to accept any of those offers. Harry couldn’t see the point in roaming from bed to bed or how shagging someone would be cathartic. It wouldn’t happen because he couldn’t trust anyone in his bed. Those people didn’t know him, didn’t want to know him, and only offered their ‘companionship’ for the prestige of sleeping with The Chosen One.

He had had a ridiculously difficult time finding someone to see him for who he was before he killed Voldemort. Now that the deed was done, it was virtually impossible. The only person who didn’t care about his celebrity status, had never cared was Snape. Maybe that’s why he found himself strangely attracted to the man, despite their antagonistic relationship. 

Severus Tobias Snape: the hated Potions Master, double agent, spy extraordinaire, and saver of his arse many times over had become the star of his late night fantasies. Harry didn’t know when such lascivious thoughts began to bloom inside of him, but now that they were firmly rooted in his mind, he couldn’t let them go even though he knew the attraction was utterly ridiculous. There was nothing to recommended Snape. He was still all sharp angles and ridged planes. His long, lank raven locks, prominent proboscis, and sallow skin were as striking as they ever were, but what once Harry had found distasteful and downright ugly, he now found appealing.

It was really too bad that the man had the personality of a pea, not to mention the insignificant fact that Snape had hated his father and loved his mother. He also couldn’t forget that Snape was straight as an arrow. Even though Harry knew that there was no chance in hell anything would ever happen between them, he sometimes imagined their fighting turning into something more heated.

A flutter filled his stomach at the thought of all that cold focus directed at him, filling him, fucking him hard against the wall of the Potions classroom. How they would fight and scream at each other, only to fall into a tumble of limbs and mouths. It really would be delicious. Even if Snape spouted the most horrendous things at him, it would still be worth it to feel that tall frame grind against his own. A wry smirk bloomed on Harry’s face at the ludicrous idea. Snape would never sleep with him and he certainly wouldn’t find that particular notion funny in the slightest.

Suddenly, Snape’s head snapped up as if he had read his thoughts. Mid-way through a step, Harry stopped, frozen, ensnared by midnight. There was something in those eyes that, for a moment, threw his world off balance. Something about his professor puzzled him, called to him. A little tickle in the back of his mind warned him that something…something....

Harry shook his head hoping that it would dissipate the strange feeling, when another flutter filled his stomach. It was silly, but he could swear he felt the room’s energy, heavy and damp like marsh moss, soak its way into his bones when he looked into Snape’s eyes. While the dungeons never felt like the warm, comforting embrace of the Gryffindor common room, being dark by virtue of being dungeons, they didn’t usually feel as if Hogwarts’ very walls were weeping.

“Potter, do hasten your approach. I know walking must take a considerable amount of mental concentration for one as limited as yourself, but I would appreciate it if you make it to the front of my classroom sometime this evening,” Snape drawled.

“Yes, sir,” Harry grumbled.

Another shiver rumbled through his body as he continued to make his way to the front of the room, heels clicking sharply on the stone floor, until he stopped at the foot of Snape’s desk.

“Potter, your detention this evening will consist of manual labor. You are familiar with the word manual and know its meaning? I know your vocabulary is limited in the extreme, but I do hope you are familiar with a word as rudimentary as that particular adjective,” Snape said snidely when he reached the front of the classroom.

“Yes, I know what the word means.” Harry wished that Snape wouldn’t talk to him as if he were a first year. He was an adult wizard now; his vocabulary had grown since he was eleven.

“Sir.” Snape said with a pointed look.

“You don’t have to call me sir,” Harry said sweetly.

Snape, with surgical precision, placed his palms on the desktop as he stood. “You insolent brat. Did you not learn the first time we found ourselves in this situation that you would invariably lose this battle of wills? I did not tolerate it then, I will not do so now.”

“Of course you won’t,” Harry replied petulantly. “But, as you always say, I am only a dunderhead. I can’t possibly be expected to remember such things.”

“Potter,” Snape spat as he stalked around the desk. “It would be in your best interest to remember.”

“Sorry, Snape. I guess I’ve had one too many hits to the head. I just can’t seem to make myself remember,” Harry sarcastically retorted, Snape drawing closer with each step.

The professor stopped mere centimeters from him, using his height in a juvenile attempt to cow Harry into submission. “It never ceases to amaze me how so very like your father you truly are. Despite your protestations to the contrary, you are just a nasty, arrogant, little shit.”

Harry inhaled deeply, firing up his own cutting remark, and caught a whiff of mint and sandalwood on Snape’s robes. The scents were a heady combination, seducing his senses. He involuntarily swayed forward, his hands bracing themselves on Snape’s warm chest. A small moan rushed past his lips before he could catch it. Merlin, his cock ached at the smell.

“What are you doing?” Snape sneered.

The fragile trance snapped at the rich tone of Snape’s voice. “N-nothing. Just tell me what I’m doing so I can get to it,” Harry grumbled as he snatched his hands away. What was wrong with him?

Potions-stained fingers grabbed his arms, holding him fast, pressing their bodies flush. “Not so fast, Potter; you had best explain yourself.”

“Let go of me,” Harry growled, squirming in the strong grip.

“Now, now, Mr. Potter. Are you certain that’s what you want?” Snape leered.

Harry was confused. Was Snape…flirting with him? That wasn’t possible, Snape loved his mother, was straight.

“Yes, you git. Let go of my—oomph!” There were lips touching… kissing his own. It was wrong, disgusting, and, worst of all, he never wanted it to end. Harry wrenched himself away from Snape’s welcoming mouth.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked breathlessly.

“I would assume that even one such as you would be familiar with the act of kissing,” Snape said with a self-satisfied smile. Of course, Harry knew about kissing. He was eighteen, after all, but that didn’t explain why Snape had just snogged him.

“Haven’t your legions of admirers bestowed you with kisses of adoration?”

A deep blush crawled up Harry’s neck and face. Yes, there were people who had kissed him when he went out, but he had never responded—not like he just had with Snape. Thrown by this line of questioning, Harry stammered, “I-I just don’t go around kissing strangers. I’m not like that.”

A flash of pure cunning swept across Snape’s face as he asked, “Surely you and the red-headed chit kissed at some point in your doomed relationship?” 

Harry stilled. “Don’t talk about her,” he said with soft menace.

“What? Don’t want to natter about your fumbling attempts with your little girlfriend?”

“I told you not to talk about her. Shut your mouth, Snape.”

“Not up for shop talk between mates?” he taunted, circling Harry like a shark, a glimmer of glee in his eyes.

Harry’s blood boiled. “Shut your slimy mouth, Snape!” he snarled savagely.

Snape knew better than to bring up Gin—the youngest Weasley offspring. He still had nightmares over her death. Harry had been devastated when he stumbled across her body in the rubble from the explosion that had destroyed the foyer of the Great Hall last year in The Battle of Hogwarts. He had always thought that they would get married, have children, and live happily ever after; that he would have a real family. It had been a crushing blow to realize that his dream would never happen.

“Are you pining for her? Still crying at night over her dead body? Poor, pathetic Potter. I would have thought that you would have fucked every adoring fan that came your way by now. Really, Potter, one cunt is the same as another. She wasn’t anything special.”

Filled with white-hot rage, Harry reared back and slapped Snape. The crack echoed in the cavernous stillness of the dungeon. The look of shock plastered across his professor’s face— his handprint red and blazing in contrast against chalky white skin— was priceless and terrifying. A wizard used wands and hexes not hands.

“You little shit,” Snape whispered menacingly before roughly grabbing Harry and slamming him into the bookshelf. Jars crashed, their fetid content rained down around them as they struggled. Harry rolled them hard into the wall, trying to shake the man’s vice-like grip on his clothing.

“You fucking deserved it!” Harry yelled as they fought in a play for dominance.

Snape, back to the wall, abruptly stilled under Harry’s hands, though he didn’t release his hold on his arms. Snapewas a Slytherin: as deadly and cunning as their house’s icon, and it made Harry wary of what was to come.

Rich, dark-chocolate tones purred in his ear. “Yes, your poor dead girlfriend.” Harry shuddered as he felt Snape teasingly slide his thigh over his groin.

“How fortunate her head was smashed in,” he whispered before licking the shell of Harry’s ear. “It would have undoubtedly killed her to know her boyfriend would rather take it up the arse than slide inside her.”

Tar-coloured pools glimmered before delivering the killing blow. “What would your fans say if they knew? The-Boy-Who-Craved-Cock. My cock.”

“Shut UP!” Harry bellowed. Ripping his arm free of Snape’s iron grasp, he hauled off and punched him square in the nose. Harry noted smugly that the git’s nose was bleeding. He hoped it was broken; it would serve him right.

Dark eyes blazed dangerously as Snape rolled them over hard, knocking the air from his lungs. He was trapped, pinned like a butterfly on display under the weight of the older man’s body, Harry growled, “Get off me, get off me! You fucking sick fuck!”

He tried to overpower his professor, but kicking his way free was no use; Snape was deceptively stronger than his lank frame suggested. That body—warm, solid, and heaving—was flush against Harry’s own. There was nowhere to go, no way to get free. Long fingers dug into his jaw, his face was yanked up to meet Snape’s eyes. Harry thought fleetingly that it had been inevitable, that the heat, the fire-filled fury between them would end with them killing or fucking each other.

For a moment they just stared at each other in the stasis, the only sound cutting the silence—their ragged breathing. They were standing on the edge of the precipice and at any second they could fall. As if jolted into action by an unseen force, their mouths crashed together in a torrent of unified need, teeth clacking, hands scrambling for purchase. Harry hated this man, hated his cruel mouth; yet, when Snape’s brutally sharp tongue licked the seam of his lips, he welcomed him in. There was nothing gentle here. There was only passion and hate and, god, it felt good.

Hands, no more temperate than when they had been digging holes into his face, ripped clothing away, buttons pinging brightly against the wall; nothing mattered but the feel of hot flesh. They hissed in harmony as their cocks grazed each other. They were burning, the need to fight and fuck all consuming. Harry shivered as Snape bit the side of his neck, marking him in a primal act of ownership. That wicked tongue licked his ear, whispered a spell:“Pateacio paratus.” Harry gasped, then moaned. He felt open, slick, and empty. Snape had stretched and lubed him up with a spell. It was so dirty, but the instant preparation made him hard.

“Do you want me to fuck you Potter? Out in the open, where anyone can find us?”

Harry bit his lip and quivered in anticipation. He nodded. “Yes.”

“What a dirty little exhibitionist you are,” Snape taunted.

“Fuck. Me. Now. Snape. Do it!”

“Wrap your legs around me,” Snape ordered, digging his claws into the tender flesh of his arse.

Harry sank his fingers into Snape’s hair, climbed the planes of his body. He sobbed at the first breach of hot flesh into his arse. There was no romance. This was not a time for pretty words, flowers, and candy. This was raw ardor, nothing but the need to come. It was going to be fast, dirty, and would more than likely be over before either of them knew it, leaving them to hastily backpedal from the momentary lapse into insanity.

“Harder, you bastard,” Harry whispered brokenly. “ Aah…ungh. Harder.” He needed to feel it. Transiently he thought that this was his punishment. Snape’s violent assault was what he deserved: a cathartic exercise to expunge the demons that haunted him.

“Do you feel me, feel me fucking you?” Snape grunted as he viciously plunged in and out of his body.

“Yessss.” Harry hissed when Snape hit that spot inside of him over and over again.

“Your tight little arse was made for this,” Snape growled.

“Nugh….Snape. Oh fuck...”

It felt so good: the wall—rough and uneven stones—scraping his back, Snape ramming into him without pity, the pleasure overwhelming, crashing against him in waves. It was just how he imagined it.

“Do you like this, the feel of me inside of you, filling you, taking you?’ Snape muttered before claiming his mouth once more. Harry could taste the blood from Snape’s nose in his mouth—coppery, sharp, tangy—and he loathed himself needing this. He liked kissing Snape.

“Tell me how much you love it,” his lover snarled impatiently, the rhythm of his thrust growing more erratic.

Harry loved the feel of Snape fucking him. He felt alive for the first time in ages. He craved Snape’s touch, the jarring thrust of skinny hips, the slap of skin. He loved that this man had turned him into this wanton creature, that his dreams were now made reality, that he was being fucked for dear life.

“Answer me, Potter! I know you fucking love it. Tell me, ” Snape rasped raggedly in his ear.

“Yes! I-I do. You know I do. I love you fucking me. So…oh…Go—od! I’m gonna…I…” Harry cried as Snape plundered, conquered, devastated him.

“Ah! T-that’s it, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes rolled back into his head as Snape savaged him, hitting that place inside that sent sparks shooting behind his eyes on every violent thrust. He was so close, so close to….and it was so good, exquisitely painful.

“C-come for me.” 

And he was...and it was…he was…




Reality was weightless and tepid as bath water; rocking him gently in its vast embrace. He floated on a sea of darkness, adrift, lost in the night, but he was not afraid.

There was only the feel of power rippling through him.

(He could feel the change. The ever-increasing presence of…)

There was only the certain knowledge that this was all wrong.

(He wasn’t supposed to be here, was he? Did he? No. They didn’t. He and ….)

There was only the breeze whispering on the waves, “Forgive me.”





“Mr. Potter, are you truly incapable of the simple mechanics involved in maneuvering one's feet across the threshold of a doorway?” Snape sneered from behind his scroll-covered desk. “It’s no surprise to me that you have such a revolting love of Quidditch. Flying on a broom disguises the painful fact that you are incapable of the simple act of walking in a straight line.”

Harry reluctantly entered the chilly dungeon classroom for his detention. Snape was now ignoring him in favor of condemning some poor soul’s homework to the ranks of “Trolldom”. He really hoped that the damned parchment was not his own work. It would be just like Snape to tear him to shreds on paper moments after eviscerating him with words.

As he had many times over the past few weeks, he replayed the mantra that got him through his encounters with Snape: in only a month he would be free of this man who plagued his days and nights. He would… finish … Hogwarts and be free. Well, as free as he could be since he was The-Boy-Who-Lived-Again.

Prickling doubt slithered in the back of his mind. Something…wasn’t right. A tremor rumbled through his body as he continued to make his way towards Snape, hand absently stroking his abdomen, his trainers squeaking softly on the cobblestone floor.

Severus Tobias Snape: the hated Potions Master, double agent, and spy extraordinaire was the saver of his arse many times over. Harry would be forever in his debt and would be willing to show it, if given half the chance. It was really too bad that Snape had the personality of an old muddy shoe. He was cold, bitter, snide, and a myriad of other unpleasant traits, but for some unknown, probably insane, reason Harry felt himself drawn to the man.

He was an enigma, that was for sure. This was a person who had given up half of his life to protect him and the whole of the Wizarding world, suffered unspeakable torture, mental strain, public alienation, and had yet to ask for anything in return. Harry wanted to show his gratitude in some way that Snape would accept. He had tried after Voldemort’s fall and been deftly rebuked. Snape, with his acerbic tongue, cut every offer to tiny ribbons, often remarking on Harry’s idiocy and his incompetence in the process. His vitriolic diatribes would ring in Harry’s ears for hours after each attempt. It was driving him mad to want to honor someone who didn’t wish to be.

If only Snape could be a bit more...pleasant, even if just for a moment, then maybe the repeated rejection wouldn’t be so bad. Harry silently chuckled at the ludicrous thought. The day that Snape became less than the bogeyman of children’s nightmares was the day that he grew a tail, wore Butterbeer cork necklaces, and decided to live with Aragog’s family in the Forbidden Forest. It just wouldn’t happen.

Though he knew Snape would never change, he couldn’t help but fantasize how lovely it would be to be with him. For an instant, the thought warmed his belly. Snape was probably a brilliant kisser. He had always heard that men with large noses were large in…other places. He imagined that they would be in the dungeons, squabbling as they always did, and then suddenly the tension would break. They’d laugh over something trivial. Harry would see some glimmer of softness, before they would return to their antagonistic ways. Then….the sex. In his dreams the sex was always amazing. A wry smile ghosted his lips. Snape would hex his bollocks off if he were to kiss him, let alone imply wanting something more. As if he had been reading his thoughts, Snape looked up—their eyes locking.

“Potter, do hasten your approach. I know walking must take a considerable toll on your synapses, mental concentration being a difficult activity for one as limited as yourself, but I would appreciate it if you make it to the front of my classroom before the sun rises on a new day,” Snape drawled.

Snape’s eyes: a winter’s night, freezing his bones, penetrating him to his very core. Something about his professor (his magic, his dark airs, Harry didn’t know) beckoned to him. The man was not beautiful, but could be labeled striking. There was an aura of regality that surrounded him, commanded your attention, and overwhelmed your senses. Another tickle danced in the back of Harry’s mind. Warm, pulsing power filled his body, warned him again that he shouldn’t look too hard for…something.... a secret?

“Potter, now!” Snape sneered.

Harry blinked. What was wrong with him? “Yes, sir,” he said softly.

“Now that you have finally made the arduous trek from the door to my desk, I can tell you what will be required of you this evening,” said Snape once Harry reached the front of the room.

With controlled grace, Snape stood and slowly glided around the desk, fingers coaxing a strand of lank hair behind his ear. Harry smiled, imagining the act as some long engrained habit from childhood. It was charming and endearing and it caused Harry to notice how long those fingers were, image how it would feel to have them dig into his skin.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Snape demanded, digging his claws into the tender flesh of his arse. Harry bit his lip as the erotic thought flashed in his head.

“Potter, your detention this evening will consist of manual labor. You are familiar with the word manual and know its meaning? I know your vocabulary is severely limited, but I hope you know a word as elementary as that one.”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. Hadn’t they done this before? “I know what the word means.”

Snape, arms crossed over his chest, cocked his eyebrow. “Sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir.”

A dark look flashed over Snape's sharp features. “How man—have you not learned that you would invariably lose this battle of wills? You will show me respect. You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Professor’.”

“Of course, sir,” Harry replied petulantly. “But, as you always say, I am only a dunderhead. I can’t possibly be expected to remember such things.”

“Potter,” Snape spat. “It would be in your best interest to do so.”

Harry frowned for a moment. He and Snape had fought so many times that all of the incursions seemed to jumble up into one big fight in his mind, but this seemed oddly familiar. What did they call it…like déjà vu?

“I’m sorry. I guess I’ve had one too many hits to the head by a Bludger. I just can’t seem to,” Harry replied, sarcasm dripping off his words.

The feel of potion-stained fingers ghosting their way through his hair, down his face, caught Harry off guard. Snape snorted in amusement. “Yes, I suppose you have suffered quite a bit of head trauma over the years, though there are no dents to prove it.”

A small smile played at the corner of Harry’s mouth, “Lucky for me.”

“Regardless of the state of your mental acuity, you can still use your body.” A long, stained finger trailed up his arm.

“Yes.” Harry gulped as Snape traced circles into the sensitive skin of his neck.

God, were they…flirting with each other? What was he doing? What was Snape doing? The professor was saying something else, but for the life of him, Harry couldn’t hear a single word. Every fiber of concentration was focused on the path of the older man’s fingers, the feel of skin on skin, his body involuntarily relaxing into each looping caress carved into his flesh. It was hypnotic. He had wanted it for so long.


“Huh-what?” Harry mumbled dumbly.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

A warm hand cupped his chin and tilted his head up.

Long fingers dug into his jaw, his face was yanked up to meet Snape’s eyes.

Harry shuddered at the ghostly memory, before ripping his face out of Snape’ grasp. He didn’t dare look up again; where had that thought come from? Snape had never grabbed his face like that before. A creeping anxiety squeezed him. Was he developing a new kink? Had all that heat, the fire-filled fury that had plagued their relationship through the years, turned into a craving for something sharper? If it had, had it always been there? What did that say about him if it was? If it wasn’t, was it a premonition? Harry didn’t believe that was the case, but stranger things had happened to him.

“Potter?” Snape asked again. “What’s wrong with you, you stupid boy?”

“I’m not stupid, you git!” Harry snapped, slapping Snape’s hand away from his neck.

Snape was on him in a flash, hands fisting the front of his robes. “Don’t you dare hit me.”

“Don’t touch me then,” Harry said, refusing to back down, to be anything less than an equal.

With calculating eyes, Snape looked him over, causing Harry to involuntarily blush. “Why shouldn’t I touch you, Potter?”

“B-because you’re my professor and it’s not p-professional and against the rules.” Harry stuttered as he tried to back away, only to find himself trapped between body and desk.

Once again, an elegant hand teased him, carding through his hair before trailing down his sensitized neck to his chest. Harry hissed when Snape made contact with his nipple.

“My, my, Mr. Potter, your body seems to not care about something as paltry as rules or decorum.” Harry shivered uncontrollably under Snape’s silky touch. “In fact, I do believe that you desire me, despite your protestations to the contrary.”

“You’re mad, Snape,” Harry said a little breathlessly. “I don’t.”

They both knew this was a lie. 

“Just keep your—oomph!” And then they were kissing. It was wrong and…and he never wanted it to end. God, Snape really knew how to kiss. It felt like that they had been kissing for years. Harry’s head spun as Snape released his mouth.

“W-what are you doing? Why?” Harry asked, stunned by what they had done.

“I would assume that even one such as yourself would be familiar with the act of kissing.”

“Yes, of course I—”

Snape placed a finger over his mouth, cutting him off. “Then I suggest you stop asking asinine questions and put your delicious mouth to better use.”

Harry sighed contentedly as his mouth was filled with that wicked tongue he so craved. Yes, Snape truly knew how to kiss him. It was if their mouths were made to fit each other, two puzzle pieces perfectly fitting to make the whole. There wasn’t even a slight bump against Snape’s nose, which was…odd. There should have been a second of awkwardness. Snape’s nose was…well, it was huge, and how did he know just how to make his toes curl?

“Wai-wait. Stop. Ooh,” Harry moaned as Snape trailed kisses down the side of his neck. How did he know there was a spot just behind his left ear that made his eyes cross when licked? There was no way to know an intimate detail like that unless he had…he had…. Snape’s hand brushed over the front of his aching cock and all rational thought fled. There was only how lovely it felt, the warm glow in his belly, the excitement for what was to come.

Strong arms scooped him up and suddenly Harry found himself being carried over to an empty desk. “Do you want this?” Snape asked.

“Yes,” Harry replied.

A raven eyebrow arched. “Are you certain, Potter? There is no turning back once we set down this path.”

There was no turning back. They had been coming to this point since the beginning. He and Snape, they were fated, as cliché as it sounded to his own ears. Theirs was a connection that defied all logic, all sanity, but Harry knew the second Snape kissed him that he was where he was supposed to be. He didn’t have the strength or the will to turn back now.

“Kiss me.”

“Potter, that is—”

“Snape,” Harry spoke, placing a palm over the potion master’s mouth. “I’m certain. Now shut up and kiss me.”

From then on there was only need. “Mmm…god, Snape,” Harry moaned as dexterous fingers rid him of his jumper, shirt, and trousers, leaving him bare and vulnerable.

“Beautiful,” he thought he heard Snape murmur. “Lie down, spread your legs for me. Show yourself to me.”

It was the most erotic thing Harry had ever heard. He had to bite his lip to keep from coming. Harry lay down upon the desk, cupping his arms under his knees; he spread his legs wide, bringing them as close to his chest as possible. God, it was pornographic, what he was doing. His aching cock framed by his drawn legs. He clenched involuntarily at the heat in Snape’s gaze. He was going to be devoured.

“P-potter,” Snape choked as he trailed a hand over Harry’s aching sac, down, down, down. “Look at you. Absolutely delicious… and all mine.”

Harry felt a long finger tease the valley between his cheeks until they circled his tight hole. He gasped at the touch. No one had ever touched him there before.

“Yesss,” Harry hissed when he felt the pad of Snape’s finger press against his entrance.

One inky brow arched. “Yes? You want me to touch you here? Would you like me to press my finger inside?”

“S-snape, please don’t tease me,” Harry begged.

“You look delectable lying on my table trembling, hungering for me to play with your arse."

Harry whimpered.

“You didn’t answer the question. Am I to take it that you don’t wish for me to continue?”

Harry growled in frustration. “YES! Do it, Snape.”

"Push back into me. Yes, that's it...that's it." After a moment of resistance, that heavenly finger was inside of him, stretching him. Harry mewled at the bombardment of sensations. “Look at you, Potter. So responsive.”

“Open your mouth. Suck my fingers,” Snape ordered.

Harry moaned helplessly around those elegant digits. God, he needed to come so badly. He was close to exploding just from this: just from Snape's fingers filling his mouth, his voice filling his mind. Harry made to grab his throbbing cock, but Snape slapped his hand away; leaving him feeling empty, his mouth hungry for those long, potion-stained digits.

“I didn’t give you permission, Potter. That is mine. Only I can touch it. Say it, Potter.”

“O-only you can touch it. God, Snape! Please touch me. Do something!” Harry growled. He was losing his patience quickly, needed him so badly.

“You want it, do you? All right, Potter. You’ll get what you ask for. Pateacio paratus.”

Suddenly his body felt empty and his hole stretched. Harry didn’t even know there were spells that could do that, could prepare and slick you up. Distracted by his thoughts, Harry gasped in surprise at being breached. When Snape had opened his pants, he didn’t know, but—God, it didn’t matter. He was being filled and it was perfect. Snape was fucking him with raw abandon, hitting that place inside of him that caused explosions of colours to bloom behind his closed eyelids.

“So tight. Always so tight,” the older man murmured into Harry’s neck.

“Fuck, Snape. Fuuuck,” Harry sobbed.

Snape quickened his pace, ravaging him. “That’s it, Potter.”

That’s it, Potter. That’s it. Harry frowned, blinking back the wave of déjà vu.

“Snape, what..?” His voice was cut off by a timely thrust of Snape’s hips.

“Ah! H-harder. Harder. Harder,” Harry chanted. 

“Harder, you bastard.” 

“Tell me how much you love it,” Snape panted against his sweat-slick neck.

Harry answered without reserve. “I love it. Love it.”

“I’m going to make you come just from my cock inside of you. God. Just look at you. Your arse squeezing me perfectly.”

That voice, the little twist of those pale, sharp hips, drove him wild. “Yes. Make me, Snape. I want you too. Please. Ahhh… fuckme.”

Harry needed to kiss him; needed the anchor of that vicious mouth to tether him to reality and Snape was there in an instant. They were perfectly attuned to each other: every thrust, every caress, all perfect, so perfect it was overwhelming. 

“Y-you fuck me so good,” Harry cried, tears threatening to fall.

“Come for me.” 

He couldn’t help but obey.

“So gorgeous, so gorgeous,” Snape babbled as he slammed himself in and out of Harry’s still orgasming frame. A loud growl signaled that Snape followed close behind.

He was…they were… it was…





The Darkness crackled. Electric silver/red streaks slashed the sky and he knew the end was near.

There was only the presence of the other…and him.

There was only the feel of power filling, reshaping, working through him.

There was only the certain knowledge that this was all wrong.

There was only “I’m Sorry. Forgive me. I lov…”

There was only now, now, now, now, now, now, now!

Then he awoke. 




“Mr. Potter, are you incapable of the basic procedure involved in moving one's feet across the threshold of a doorway?” said Snape wearily from behind his desk.

Harry’s scarred brow furrowed in confusion. What was he doing here, exactly? Why would he be in the dungeons to see Snape? Why did Snape look haggard, so absolutely defeated? It felt like ages since he saw the man last, that it had been months, weeks, but that couldn’t be right. Coming into the dungeons shouldn’t feel like coming home. He should feel…Harry shook his head, trying to clear the fog in his brain.

“Sir, are you alright?” Harry asked.

A look too fast to be deciphered flashed across Snape’s face. “Potter. Come in or leave. I am not in the mood to deal with your idiotic meandering and incessant babbling.”

Reluctantly, Harry walked into the chilly dungeon classroom for his… detention? Snape was now ignoring his entrance in favor of condemning some poor soul’s homework to the ranks of…. This all seemed familiar, too familiar, like he had done it countless times—a needle stuck in a record’s groove. This couldn’t be right.

“Snape, what am I doing here?” Harry softly asked as he walked towards the front of the room.

Dark eyes looked calculating. “Detention, of course. Why else would I tolerate your unsightly presence?”

Detention? He had detention? That…that couldn’t…wasn’t right.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked tentatively, absently stroking his abdomen.

“Of course I’m sure, you dunderhead. Why else would you be here?”

“That just doesn’t… feel right,” he murmured as he stopped at Snape’s feet.

“And what else would you be doing here, Potter?” Snape asked shrewdly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, but something just doesn’t feel right,” he mumbled. “I wish I could explain it better, but I can’t. The words…I-I can’t find…”

“Potter, I am painfully aware of your limited vocabulary. It’s a wonder you can manage to construct a coherent sentence at— ”

Suddenly a pulse of power surged within Harry, sending him stumbling into Snape’s arms.

“Potter, what’s wrong,” Snape asked, concern leaking into his normally stony voice.

Harry couldn’t explain it. He opened his mouth, but speech was robbed from him when Snape’s palm lightly ghosted over his stomach. Another pulse filled him. He looked to Snape to see if he felt it too.

Perfect. Wrap your legs around me, Potter. Come for me. You fuck me so good. Perfect. 

Harry blushed, then immediately frowned at the gentle pressure pulsing in his mind. Snape had cast a wandless, wordless Legilimens on him.

“Why, Mr. Potter, I never knew you thought of me in such a base capacity.”

“I-I don’t,” Harry stammered.

“I do believe your pretty little blush betrays you.”

“Stay out of my mind!”

He wanted to run, embarrassed to be caught and exposed, even if it meant suffering Snape’s wrath later on. He couldn’t stand and be mocked for his feelings, as Snape would undoubtedly do now that he possessed such knowledge. Harry turned to run, when he was stopped by a firm grip on his arm.

“Potter,” Snape said softly. “Look at me.”

“No,” Harry rasped as he futilely struggled to get free. “Let me go.”

“Harry, look at me.”

Harry shivered as he felt warm breath ghost over the shell of his ear, dark heat radiating against his back.


Unable to resist the pull of that seductive voice, Harry turned. Snape was looking at him queerly. That angular face that he memorized better than any map wasn’t full of menace or viciousness. It was soft, fragile, and utterly sweet. Harry was stunned by the foreignness of such a look coming from Snape.

“If I had not looked into your mind, I would never have been able to give you what you desire. I would never have been able to give you some semblance of pleasure. No matter what has happened between us, I have only ever wanted to….Why you should ever think such things about someone such as myself is a wonder, but I…I want…Harry, I…”

Harry stared at Snape in wonder. “You…you?”

“Yes, you foolish boy,” Snape whispered tenderly before capturing his lips.

A warm wash of power filled his stomach, flowed through his body. It was perfect. A perfect kiss and that was…wrong. Harry gently pulled away from Snape’s embrace.

“Why is it so perfect with you?” Harry mused aloud. Kissing Snape had felt like coming home, that it was where he was supposed to be.


“You called me that before,” he said dreamily.

“Potter, I—”

Harry placed his hand softly over Snape’s mouth. “I like it when you call me Harry.”

Snape nodded, “Harry, then.”

For a moment they just stared at each other in the stasis, the only sound cutting the silence—their gentle breathing. They were standing on the edge of the precipice and, at any second, they could fall. Harry stared into those fathomless depths and knew. Without any doubt, he knew that he and Snape were coming to a crossroads. All these years of heated exchanges were meant to lead them to this beautiful place of understanding. Someone just had to be brave enough to take the first step, to jump. Harry, being the Gryffindor that he was, couldn’t help but do so.

“Make love to me.”

Inky brows furrowed at the request. “Harry, do you know what you are asking?”

He did. He knew he needed Snape inside of him, as he needed air to breathe. There was never a choice. It was far too late to turn back. “Yes. Please.”

Slowly, Snape led them to the desk, then silently removed his teaching robes. Harry’s palms itched to touch him. Giving into temptation, he began to help, dexterously making quick work of the line of gold buttons that kept him from all that delicious skin. Harry skimmed his hands over Snape’s crisp white shirt before sliding the black coat off broad shoulders. The shirt came next, removed in a flurry. Harry needed to feel his skin, craved it.

“Harry, look at me.” Snape said quietly. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

‘Are you certain, Potter?’ ‘Are you certain, Potter?’

Harry tilted his head up to look into his lover’s eyes. There was such turmoil in those midnight depths. Hoping to chase some of that hurt from his eyes, Harry softly cupped Snape’s face. “Kiss me.”

Harry could feel the power pulse between them. It was golden and comforting, like a quilt on a chilly autumn afternoon. The world righted itself as their magic met inside the haven of their mouths.

“Severus,” Harry sighed when he felt nimble-fingered hands slip under his jumper, slipping it over his head.

“Harry, I have wanted you for such a very long time. Do you even realize how beautiful you are?” asked Severus.

“No. I’m not. Really,” Harry said bashfully. Too many years of the Dursleys' cruel words had poisoned his self-image. He’d never believe he was anything other than a mousey, short, bespectacled boy.

“Harry,” Severus murmured softly against his forehead. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld.”

No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one. Harry, overwhelmed, felt tears threatening to fall.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

Pulling back slightly, Harry looked at the man before him and ached. This, this was for him. This was his future, his past, his now. They finished undressing in the heavy silence of the room, until nothing was between them. Harry was totally exposed, but strangely wasn’t ashamed.

Smiling contentedly, he raked his eyes over his lover’s wiry frame. Snape would never be called a beauty, but there was history mapped in every tiny blemish, every scar on that sallow skinned body. This body had saved him, had cared for him, cherished him. How could he not want him?

Oh god, how he wanted.

Filled with an uncontrollable urge to taste, to savor the heady flavor of the man on his tongue, Harry dropped to his knees, and sucked the wine-coloured head into his mouth. A hiss rushed past those cruel lips he loved. Severus tasted as bitter as his personality, but he liked it. He was so hungry, ravenous for this. It felt as if he hadn’t been full in days and that this, having Severus inside his mouth, was the cure.

“Harry, come here,” called Severus, voice strained with need.

Harry acquiesced, slowly rising to his feet. “Gorgeous,” Severus whispered liked a prayer.

So gorgeous. So gorgeous.

Harry melted at the feel of a warm palm caressing his chest, moaning desperately when Snape’s hand skimmed his belly. It felt like heaven to be touched there. He could feel their magic flare, mingle, fill every cell.

“I want to feel you ride me.”

“Yes… please,” Harry moaned.

He felt on fire as silky hands caressed his flesh, pulled him onto Severus’ lap, made him ready. The feel of skin on skin was better than anything before, almost too pleasurable to be withstood by any mere mortal. Harry moaned as slick, adroit fingers stretched and opened him. One, then two, then three and he was ready. More than ready.

“In me...please,” Harry pleaded.

“Harry,’ Severus sighed as he slid into his body. A prayer, a curse. The sound pierced him to the core.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” his lover whispered brokenly.

It shattered Harry’s heart to hear that voice, so commanding and rich, break under the swell of their union. He knew that he was lost the moment their puzzle-piece bodies joined. It was too much. Too perfect.

“Harry…” Severus chanted as they surged against each other.

Sev smelted him down and reformed him into something new, something more beautiful than he could ever have imagined. They were connected on a….they were sou…They were running out of time, he just knew it, but he wouldn’t let go of this until….

“Harry.” The steady ebb and flow of Snape’s cock inside of him, pushing him closer…closer to the edge. He felt full, complete, loved.

“Severus, Oh god! So good. Ngh. Oh.oh.oh.oh,” Harry cried on each thrust, each bounce.

The power filled, pulsed inside of his torso. They were connected, bonded together by some unseen hand. He could feel it in his head; the fuse was burning to ash and soon he would explode into a thousand thousand shimmering pieces and….

Mr. Potter…

Harry started as he reached the edge, was pushed over by a thrust.

What are you doing? Mr. Potter, are you incapable of the simple mechanics involved in moving one's feet across the threshold of a doorway? Look at me…

What…what was…

Do you feel me, feel me fucking you? Mr. Potter… I’m sorry. You’re mad, Snape. Harry...Yes. Make me, Snape. I want you too. Please. Oohhh fuckme. Mr. Potter, are you truly incapable of the simple mechanics…Look at me…God just look at you. Your arse squeezing my…Do you want this? Yes. Are you certain, Potter? There is no turning back…S-snape, please don’t tease me. Look at me…Harry. Lie down, spread your legs for me. Show yourself…. I would assume that even one such as yourself would be familiar with the act of kissing. Mr. Potter…Look at me…Y-you fuck me so good. Harry. So beautiful. So beautiful. Yes. Make me, Snape. I want you, too.

Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me!

He remembered.


“Oh God! Oh GOD!” He screamed as his orgasm was ripped from him.

Harry was shattered, blown apart with the force of a supernova. How many times? Hundreds? Thousands? It had to be too many to count, always coming back to that same moment, Snape repeating some variation of the same snide comment and he always thinking it was detention. It wasn’t, it was nothing but a lie.

He had finished with Hogwarts four years ago.

Hermione—face shining with accomplishment. 

Ron—grin so wide it split his face in two. 

“We made it, mate! Can you believe it?” 

Harry’s own smile a mirror reflection. “I can’t, but it’s brilliant, just brilliant.”

He had received news that he was accepted into the Healer Training Program. 

“Oh, Harry, that’s wonderful!” Hermione gushed. “You’ll make a wonderful Healer.”

Then the world descended into chaos. They…they had…lost. Lost Hogwarts and the Ministry, lost everything. It was the summer right after he had turned twenty. The Order had been in shambles and then they had captured him. They had been running... trying to get away…

The walls rattled, creaked, groaned under the onslaught of magic bombarding it. Then with a sickening crack, the house was peeled open like a grapefruit. Voldemort had broken the wards. 

“RUN!” someone shrieked. 

Pandemonium. The dust shimmered in the kaleidoscope of spell light. Bedlam. 

“Harry! HARRY!”

“Avada Kedavra!”

He turned just in time to see the glow of intelligence that burned so brightly in her eyes vanish. His friend was dead. 

“NO!!” Ron desperately screamed as he charged unthinking into the fray, sudden grief blinding his reason. “HERMIONE!” 

“RON!” Harry cried. They needed to get out of here!

“Not so fast, Potter,” a serpentine voice purred before the world went black.

He didn’t know how he had gotten here. He couldn’t begin to deal with soul-crushing betrayal. Not with Snape still nestled inside the sanctuary of his body, the taste of him in his mouth, the memory of the overwhelming pleasure he had just experienced under the deft tutelage of skillful hands. Harry wanted to throw up as a tidal wave of panic rose inside himHe was nothing but a play toy in some perverted game. Harry’s eyes turned cold as his gaze fell on the man inside of him.

How long had this been going on: days, months, years? He didn’t even know how old he was now; was he twenty-five, was he still twenty, was he thirty? He had no way of knowing at this moment. There were no mirrors and, while Snape didn’t look any older, he could be using a De-Aging potion.

“Harry,” Snape murmured into the hollow of his neck, still high in the afterglow of their lovemaking. “Harry, I’m so—”

“How could you?” Harry whispered, voice like cold steel into Snape’s ear. “How could you do that to me?”

“Harry? What—”

And then Snape knew. They had a moment of perfect understanding. Snape knew the ruse was over and he looked…scared.

“HOW COULD YOU?” Harry screeched.

“Harry,” an edge of desperation creept into Snape’s voice. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

“How can you—”

“I’m ask—” Snape began before his head snapped towards the door. “He’s coming. If you ever trusted me, please pretend to be unconscious.”

“Trust you?” Harry hissed. “Trust you? You fuc—”

“Harry, on your mother’s soul I ask you to trust me. Do as I say. Now.” Snape’s voice left no room for disobedience. His mother, his only friend, had meant everything to Snape; to invoke her memory meant he was desperate. Begrudgingly, Harry did as he was asked, lying limply against Snape’s broad chest just in time to hear the door creak open.

“Ahh, Sseveruss, my most trusted sservant. Did you enjoy your time with your pet?”

Voldemort. Harry’s skin crawled, feeling the sibilant “s” wriggling against his skin like worms.

Snape’s voice: steel, iron, haughty, submissive. “I was, as always, most honored to have the privilege.”

Harry could hear the rustling of robes coming closer. He wanted to run, he wanted to scream, but he did nothing. A wheezy chuckle echoed in the room.

“Sseveruss, you did not have to damage Luciuss quite as viciously as you did. I know you are…attached to your toy, but that seemed a trifle petulant, don’t you think?”

The tension was radiating off Snape in waves. How could Voldemort not feel it? “You are right, my Lord. I was…exuberant, but he tried to take liberties with what was mine. I do not share well with others.”

Another chuckle. “Yes, yes. You never were one to lend your toys, were you?”

Voldemort paused, stopping centimeters from the chair in which they were sitting.

“I cannot let what you have done go unpunished, Sseveruss.”

Harry’s skin crawled as he felt hands like old, brittle paper stroke his back. “You will share him with me.”

Snape’s stomach dropped, he could feel it. Could feel how scared he was…for both of them. “My Lord?”

“I want to see you with him. I want to watch you use him, take your revenge out on his body. I want to see the passion you inspire in him fill his face.” Voldemort’s sickly slick voice purred with undisguised delight.

“It was quite brilliant of you to use the boy’s own desires against him.” That hand, skeletal and horrendous, softly fingered his hole, where he and Snape were still connected. “I want him to see me, to know that he has lost, and that he is nothing more than a slave to my most trusted servant. I want him to writhe and come, against his will, because it pleases me. I want to watch this as I punish you, my faithful right hand,” he commanded as he pushed a finger into his hole alongside Snape’s cock.

“You must be punished, my Severusss. You cannot maim another member of the Inner Circle in such a way and not be reprimanded. You will do as I order you to. This doesn’t mean you are limited in your creativity, my pet. But if I instruct you to perform a certain way, you had better.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape replied evenly. Harry didn’t know how he managed not to scream. “I will need a moment to wake him.”

“Do it,” Voldemort said nonchalantly while removing the offending digit. “But do not take long.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape said with a curt nod.

Harry felt himself being lifted, separated, cradled like a child in the arms of a protective parent, then laid flat on a bed. Someone must have transfigured a desk. Snape trailed a hand over his face. 

“Open your eyes,” Snape ordered. “Look at me.”

He did, falling into those inky depths faster and faster until he thought he could hear Snape inside of his head. He knew that if he wanted to make it, if they both wanted to make it out of this alive, he would have to trust him.

“Potter,” said Snape seductively.

God. Even now, even here with death lurking on the periphery, Harry wanted him.

“Snape? W-what? What’s going—”

“Silence,” Snape hissed. “You are here at the will and pleasure of our Lord. You, Harry Potter, the supposed Savior, are nothing more than a toy. A tool to be used when our Lord sees fit.”

Even though Harry knew Snape was playing a role, he cringed at the sight of the man’s face twisted into a cruel smile. “Our Lord wished for me to take you as revenge for the sins of your father. I, his humble servant, am only too happy to obliged him.”

“N-no,” Harry stammered. “What do you mean ‘take me’?”

“Have you not noticed your state of undress, Potter? I think it is quite obvious what I am referring to, what I plan to do, what I will do with great pleasure.”

Harry looked down his naked body and hoped he feigned surprise and righteous anger.

“WHAT?! Let me go, Snape! You sick pervert!”

“Silence!” Snape roared as he slapped Harry’s face. “You have no power here, boy. No little friends to hide behind, no Dumbledore to run to. You will take everything I give you and you will thank me for it when I am finished.”

“Ssseverus. Let us begin,” Voldemort purred as he sat at the edge of the bed.

“Yes, my Lord. Adstringofunis,” Snape whispered menacingly. Suddenly, Harry felt his arms snap over his head, bound to the metal headboard behind him.

“No! What are you doing?!”

Snape eyed him thoughtfully. “How pretty you look tied up, Potter. Maybe you should have some additional accoutrements.”

With a wave of his hand, Snape uttered a spell Harry had never heard before. He gasped at the effect. His cock was harder than it had ever been in his life and there was something in…inside of it.

“W-what? What is that? What did you do?” Harry asked, genuinely afraid.

“It is a cock ring and sound. I don’t want you to come prematurely…if at all,” Snape sneered.

“Take it off! Take it out!” Harry begged.

Voldemort laughed, a wheezy, raspy sound. “How delicious, Ssseveruss. I love the way your mind works.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

A skeletal finger trailed over Harry’s cock, then down to his hole, teasing the sensitive flesh. “Ssseverus, tighten him up. I want him to feel it, and seeing as you just fucked him, it will be too easy on him.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. He hoped Voldemort would believe his “shock”. “You did WHAT? You…you…monster!”

“Yes, Potter. I fucked you and you begged me like the little slut you are. Now, shut your mouth before I gag you.Reducio.”

Harry gasped as his muscles painfully contracted.

“Now, fuck him, Sseveruss. I want to hear him scream. You may not use anything to ease your way. That is part of your punishment, my pet.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Snape said reverently before lifting Harry’s legs to his shoulders.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening! He knew that they must play their part to survive, but this was too much. Snape had never raped him before.

“Stop it! Snape. Noooo!” Then Snape was pushing his way in, centimeter by torturous centimeter. Tears welled and spilled, rolling down his cheeks onto the bedding below.

“No please, please stop,” he screamed as he felt Snape begin to pull out.

“What a cock slut you are, Potter.” Snape taunted as he rammed himself back in with one violent trust.

“STOP!! Please!! Oh…please,” Harry sobbed as thrust after hateful thrust wracked his body. He wanted to die.

“Yesss. What a pretty picture you make, Severusss,” Voldemort cooed from the end of the bed, a hideous smile on his snake-like face.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Snape grunted as he continued to fuck Harry.

“I would like have a taste,” Voldemort rasped in Snape’s ear. “I want to feel what it’s like to fuck him with you, my pet. ”

“It would be a pleasure, my Lord.”

Snape removed Harry’s legs from his shoulders and rolled him over. His joints screamed in protest at being maneuvered in that way. Harry looked down and saw the infinite sorrow that filled those eyes. As much as he wanted to hate Snape, he knew he couldn’t. They were both fate’s fool.

Engorgio!” Voldemort cried.

Harry screamed as he felt the lining of his hole stretch un-naturally wide, wide enough to accommodate…

“Nononononononononono,” Harry babbled as he realized what Voldemort meant to do.

"Do you fear you will break in half, dear Harry?" Voldemort purred. “Don’t worry. I’ve stretched you enough. I’m saving that particular bit of fun for another day.”

Harry couldn’t help the tremors wracking his body. He knew Voldemort meant every word. He had to find a way out of here. He had to. He had to. He had—

The feel of cold flesh pressing against his ravaged hole silenced Harry’s disjointed thoughts. That second hardness pushed, pushed, pushed until it settled next to Snape’s and then they started moving.

Harry gagged at the feel of Voldemort and Snape fucking him. He stared into Snape’s eyes and tried to recapture the bliss he had felt earlier in the man’s arms. He tried to imagine only Snape in his arms, in his arse. It was so hard with Voldemort at his back, panting his ear, thrusting inside of his body.

Harry lost all sense of time and place. There was only the pull of his cock, the disgusting hissing and moaning in his ear. He shuddered as he teetered on the edge of oblivion, moaned as he saw Snape cringe as he was impaled, taken, used. Harry stared into Snape’s eyes. Such sorrow. If he had the power, Harry would do anything to chase that endless, bottomless pain from Snape’s eyes. They had to do this to survive. They had to do this to live, so they could kill this monster of a man. It was imperative that Voldemort believe and enjoy the torment. He had to savor their pain.

“Ssseveruss, make our little cock slut sing. I want him to come,” Voldemort panted.

The binding pressure that suffocated his cock, held it in its vice, vanished.

“Ahhh!” Someone yelled and they were falling, over the cliff into the jagged rocks below. Harry thanked oblivion for taking him under.



When he regained his sense of self, he thought fleetingly that this had been a dream. A terrible nightmare vision after a night of too much Butterbeer and mischief—but then he remembered. Opening his eyes to little slits, Harry saw Voldemort was standing, his ephemeral robes parted to accommodate the lank frame that knelt in front of them. Snape who was so proud, so powerful, was on his knees servicing his Lord. Harry’s hands twitched at the need to find something sharp, anything to stab that skeletal, ghoulish frame.

A choked grunt rang in the room as Voldemort came down Snape’s throat.

“Yessss. Severusssss. I had forgotten how skillful your tongue was.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Snape said, quickly wiping his mouth.

Voldemort lightly traced his hand down Snape’s sunken cheek. “That was most satisfying, my Snake. We must do it again.”

“As you command, my Lord,” Snape replied, leaning into the affectionate gesture.

“Put him back in his cage,” Voldemort said before sweeping regally out of the room.

The door closed and only they were left.

And what was there to say? Could anything, any word suffice to describe the horror they had just experienced? Could it take any of Harry’s lost memories? Give him back his friends? Give him peace of mind?

“Harry, I—” Snape began before Harry cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear your words, Snape. Your serpent’s tongue can rest for now. You know what I want. Show me.”

Snape, shoulders hunched, utterly defeated, sat on the edge of the bed and opened himself to Harry’s will.


Harry understood….Snape gave him free rein of his mind. He saw that Snape had pleaded to keep him as a pet…to save his life. How he had fought to get him back when Lucius stole him away. He would have gone crazy or been killed if not for Snape.

But why…ah there it was.

Snape had tried to give him…something. Pleasure. Give Harry what he wanted. He had always wanted Snape. That was real. It wasn’t a construct. Snape had…he had…cared for him. Lo— 


Snape loved him.

Snape's ghostly voice echoed in their minds. “Enough.” 

Harry released his hold on Snape’s mind and they were instantly back on the bed.

“Harry, I—” Harry silenced Severus with a kiss, pulled him into his arms, and laid them down in the bed. They stayed that way, wrapped each other’s embrace.

What was there to say that could compare to the earth-shattering love he had felt? It was love, love that saved him time and time again. Love that he returned. Now, the end was coming. They had to act or lose everything.

They were standing on the edge of the precipice and, at any second, they could fall.