Quill And Ink

 

Author: NA37

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing(s): Harry Potter / Severus Snape

Warnings: sex magic

Spoilers: No

Summary: Sequel to Something to Write On. The return of the quill of Harry’s dreams.

 

Nominated Category:

Best Fetish

---

 

“Hedwig!” Harry grumbled irritably, flailing his arms about so as to make the owl who’d been pecking at his head disappear. Or at least he tried to flail his arms about, but couldn’t manage to lift them far without his muscles protesting painfully. He felt like he’d been run over.

 

He opened his eyes groggily and tried to reach for his glasses. But he couldn’t seem to convince his arm to leave his side. He gave up, closing his eyes again. He had hoped that after Snape’s detention he wouldn’t be able to move without difficulty, but he’d rather hoped the pain would be reminiscent of a long night of sweet sensual torture followed by getting his arse pounded mercilessly and waking up stiff but sated.

 

Now, he was just stiff.

 

The groaning coming from the surrounding beds hinted that perhaps his roommates were no better off. Harry hadn’t heard any of them come in the night before, having gone straight to his dormitory after detention with Snape. After a bit of alone time with his hand, Harry had fallen asleep, exhausted from lugging countless boxes of heavy-weight parchment as punishment for being—well, for being.

 

“Come on, get up! Hurry. Or you’re going to miss the train,” a shrill feminine voice called out.

 

A very low, weak whisper came from Seamus’ bed. “Hermione, do the words Avada Kedavra mean anything to you?”

 

Hermione humphed and then slammed the door. Complaints were heard all around. Even Neville cursed and he was usually one of the few people in Gryffindor who could stand the (now, former) head girl first thing in the morning.

 

“Ron, your girlfriend’s a cunt,” Seamus growled.

 

Harry tried to smile when he heard Ron grunt in accordance, but even smiling hurt. He heard his friends gradually, gingerly get out of bed and begin preparing for their journey home. Since Harry would be going to his new flat in Hogsmeade, he decided to put off moving until his school mates were ready to leave. His thoughts wandered to his dream...he remembered parchment spread out on a stone floor...he was spread out on top of that...something about a quill. And scowling.

 

Damn Hedwig for waking him up.

 

But, wait. Why was Hedwig out of the owlery? Harry opened his eyes again and squinted around. There, at the end of his bed, was a large brown school owl. Not Hedwig after all. The owl, a bit testy after having been rudely shooed away, began hopping toward the boy who was attempting to pull himself into a seated position. It dragged along a package wrapped in brown paper.

 

“Sorry ’bout before,” Harry muttered, untying the package from the owl’s talon. Once released, the owl flew off without so much as a hoot. The school owls were always so snotty.

 

Harry tore into the package to reveal a familiar green journal. His nose wrinkled with a remembered embarrassment. A smaller package was tied to the book, along with a note. With shaky hands, Harry extracted a piece of parchment from the plain envelope.

 

I had considered selling this to Wicked Witches Magazine. I suspect the secret desires of the Boy Who Lived would have fetched a nice price. A boy of your celebrity should not be so careless with his Potions journal.

 

Harry slumped back onto his pillow, torn between humiliation and arousal. He’d forgotten his journal in Snape’s classroom in his haste to get back up to his room and think about the detention he wished he’d served. He read the note again. He could practically see the smirk in the man’s sharp, angular script. The glare in the punctuation. Harry sighed and held the parchment to his chest. He hated the man...with every inch of his body.

 

Remembering the smaller package, Harry eased his way up again, regretting his hasty decision to slump onto the pillow. No matter. Every twinge of pain, every ache in his abused muscles, reminded Harry of Snape’s vindictiveness and thus aroused him pitilessly. Harry adjusted the hard lump in his pyjamas before unwrapping the second package.

 

Oh. My. God.

 

Harry gasped and dropped the package. There, in a long, thin, plastic-covered box, was a quill. The quill. That quill which Harry had spent the entire year watching caress the professor’s jaw, brush Snape’s lips, chin. The quill which bled the biting remarks on Harry’s Potions essays. The very same quill which knew the soft touch of those long, agile fingers, the cool smoothness of the palm of Snape’s hand. Harry stared reverently at the thing, not daring to touch it. Not just yet.

 

Oh, Snape was a cruel man. Harry swallowed back a moan and closed his eyes to trap the memory of the Professor brushing the plume along Harry’s cheek, tickling his ear, tormenting his neck. And then the sharp point dragging not quite hard enough across Harry’s skin. Harry bit his lip so as not to whimper. Why hadn’t Snape continued? Why had the man been so evil?

 

But that’s what drew Harry in. Snape’s wickedness. And now Snape was toying with Harry. This gift—the quill of Harry’s bitter-sweet dreams—was no gift. It was torture. Harry grinned appreciatively.

 

“Oi! Harry! You coming down to see us off, or what?”

 

Sighing, Harry slid out of bed and locked both the journal and the quill in his trunk before beginning to get dressed. Harry had never felt so grateful to be a wizard. His wand kept him from having to make any broad movements. Swishing and flicking were proving painful enough.

 

---

 

After tearful goodbyes and promises to keep in touch, to look one another up, to never change and all the other nonsense which comes with the end of an era, Harry packed up his trunk, shrank it to pocket size, and then walked to Hogsmeade. He had to admit to feeling a little more than disappointed that he had not seen Snape that morning. He’d wanted to thank the man personally for the gift. But the Potions master was no where to be found. Defeated, Harry had written a brief note (with his own quill) and sent Hedwig to deliver it. He’d thought about mentioning that he’d be around Hogsmeade if Snape were interested, but couldn’t think of a way to extend the invitation without sounding foolish. So he simply wrote “Dear Professor Snape, Thank you. Sincerely, Harry” and left it at that. And that was pretty bad, he realised just after Hedwig had flown away.

 

It seemed appropriate that his last words to Snape would simply serve to humiliate Harry further.

 

Harry arrived at the Three Broomsticks where he had taken a summer job. Not that he needed a job. He still had a ton of money left from what his parents had left him. That, combined with the fortune that he’d inherited from Sirius, would have been enough to keep him well off for the next decade or so. But Harry needed something to pass the time before he started Auror training in the fall. Since he’d be living over the Three Broomsticks, Harry thought the bartending job might be a nice convenient entry into the real world (as Mr. Weasley called it).

 

Harry took a deep breath before sliding the key into the lock of his new flat. His heart pounded excitedly. No more Dursleys. No housemates’ snoring to keep him awake. No Filch to get him in trouble if he was out of bed. No house-elves to misplace things. Harry felt free. Turning the key, he heard the lock click. He opened the door and walked into his empty flat.

 

The flat was comprised of one room, which held a kitchenette and a fireplace. There would be just enough space for a bed and, maybe, a sofa. On the whole, it was too dark, too small, and too dusty. In other words: perfect. At least in Harry’s mind. Grinning, he began to walk across the room to open the one small window when he felt his foot collide with...something. The tinking sound told Harry that the something was made of glass. It began rolling. Harry crouched down to inspect.

 

“Lumos,” he muttered, holding out his wand. He picked up a small bottle filled with what looked to be ink. Red ink. His stomach lurched as he remembered his fantasy of having Snape write all over him with the ink the Professor used to insult Harry’s intelligence on his homework. Harry took a calming breath. It couldn’t be...Snape didn’t know where he lived. Harry thought it must be a coincidence. A very interesting coincidence given that he had received the quill that morning.

 

After staring dreamily at the label marked “Spell Off” for much too long, Harry put the bottle on the mantel. He’d have to hurry if he was going to be able to do some much needed shopping before starting work at five o’clock. Casting one last puzzled glance at the ink, Harry left his flat.

 

---

 

“Hullo, Madam Rosmerta,” Harry greeted with a shy smile.

 

“Madam?” Rosmerta’s eyebrows shot up. She laughed loudly and shook her head. “Harry, really. Rosmerta will be fine. But if you call me Rosy, I’ll hex you,” she added with mock gravity. “So, shall we get started?”

 

Harry nodded and then followed Rosmerta around for the next hour or so, trying to keep track of all the information she was giving him. By the time she was finished with “showing him the ropes” Harry knew that Butterbeer came in a bottle, a Witch’s Snatch was nothing to blush at, and that the ice was kept somewhere over there. The crowd was growing gradually and, according to Rosmerta, would multiply ninefold by ten o’clock. At the horrified look on the boy’s face she gave a hearty laugh and poured him a shot of firewhiskey.

 

“Don’t worry. Most of them drink either firewhiskey or stout. If someone wants something fancy, have them tell you what’s in it and then cut the booze by half.”

 

The night went quickly—too quickly, really, and Harry had a time trying to keep up. He would have never guessed that serving drinks would be so hard. The customers were over all very patient and friendly, particularly so for being served by the famous Harry Potter. Harry was almost grateful the pub was packed as it gave him a good excuse to avoid long stories on what he gathered to be many people’s favourite theme: what I was doing the night the Dark Lord fell. Given that the Dark Lord had technically fallen twice, these stories often had prequels.

 

By the time the pub closed, Harry thought he’d drop from exhaustion. His muscles, while warmed up from constant movement, still ached from the previous afternoon. Harry thought longingly about the Prefect’s bathroom at Hogwarts. A bath. He would give everything he had for a bath. He kicked himself for renting an apartment that didn’t have a bathtub.

 

The pub clean, Harry was about to go up and collapse on his new futon, when Rosmerta stopped him. “Harry. I found this on one of the tables.”

 

Harry looked at the envelope and then at his boss. “For me?”

 

She shrugged. “Well, you’re the only H. Potter I know.”

 

Harry took the envelope. His eyes roamed over the wicked script of his former professor. Harry hadn’t seen the man, but he had been busy. Had Snape been there by mere chance, or had he come specifically to see Harry? Through the pounding in his ears he heard Rosmerta bid him good night. He choked out his own farewell and ran up the stairs to his flat, fumbled with the lock, and burst into his apartment. As soon as he had the lamps lit, he sat and tore open the envelope.

 

Inside he found two pieces of parchment. The smaller bit instructed Harry to read it first. Harry obeyed.

 

What’s the matter, Potter? The commoners’ versions of the events don’t interest you? How long will you humble yourself before your arrogance convinces you that the post is much too far below the Boy Who Saved the World? That pedestal upon which you sit was constructed by those you are ignoring.

 

Harry let the note fall from his hands. Indignant rage boiled within him. He didn’t ask to be seated on a pedestal. He didn’t have time to listen to every wizard or witch with a story. He’d been working! And he wasn’t arrogant! He hadn’t chosen to be the saviour of the wizarding world! How dare Snape judge him?

 

The more he thought about Snape’s accusations the angrier he became. The angrier he became, the harder his cock got—much to his irritation. By the time he remembered to read the second, longer bit of parchment, he was ready to kill and fuck Snape. Not necessarily in that order.

 

Clenching his jaw, he glared down at Snape’s smirking cursive.

 

How compliant can you be? Get the quill, the ink, and get undressed. Don’t read on until you’ve done as you’re told.

 

Harry resisted the temptation to read on anyway. Snape had a strange way of knowing things. Harry didn’t want to ruin whatever was about to happen. He was still pissed off, but he usually was at Snape. And this was no time for pride. Harry pulled the quill, still in its box, out of his trunk. Taking the ink from the mantel, he briefly wondered how Snape had known where he lived, and how he had gotten into Harry’s apartment. He decided those issues, like his pride, didn’t matter just now. He was too curious. And very aroused.

 

He shrugged off his robes along with the notion that he should shower before continuing. He hoped that he was about to get messy. In that happy event, the shower could come afterward. Once he was completely nude, he sat back on the futon and picked up the letter.

 

I’m impressed, Potter. I didn’t think you capable of obedience.

 

Harry wondered how the Professor knew he would obey. Snape would have seemed rather foolish just then had Harry continued to read before doing as he was told. He allowed himself a smirk before reading on.

 

Take up the quill. Now.

 

Harry looked down at the quill. He’d been in awe of the thing for so long that touching it seemed almost sacrilegious. He chewed at his bottom lip nervously before taking off the plastic cover. With a shaky hand he ran his index finger down the middle of it. He shivered.

 

Steadying himself with a deep breath, Harry picked up the quill with his index finger and his thumb. He could have sworn that he felt an electric heat penetrate his skin, spread into his hand, through his arm and onward until his entire body seemed to buzz with a warm energy. His breath escaped in a soft moan. Unable to resist, Harry brushed the feather across his lips as he had seen Snape do absent-mindedly on several breath-taking occasions. The touch was exquisitely light, a whisper of feeling that left his lips tingling. He licked the feeling away and turned back to the letter. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open when he read:

 

You will do as I tell you. Nothing more, nothing less. If you insist on being headstrong, Potter, this little game will end. Is that clear?

 

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered, immediately feeling ridiculous for doing so. How was Snape doing that? Had he just guessed at what Harry would do? Was the parchment charmed somehow? Harry wanted to read the entire thing just to see what had been written, but was afraid that Snape really would stop. He couldn’t take that chance. After glancing around his flat once to make sure he really was alone, Harry turned back to the parchment. A voice in his head reminded him of something Mr. Weasley had once told Ginny: Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.

 

Harry had never been one to heed warnings. He wasn’t about to start now.

 

Good. You may not be completely hopeless after all. Lie down and with the plume end of the quill, trace a path from the top of your forehead to your navel--slowly and lightly, with your eyes closed. Do it now.

 

Harry couldn’t help but think he’d prefer that the Professor were doing all of this himself. He pushed away the thought just as quickly and with an almost paranoid fear that Snape would know what he was thinking. Lying back, Harry touched the feather to his forehead.

 

He couldn’t be sure what was happening. From the point where the feather touched his skin, a warm wave of feeling seemed to pour out and spread over the rest of his forehead. Harry held his breath and began sliding the feather down the bridge of his nose, over his upper lip, lower lip, chin. He was nearly giddy from the sensation. He could feel the line he was drawing as though it were concrete and from that line surged a pleasant, tingly heat which had covered his entire face by the time the feather continued its path along the underside of Harry’s chin. Harry released his breath and took a moment before continuing.

 

Should he be frightened? After the cruelty Snape had shown him yesterday, should he allow himself to be blindly led through what could very well be another ploy to humiliate him? The feather was clearly enchanted; there was something decidedly queer about the letter. What was Snape planning? he wondered with an excited, apprehensive shiver. The only way to find out, it seemed, was to keep going. He decided to throw caution to the wind and plunge foolishly onward. What was the worst that could happen?

 

Harry tensed his body to keep from trembling as he continued to sweep the feather along the prescribed path. His nerve endings hummed happily as the sensations flowing from his centre became more intense. His nipples perked and Harry swore he felt a thousand invisible feathers tickling the stretch of skin on either side of the trail he was creating. By the time he got to his navel, Harry’s entire upper body was alive and electric. He moaned continuously and fought hard to resist the impulse to continue down to those parts which longed to be tickled.

 

Shaky and panting, Harry took up the letter once more.

 

Did you like that? Do you want more?

 

Harry moaned his response.

 

Dip the quill in the ink. Starting at the top of your right hip bone, draw a straight line across your abdomen, right under your navel. Now.

 

Harry sat up and grabbed the bottle. Opening it, he dipped the point of the quill inside the thick, blood-red ink. In his haste, a droplet stained his new bedclothes, but Harry didn’t mind about that. With an admirable display of good sense, he remembered to replace the cap before propping himself onto his elbows, flattening his abdomen and following Snape’s instructions. The point cut into him as he dragged it across, staining the pale flesh. Harry thought the tip of the quill was strangely sharp and no matter how he tried to regulate the pressure, the sharpness scraped painfully along. Harry was sure that some of that glistening red substance must belong to him.

 

Once he’d finally traversed the short distance between his hip bones, Harry took a moment to catch his breath. The sight of his cock nosing up to the red incision increased his arousal exponentially. The line stung slightly as the ink dried into the shallow scratch. It occurred to Harry once more to wonder about Snape’s motivations. But while Snape was decidedly a wicked bastard, Harry knew that Snape would never do anything to really hurt him. Harry knew that, in the end, he could trust Snape. The man had nearly got himself killed trying to protect Harry, after all. He turned back to the letter.

 

 

Well done, Potter. It stings, doesn’t it? Of course you like it to hurt, don’t you? Draw a second line from the beginning of the first leading down diagonally toward that delicious trail of dark hair in the centre of your abdomen. The line should end at the base of your cock. When you’ve finished you should have an incomplete inverted triangle. Do it now.

 

Reading the word “cock” in Snape’s hand, imagining what the word would sound like in that sardonic drawl, sent a new wave of shivering through the boy. Harry complied eagerly. It was only with the most remarkable amount of self-restraint that Harry kept himself from brushing his neglected cock with the feather. In order to complete Snape’s instructions, though, Harry had to touch himself. With a forced medical indifference, Harry lifted his erection from where it lay on his stomach. With his right hand he dragged the quill toward its destination. He bit down on his lip as the sensitive flesh was opened, the ink sinking into the thin tear he created. The tickle of pain irritating the two marks was offset by the almost ecstatic flurries of sensation still surging through his torso. The contradiction was maddening.

 

When he finished the line, which was a little shakier than he would have wanted it, Harry fell onto his back and tried to regain control over his body—to no avail. Blissful spasms ran through his stomach muscles. His face curled involuntarily into a grimace under the attack of invisible kisses. With every second that passed the tingling became more intense until Harry imagined his body must look like a snowy television channel. All electricity and mess. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop breathing.

 

Picking up the letter once more, he hoped that all this would end soon. He wasn’t certain he could continue.

 

What’s the matter, Potter? Is it too much for you? Do you want relief? Shall I stop?

 

Harry groaned. He was torn between the impulse to laugh and to scream. He felt he was hurtling toward delirium. And if it didn’t stop, he really would go mad.

 

With the feathered end of the quill, complete the triangle from the base line to the point. Now.

 

Harry’s hand only reluctantly bent to his will. Forcing his eyes open, panting, Harry touched the left end of the first line. He fixed his jaw determinedly and contracted the muscle of his right arm to try to control it. The feather tickled him ruthlessly and the warmth that had inundated his upper body now spread along his lower abdomen.

 

“Oh...god...fuck...” Harry cursed as he slowly, deliberately approached the line’s meeting point. The heat that the feather was emanating contained itself within the lines that Harry had drawn and was all the more intense for its borders. The triangle, on its way to completion, filled with unseen ecstatic flames licking and lashing the skin within its boundaries. It was all Harry could do to continue. Taking a deep breath Harry gathered his last bit of will and completed the triangle in one quick stroke.

 

The instant the triangle was completed, all the sensation, all the electricity that had been torturing his upper body shot down into the triangle, gathered with the heat contained within and was funnelled into his balls before erupting out of Harry’s cock with such speed and intensity that Harry screamed. He came violently and instantly. He had never experienced anything so painfully blissful in his life. The force had thrown him back onto the bed. He was unable to move for several minutes. He lay, trembling as his body tried to adapt to having been flushed of feeling. His mind, too, was having a time trying to determine what the hell had just happened. As Harry panted his way to reality, he managed to take up Snape’s letter once more.

 

Good night, you foolish boy.

 

Harry gave a derisive laugh and let the letter fall from his hands before losing consciousness.

---

 

“Harry?”

 

Harry pulled his face out of the pillow and opened one sleepy eye to see his best friend gawking at him. He slowly realised that he had told Ron he’d go to Diagon Alley with him that afternoon. It occurred to him shortly after that realisation that he was lying face down on his bed, starkers, with a quill clutched in his right hand. Which might explain the bewildered expression on Ron’s face.

 

“Er...” Harry said.

 

“I don’t think I want to know.” Ron shook his head. Harry felt grateful because he was quite sure he couldn’t come up with a good lie just then. “Maybe you should just get dressed.” Ron picked up Harry’s discarded boxer shorts and dropped them next to the naked boy before turning away. Harry scrambled to put them on before standing.

 

“I’m going to shower,” Harry yawned, stretching out his tired muscles. Ron turned around and his face fell in shock.

 

“What?” Harry looked down to see what his friend was gaping at. His stomach sank. His torso was covered in red writing. Harry could see, despite his blurred vision, that the script was unmistakeably that of Snape.

 

“Harry? Is that...er, that isn’t...Oh gods.” Ron’s eyes turned toward the quill lying now on Harry’s bed. He looked back at Harry with a terrified expression. “That’s Snape’s quill. And his writing...what?”

 

Harry sat back down on the bed and did what he could to cover up the writing. After taking a few moments to try to come up with an explanation, Harry gave up. His brain was too sleepy and too shocked to be inventive. He settled on groaning exasperatedly and falling back onto the bed.

 

“What’s it say?” he asked in a defeated tone. Damn, but Snape was evil. Beyond evil. Harry grabbed a pillow to cover the humiliation that was swelling in his boxer shorts. He thought that later he seriously would have to consider seeking professional help. Right now he was too curious to find out what his twisted quasi-lover had written.

 

Ron cleared his throat and Harry stretched his arms so that his friend might better read him. “Harry, are you going to explain this to me?”

 

“Later, just tell me what it says.”

 

“Right... ‘Last night served to prove once and for all that you wouldn’t know a dark spell if it were emblazoned across your chest in red ink.’” Ron snorted and then continued. “'As I’d suspected, it is only by dumb luck that you have managed to stay alive all these years. You should feel grateful that I do not wish to destroy you as I am certain I could have led you to your death. A bit of pleasure is not worth dying for, you reckless little sod.’”

 

Harry had covered his face with his arms after the first sentence. He had saved all of his humiliated moans for the end. He let them escape now, turning over onto his stomach and burying his blushing face in his blankets. The tense silence which followed the reading allowed Harry to successfully will away his shameful erection. What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he have a normal fetish—like feet or uniforms?

 

“Right. I’m going downstairs to start getting pissed while you shower. When you’ve finished, come join me. Maybe by then I’ll have decided whether or not I want to know why you have Snape’s writing all over you.”

 

Harry didn’t have to look up from his pillow to know what Ron’s face looked like. He thought he could imagine it pretty well. He figured it must look a bit like it had in their sixth year when he had caught Harry blowing Draco in the second floor boy’s loo. Harry had been shocked at how well Ron had taken it. Although, what with Ron’s own love/hate relationship with Hermione, Harry later realised that Ron was in a good position to understand. This latest peek at Harry’s darker side, however, might be a bit harder to swallow.

 

Once the door clicked shut, Harry rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, going over Snape’s message in his head. Snape was right. Harry had been foolish. While it was true that the Dark Lord need no longer be feared, Harry still had a number of enemies in the world who would like nothing more than to kill the boy who’d killed their master. Harry had had no way of knowing that the letter had come from Snape. Handwriting could be forged.

 

As Harry’s mind trailed back to the letter, he was overcome by the urge to read it again. Sitting up, and looking among the rumpled covers he found his glasses, a bit bent from being laid upon, the bottle of ink, but no letter. It was gone.

 

Defeated, Harry showered. The words on his chest were not to be scrubbed away. Harry wasn’t quite as disappointed as he thought he should have been. After drying off, dressing, and then looking in vain once more for the letter, Harry went down to the Three Broomsticks, steeling himself for an interrogation.

 

“Explain,” Ron said after swallowing what looked to be his fourth shot of firewhiskey. Harry sat down across from him and took a sip of Butterbeer. Taking a deep breath, Harry launched into the story about the journal, the quill, and finally the letter. He tried only to include the necessary details, but Ron had to nudge him on when he got stuck on the subject of the quill. Ron, for his part, held his expression at only vague disgust.

 

“And well, you know the rest,” Harry finished with a sigh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” Harry remembered having said those words before. He almost felt sympathetic toward his friend, who had had much greater exposure to his sex life than a best friend should have.

 

Ron shook his head. “Right. I can understand Malfoy. He’s a prat but at least he’s attractive—I mean, for a bloke. But Snape? Harry...you need help. Seriously. He’s so greasy. And mean...and his nose... how could you want to...” Ron grimaced and visibly shuddered.

 

Harry shrugged. He certainly couldn’t explain it. He’d been horrified the first time he put Snape and sexy into the same train of thought. But the more he revisited that train of thought the closer the two words came together until Snape the mean, greasy git became sexy Snape, the mean greasy git with the quill and the glare. Not to mention that delicious sneer and...

 

“Maybe we should talk to Hermione about that spell,” Ron said weakly. “I mean you don’t know what it does, right? Maybe it’s dangerous.”

 

“No. Snape wouldn’t hurt me; just humiliate me. And I’d rather no one else know...you know.”

 

“What? That you’re twisted?” Ron offered with a grin.

 

“Exactly,” Harry muttered.

 

---

 

Dear Professor Snape,

 

You were right about what you said. I was foolish. But since no one else knew that I liked you, I didn’t figure that anyone else would have written the letter. I suppose I trust you. Anyway, I’m returning your quill. Thank you for last night.

 

Harry

 

P.S. Could you please tell me how to get the ink off?

 

Harry read over the letter once more before tucking it into the package and attaching it to Hedwig. If he didn’t hurry he might lose his nerve. After his conversation with Ron that afternoon, Harry decided that he needed to re-evaluate his taste in lovers. Maybe he would try to date someone who actually liked him. He just hoped he could manage to like the person back.

 

It wasn’t that he was only attracted to his enemies. He had had a crush on a few people who didn’t despise him. When he considered it he realised that it was the energy of animosity that he found irresistible. He discovered with Draco that hatred was not unlike sexual tension. His attraction to Snape was even more heated because he actually liked the Professor as a person. The man was wickedly funny. And even though he seemed like an evil bastard, Snape had risked his life to fight against Voldemort. He was...intriguing.

 

Harry forced himself away from that thought. Ron was right. His obsession with the man was unhealthy. Snape was playing with him. And it wasn’t right that Harry liked it. Wanted it.

 

Sighing, Harry opened the window and watched Hedwig fly away. He took a moment to bid a fond farewell to the quill before preparing for work. He tried not to wonder what Snape’s reaction would be. He tried not to hope that Snape would be disappointed or that he would insist that Harry keep the quill as a parting gift. He tried not to think about how much he enjoyed being Snape’s personal plaything.

 

Damn. That was the last time he’d ever listen to Ron.

 

Fighting off a wave of regret, Harry went to work.

---

 

“Good evening, Mr. Potter.”

 

Harry started as he heard the voice resonate through the darkness of his flat. Taking out his wand he lit one of the lamps. “Professor? What...how...”

 

“Your floo is open. Anyone can get in here. You really ought to close it.”

 

Oh. Harry had never had a floo before. He wasn’t aware one had to open and close them. He nodded. That out of the way, he asked what he really wanted to know. “What are you doing here?”

 

Harry tried to quiet the storm of anticipation brewing within him. Expectations lead to disappointment, he reminded himself. And he had just spent the entire evening convincing himself that he wasn’t attracted to the man who was...good god...smirking at him. Harry looked away quickly and tried to remember what Ron had said about showing a bit of self-respect.

 

“You requested that the ink be taken off, did you not?”

 

Harry’s stomach sank disappointedly. Damn his expectations. “Oh. Right.” Harry stepped out of the doorway and closed the door behind him. He began removing his robes so that Snape could take off the marks when Snape stopped him.

 

“A moment, Mr. Potter.” Harry stopped at the third fastening and looked up. “May I ask why you returned my quill?”

 

Harry snorted mirthlessly. He’d been asking himself that question all night long. “I suppose because...well, you proved your point last night, right?”

 

“Indeed? And what was my point?” Snape challenged. Harry could hear the sneer in his voice. He shivered and then cursed himself for being so weak.

 

“Well, like you wrote. I was stupid to...I wasn’t thinking. I-I get it.” Harry looked at the floor. His heart began pounding in his ears and he nearly missed Snape’s response.

 

“Stupid boy.”

 

Harry pursed his lips angrily and looked up. His attempted glare quickly faded and his mouth fell open when Snape began stalking toward him. He held his breath. He was being foolish again. He was being expectant. Snape was playing with him, giving him that look. Seductive and threatening. Harry closed his mouth and swallowed a whimper as the man drew closer. He clenched his jaw and tried to look dignified.

 

Snape’s fingers took over where Harry’s had left off unfastening his robes. Snape pulled at the fabric and Harry stumbled closer to him. Once he had the robes undone far enough, Snape’s hands slid along Harry’s shoulders, pushing the robe down to pool at Harry’s feet.

 

Harry gave up trying to control his trembling. Snape was touching him, tugging up his t-shirt. Cool fingers brushed against Harry’s skin as Snape lifted the shirt up. The moans that Harry had been swallowing spilled forth from his parted lips. Harry raised his eyes to meet that dark glare.

 

“Your inability to detect subtlety is astounding, you ungrateful little fool. You received the treatment you requested—to be written on, insulted.” Snape brushed his fingers across the words on Harry’s chest. “Was it a mistake to believe you meant what you wrote in your Potions journal?”

 

Snape’s voice was a low purr that vibrated through Harry’s entire body. Harry’s head felt light and he thought he might fall. He placed his hands on Snape’s shoulders to steady himself. Catching his breath, he said, “No. I did mean it. I just thought...I mean, I didn’t-”

 

Snape cut the stuttering boy off and the rest of Harry’s statement came out as a groan into Snape’s mouth. Harry clutched Snape’s shoulders tightly, quite sure that if Snape pulled away just then, his legs would give out. He wanted to be prepared. But Snape didn’t pull away. That wicked tongue which had produced countless insults and scathing remarks penetrated Harry’s mouth and swept across Harry’s tongue. Snape’s hands moved to Harry’s hips, thumbs brushing the skin above where Harry’s jeans hung.

 

By the time Snape came up for air, Harry was all expectation. His entire body was taut and waiting. Harry silently prayed that the Potions master wasn’t going to be cruel this time. At least, not the sort of cruel he’d been the other day when he’d given Harry detention. Harry searched Snape’s eyes. The burning wickedness he found there offered a light of hope.

 

“Did you bring it with you?” Harry asked breathlessly. Harry thought he could see a devious glint in the man’s dark eyes. Snape’s mouth drew into a sinister smirk. Harry bit his bottom lip, understanding fully for the first time what it meant to melt.

 

Snape’s hands slid along the front of Harry’s tightened stomach and began unbuttoning his jeans. Harry kicked off his shoes, toed off his socks and began undoing Snape’s robes. The professor stilled his hands. “I didn’t say you could do that,” Snape growled.

 

Harry tried to repress his shy grin. His hands dropped to his side and he allowed the Professor to push down his jeans and boxer shorts. Snape shot an appraising look at the naked boy. Harry let out an incoherent exclamation when Snape pushed aside Harry’s erection to inspect the lines Harry had drawn the night before.

 

“Very shabby work, Potter.”

 

“I did the best I could,” Harry retorted shakily.

 

Snape glared. “Are you talking back to me?”

 

Harry’s breath hitched. “Yes, sir,” he replied softly. Snape smirked and then pressed his index finger into Harry’s chest, pushing him back until Harry leaned against the door.

 

“Wipe that smile off your face, Potter,” Snape said, reaching up and taking Harry’s glasses off. “Turn around.”

 

Rather than try to stop smiling, Harry obeyed the second order. It proved the easier of the two. His smile, however, disappeared anyway when Snape’s hand pushed his head almost painfully into the door. Harry could feel Snape’s body mould against his backside. Snape bent his head down to whisper in Harry’s ear, “I’ve imagined you like this for two weeks, Potter. As though dealing with you in class wasn’t irritating enough, you had to go and plague my privacy with visions from your overactive adolescent fantasy life. Have you heard the expression, ‘Careful what you wish for’, Mr. Potter? Stay still.”

 

Snape drew away slightly, one hand still pinning Harry’s forehead to the door. Fingertips slid down Harry’s spine in one long, slow stroke. Harry almost purred, but shivered instead as a finger lingered deliberately at the end of his tailbone. Harry moaned to urge it on and then clenched his jaw when it disappeared altogether. Snape gave a low chuckle.

 

Harry tensed unexpectedly when he felt the plume of the quill tickle the back of his neck. He drew in a sharp breath to calm a wave of shivering the touch incited. It occurred to Harry that the thing was no longer enchanted, but that certainly didn’t make it less exciting. When the feather began its journey down, Harry fought hard to keep still. His back was extraordinarily sensitive and anything lighter than a firm touch normally sent Harry into a fit. He bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He was not going to ruin this. He would stand still. But when the feather brushed between his shoulder blades, Harry’s body spasmed despite him. He began giggling and trying to squirm away from the torture.

 

“No! Please. I-can’t...AH!”

 

Snape cut Harry’s protests off with a hard bite to the neck. It was strangely bracing. Torn between the pain of teeth cutting into his skin, and the excruciatingly light caress of the feather, Harry could do nothing more than whimper into the door.

 

Snape continued to brush the path of Harry’s spine. Once the feather reached the small of Harry’s back, Harry was able to relax a bit. Snape must have sensed this because he lightened the grip on Harry’s neck and eventually slid his tongue along the developing welt. Harry’s concentration, however, was trained on that quill which was approaching the cleft of his arse and the moment of decision. Would Snape give him what he wanted?

 

Knowing full well the dangers of expectations, Harry tried not to want the plume to continue down. He tried to be ambivalent as to what would happen next. As the plume hesitated at the end of his tailbone, however, Harry held his breath and his arse, possessed with a mind of its own, arched up in an unspoken plea.

 

Snape snaked a foot in between Harry’s and encouraged them apart. Harry felt the quill balancing on the edge of his bliss disappear once more. He let out a disappointed groan which quickly became an incoherent shout of approval as he felt the feather tickle the back of his balls and then slide along the sensitive skin behind them leading once again to his entrance. Harry whimpered pathetically. He hadn’t realised that Snape had stopped pressing his head into the door until he threw it back. Taking advantage of his freedom, Harry twisted his head and opened his eyes to see the Potions master smiling wickedly. Harry was about to inform Snape that torture was illegal, but the feather brushed over his entrance and all the need which has been swept there cried out joyously. Harry lost his train of thought.

 

“Lie down.”

 

Harry was half-way to the floor before Snape stopped him.

 

“On the bed,” Snape clarified with a slightly amused smirk.

 

“Oh,” Harry said, looking toward the bed which suddenly seemed miles away. Sighing, Harry stood back up. He glanced regretfully at the floor before scurrying to obey. Having lived at Hogwarts for seven years, given the lack of privacy in the dormitories, Harry had never actually had sex on a bed. It never occurred to him that it might strike others as strange, but he rather liked the floor. There was something about falling there in a moment of passion and feeling the stone grind against his knee caps that made the experience more exciting.

 

But if Snape wanted him on the bed, Harry would happily comply. The important thing was that Snape wanted him.

 

Stopping at the edge of the bed, Harry turned around to see Snape slinking toward him, unfastening his robes, the quill expertly tucked between his working fingers. Harry took a moment to appreciate the reality of the situation. He was going to have sex with Snape. How many times had he imagined it? How many nights had he buried his head in the pillow to muffle the sounds of his breathing as he stroked himself, imagining that it was Snape’s hand moving over the smooth flesh of his cock, Snape’s fingers tugging mercilessly at his nipples, pulling his hair, fucking his arse.

 

“How do you want me?” Harry asked breathlessly.

 

“Screaming,” Snape responded coolly, walking toward him. “Begging for mercy,” he added, sliding his robes off his shoulders, letting them fall to the floor. “Broken,” he finished, standing before Harry in a white high-collared shirt and loose black trousers. Snape leaned down to lick the length of Harry’s neck.

 

Harry closed his eyes and gasped. “Oh god.”

 

Before Harry could tell what had happened, he found himself lying face down across his bed, which was perfectly fine with him. He heard the sound of shoes being kicked off and then felt the mattress sag next to him. He looked over to see Snape unscrewing the cap off a bottle of what Harry imagined to be red ink. Harry thought to ask where the ink had come from and if it was the same ink that he’d used last night. But he quickly decided that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was about to have one of his fantasies realised.

 

A cool hand lay between Harry’s shoulder blades and Harry tensed as he felt the glass bottom of the bottle held against his skin. He heard the sound of the silver tip of the quill tap against the rim. He took a deep breath to ready himself, silently praying that whatever was about to happen wouldn’t tickle. The heel of Snape’s right hand pressed against Harry’s shoulder blade and a moment later the sharp tip of the quill made contact with the skin just to the right of his spinal cord. The tip hesitated a moment and Harry thought he heard Snape whisper something before dragging the tip down.

 

Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the letters he felt being etched into the skin along his spine. Every now and again he could make out the definite dotting of an “i”, the crossing of a “t”, but on the whole the letters came much too fast for Harry to keep track. Every stroke across his skin fed into Harry’s spine sending surges of electric sensation through his entire nervous system. The hand holding the ink braced him, became the centre of Harry’s self-control. Without that hand, Harry thought his entire body might tear apart along the line of writing inching slowly downward. The words along his spine seemed to be alive and buzzing excitedly in anticipation. In anticipation of what, Harry couldn’t say. He couldn’t wait to find out.

 

When Snape reached the end of Harry’s back, Harry was sure he felt Snape sign his name at the end of what he had just written. Harry smiled at the thought of being autographed by his Potions master. Suddenly the hand between his shoulder blades pressed down firmly and Harry felt the plume slide down quickly along the path of the words which had just been carved. Harry didn’t have time to jerk away, but a wave of shivers followed the trail of the feather. The hand and quill disappeared from Harry’s back and Harry rolled to his side.

 

“Did I tell you to move?” Snape raised an eyebrow. Harry could see that he was unbuttoning his shirt and he bit his lip before rolling back onto his stomach.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “What did you write?” Curiosity and apprehension swirled in equal parts in his stomach. Contrary to what Snape thought, Harry knew a spell when he saw one. But unlike the night before, when Harry could feel the magic coursing through him before shooting out of his cock at the speed of light, Harry felt nothing now except the slight sting of shallow scratches.

 

“Later,” Snape said before moving off the bed.

 

Harry miraculously found the self-control not to look back when he heard the sound of clothes being removed. He wanted to watch as every inch of Snape’s flesh was uncovered slowly, like clues to a mystery. But he hadn’t been given permission. Harry nearly laughed at the thought of waiting for Snape’s permission. It was rather ridiculous. Hadn’t he been crossing Snape since the moment he met the man? Wasn’t that virtually his role as Harry Potter?

 

Harry gave off thinking about it when he felt his legs being nudged open. He spread them readily and moaned as he felt Snape’s body cover his own, Snape’s hips pressing teasingly into Harry’s. Harry could feel the man’s erection slide along the cleft of his arse. Snape’s breath hitched. The notion of arousing Snape, of hearing Snape’s pleasure sent surges of ambitious longing through the boy. More than he wanted to be driven into mad ecstasy, he wanted to see Snape there. Wanted to hear Snape’s encouraging moans, ragged breathing, orgasmic cries.

 

Perhaps if he asked nicely. “Please, I want you in my mouth.” Saying the words nearly made Harry come. The image that went along with his request wasn’t helping his self-control either. When Harry felt the older man’s cock twitch against his arse, he knew that Snape was considering his offer.

 

Snape’s mouth trailed along Harry’s shoulder, up his neck and finally pressed against his ear. Harry had nearly forgotten he’d asked a question, caught up as he was in the sweet torture inflicted by that wicked mouth. He arched his arse against Snape’s cock. He needed the man inside him—whether in his mouth or in his arse, Harry didn’t care anymore. Snape’s hand flew down to still Harry’s rocking hips. Harry whimpered, “Please?”

 

“You lack patience, Mr. Potter,” Snape breathed into Harry’s ear. The hand holding Harry’s hip began sliding up his side. “A fact that made you a mediocre student in my class. And, if you do not learn to correct it, a fault which will make you a mediocre lover.” Snape slid down Harry’s body, mouthing his way down Harry’s spine. “Sex, contrary to the beliefs of many young, foolish wizards, is not a game of Quidditch. If you spend all your time waiting for the Snitch, you will forget to enjoy the game.”

 

An interesting lesson, Harry thought. He would be sure to consider it later, after this particular match had concluded. For now, he decided to concentrate on the lips, teeth and tongue moving over his skin. Harry moaned and tried not to rub himself against the bed.

 

It was when that cunning tongue swept across Harry’s entrance that Harry lost control. His body jerked up at the same time as it jerked back and Harry’s mind was torn in the middle. No one had ever done that before, and Harry now wondered why the hell not. Snape’s tongue lashed at him hungrily. After only a few moments of it Harry nearly cried “Snitch,” but decided on babbling nonsensically, “I...no...fuck...yes...”

 

Snape seemed to understand and his tongue ceased torturing Harry’s entrance to sliding along Harry’s inner thigh. Snape’s fingers traced patterns into the skin on Harry’s lower back. Once Harry breathed himself back to his senses, he realised that the patterns were words. Just as quickly as the realisation came, the fingers stopped, the hands moved to his hips and Harry was rolled onto his back. Once Harry managed to get his legs straightened out, Snape covered the boy’s mouth with his own, feeding Harry his tongue. Harry accepted hungrily, and took advantage of the position to slide his hands over every part of the older man he could reach.

 

Snape’s skin was just how he’d imagined it would be. Smooth and soft. Harry could feel the man’s ribs as he ran his fingers over Snape’s back. He was pleased that Snape didn’t break away from the contact, and on the contrary, seemed to enjoy it. The kiss became more intense and Harry’s lip caught between the Potions master’s teeth. Harry dug his fingernails into Snape’s back to retaliate. Harry felt a low moan vibrate against his lip and decided to interpret it as an encouragement. Harry dragged his nails across the skin and felt the man shiver. Snape’s apparent pleasure increased Harry’s arousal exponentially. Harry wondered if his former professor couldn’t do with a bit of punishment as well.

 

Turning away from Snape’s mouth, Harry plunged one hand in Snape’s hair and pulled the man’s head to the side before catching the pale skin of Snape’s neck in his teeth. A gasp pushed Harry onward. He felt the man tense over him and try to pull away, but Harry made a quick decision not to allow it. Using the muscles he’d developed after years of keeping balance on a broomstick, Harry curled his leg around the older man’s arse and pressed him in place. Harry could feel Snape’s hard cock smearing precome against the smooth skin behind his balls. Harry moaned into Snape’s neck and jutted down into Snape’s prick.

 

“Potter,” Snape growled. Harry shut the man up with another firm bite, apologising after with a soft tongue. He tasted the skin of the older man’s neck, sliding his tongue along, intermittently abusing the flesh with his teeth. Snape’s ragged breathing was music to Harry’s ears.

 

Nudging up to Snape’s ear, Harry whispered, “I think it’s time to end the game, Professor.” Harry slid his hands down the man’s back and cupped Snape’s arse, pulling the man against him. If the Snitch wouldn’t come to Harry, Harry would chase after it. And that was what Harry did best.

 

Any response Harry might have gotten was abruptly cut off when, in one swift, graceful movement, Harry rolled the other man over. Snape looked momentarily stunned at the sudden change of position. The stunned expression became a hard glare as he lay staring up at the boy. Harry grinned broadly and then ran his tongue along the curled upper lip of his former professor before commencing a thorough exploration of the older man’s neck and chest.

 

If being done unto was exciting doing unto Snape was exhilarating. Harry worked his way across Snape’s skin, attentive to the slightest change in the man’s breathing, savouring the nearly imperceptible shivers that ran through the body Harry was exploring. He appreciated it even more because Snape was obviously working to maintain his reserve. When Harry caught Snape’s nipple between his teeth, the low moan which escaped the older man’s throat shot straight to Harry’s cock. He moaned along.

 

Slowly, deliberately, Harry moved downward until he was right where he’d wanted to be. Taking a moment to make sure Snape was watching, Harry ran his tongue along the length of Snape’s prick. Snape’s mouth fell open and Harry grinned ferally before scooting down to take Snape’s balls into his mouth, tracing Snape’s shaft lightly with his fingers.

 

“Fuck,” Snape whispered and drew in a sharp breath. His long fingers wove into Harry’s hair. Harry looked up again to find the man staring intently at him, dark eyes blazing now. No trace of a sneer on those parted lips. Harry might have grinned again were his mouth not full.

 

Feeling Snape’s cock twitch under his fingers made Harry curious to know what he could make it do with his mouth. Sliding up once more, Harry smirked slyly before pulling the cock up and swirling his tongue around the head. Snape sucked in his bottom lip and watched as Harry plunged the length, wiggling his tongue playfully as he came back up. Snape groaned and then shut his mouth firmly. Harry repeated the action, adding to it a finger pressing behind his balls. Snape’s whole body reacted this time and the fingers in Harry’s hair grasped and yanked Harry up.

 

“No,” Snape said firmly and then sat up, pulling Harry into a long kiss which left Harry whimpering and dizzy. Harry almost forgot to be disappointed that Snape had stopped him.

 

“I want to make you come,” Harry breathed into the man’s mouth and then opened his eyes to gauge Snape’s reaction. Whatever he’d been expecting, smirking was not it. Harry held his breath.

 

“I’ll come, Potter,” Snape said in his leather voice, slapping the boy with his own name. “But not before I do what I came here to do.”

 

Before Harry could ask what, exactly, that was, he found himself once more face down on the bed. When he felt the other man leave the bed, Harry looked back to see Snape extract a small phial from his robes before returning to kneel between Harry’s spread legs. Harry cried out when he felt a slick finger brush over his entrance. He quickly pulled his knees underneath him shoving his arse eagerly in the air. He was rewarded by the finger penetrating him, working in slowly. Harry groaned happily into the pillow. Another was added and the fingers sought deeper brushing over Harry’s prostate deliberately.

 

Harry thanked every god he could think of that he was born a boy.

 

By the time a third finger had been added, Harry was panting, pushing back into the fingers, willing them to go further, deeper, to get bigger. But Snape was relentless in his insistence upon preparation. Soon Harry commenced begging.

 

“Please...Prof-fuck...god, don’t stop...please, I...now.”

 

Well, it wasn’t coherent begging, but eventually his point got across. The fingers withdrew and Harry might have cried if they weren’t almost immediately replaced by a much larger appendage pressing against his slick hole. Harry tried to back up into it, but his hips were stilled. The cock rested against him teasingly, pressing not quite hard enough to give Harry what he needed.

 

“Is this what you want, Potter?” Snape jeered, wiggling his hips.

 

“Yes, sir. Please,” Harry whined.

 

Snape entered slowly and Harry could hear the man hold his breath. Harry’s breath on the other hand escaped him and for the life of him he couldn’t remember how to get it back until Snape began rocking leisurely. How could the man stay so calm?

 

Harry bit down on the pillow and forced himself to relax, to accept the wonderful intrusion. One hand left Harry’s hips to slide gently down Harry’s back before coming up to grasp Harry’s shoulder. All at once, Snape pulled Harry back and thrust in completely. Harry’s cry was muffled by the pillow he’d been gnawing on.

 

Panting, Harry tried once more to move his hips, wanting nothing more than to make that prick do something. And once again, Snape stilled him and then chuckled at his desperation. Harry clenched his arse around the older man hard. Snape’s grip on Harry’s hips tightened as he fought for control. Apparently resigned, Snape pulled back before thrusting forcefully in again. Much to Harry’s delight, the man kept moving after that. The prick sliding in and out of his arse angled down slightly and brushed over Harry’s prostate, sending waves of electric pleasure throughout Harry’s body. A deft hand wrapped around Harry’s cock, squeezing and stroking rhythmically.

 

Harry was lost in sensation. Before this night, Harry would have claimed to have had sex before. But just now, he decided that that was wrong. Because whatever he had done in the past was nothing like this. The clumsy writhing of adolescent acts of lust had never evoked the ecstatic pleasure that was pulsing through his body, shooting through his spine and gathering in his abdomen. Harry was going to explode and it didn’t seem possible that all that sensation could escape through his prick.

 

When he heard Snape growl, “Goddammit. Come. Now.” Harry couldn’t help but obey. He came screaming as violent spasms raged throughout his body, the cock continually moving over his prostate. Once he was milked of every last ounce of fluid, Snape thrust in deeply. Harry could feel the cock swell within him, warm fluid spilling inside him and then Snape pulled out and shot more come onto the boy’s back. The man groaned and cursed, leaning into Harry’s hips, his cock spasming against Harry’s arse.

 

The hand slid off of Harry’s cock, gathering the last traces of seed from the head. If Harry had not just had his mind blown, he might have thought it peculiar when that same hand began smearing Harry’s come with Snape’s. It wasn’t until he felt the slight sting of the fluid filling the shallow scratches along his spine that Harry was conscious enough realise that Snape was up to something again.

 

“What are you doing?” Harry whispered.

 

“Shh.”

 

Harry furrowed his brow in frustration but did not interrupt the man. Instead he concentrated on the patterns the man was drawing into his spunk covered back. Snape was writing on him, but Harry didn’t recognise all the words. He thought he felt “ephemeris” being smoothed over his upper back. “Corpus” smeared over his lower back. He lost track after that as Snape’s other hand began caressing the parts not being written on. Harry relaxed and waited. Finally Snape draped himself over Harry’s back long enough to plant a kiss on the back of Harry’s neck and then he rolled off to the side.

 

Harry stretched out onto his stomach, wincing as the blood rushed back into his legs. He looked over at the man stretched onto his back with his eyes closed. “Are you going to tell what you just did to me?” Harry asked cautiously.

 

“I believe I just fucked you,” Snape answered. Harry saw a smile tug at the corners of the man’s mouth. Snape pursed his lips to suppress it.

 

Harry grunted. “Right. And then?”

 

“I made sure you’d remember the experience.” Snape opened his eyes and the smile won the battle with his lips. Harry gasped to see it. A real smile. Harry couldn’t be sure which he liked better: the sinister smile that he was used to, that he’d grown to appreciate over the years; or the smile that was there now—soft and sincere. It was gone just as quickly as it came.

 

“Should I be worried?”

 

“I thought you said you trusted me,” Snape said in a low voice.

 

“I do,” Harry said quickly, and then added, “Sort of.” Snape chuckled and Harry sighed. Snape sat up and went into the bathroom. Harry could hear the sound of water running, and he decided to join the other man. As Harry entered the bathroom Snape looked back at him, smirking. Harry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and then looked down at his chest in shock. Every inch of his torso was covered in Snape’s sharp script. The writing that had been there was replaced with what looked to be an essay. He’d have liked to read it, but couldn’t remember what he’d done with his glasses.

 

“How do you do that?” Harry asked incredulously, squinting to try to make out words—uselessly, they were written too small.

 

“I do believe you were there for most of it.”

 

“What’s it say?” Harry wondered aloud.

 

“Surely you didn’t go through your whole school career illiterate?” Snape pushed past Harry out of the bathroom. After staring at his chest another moment, Harry quickly cleaned up and then went back to interrogate the older man who was lying back on the futon. Harry grinned, thankful that the man hadn’t left. He crawled next to him.

 

“Are you staying?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual. He was answered by a non-committal grunt. “Professor-“

 

“I think it’s time to stop calling me that, Potter.”

 

Harry laughed. “Shall I call you Snape, then?”

 

Snape glared and might have sneered if Harry hadn’t kissed him. When Harry raised his head once again, Snape had his eyes closed. “Severus?” Harry’s stomach jumped excitedly when the name cross his lips.

 

Snape opened an eye.

 

“What did you write?”

 

The eye closed. “Nothing you can’t read in the morning.”

 

“Where are my glasses?”

 

“Potter-“

 

“Harry,” corrected Harry.

 

Snape fell silent and Harry manoeuvred his way under Snape’s arm to rest his head on the man’s chest. “Severus?”

 

An irritated grunt.

 

“Why didn’t we do this Friday?” Why were you so wicked and evil? Harry meant to say.

 

“You were still my student. We were still at Hogwarts. And I’d already made plans for you.”

 

“Oh.” Harry grinned and ran his hand over Snape’s chest leisurely. He had to admit that Snape’s plans had been much more elaborate than his own. If not more bizarre. Harry wondered again about the writing on his chest. He put off the thought. He could always read it tomorrow. But would Snape still be there? Worry began stirring in Harry’s stomach. “Severus?”

 

“Do you ever shut up?” Snape spat. Harry pursed his lips. Snape sighed. “What?”

 

“Are we—that is, can we...er, do this again?” And again. And again. Forever. Harry closed his eyes tightly to wait for the reply.

 

“Now?”

 

“Or tomorrow.” And the next day. And the day after that. “Just again. Sometime.” Harry took a deep breath. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not see the man again. After seven years he’d grown quite accustomed to Snape being around. Looming and lurking. Harry’s life would be somehow incomplete without the Potions master there glaring at him. Not to mention the man was brilliant in bed and Harry had just begun to know that part of Snape. It would be a shame to leave all this unexplored. Harry continued. “I’d like to know you. Better.” That sounded incredibly stupid. Harry mentally slapped himself. In his defence, he’d never had a boyfriend before and didn’t really know how to begin a relationship. Draco had been nothing more than a sporadic fuck partner—the two either had to fuck or kill one another. Fucking was easier to get away with.

 

But did he want Snape as his boyfriend? He pushed the thought out of his head when a giggle threatened to explode out of his mouth. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Snape being anyone’s boyfriend. So what did he want?

 

“Why? Have you another fantasy you’d like fulfilled?” Snape said mockingly.

 

Harry thought for a moment. “Well...you wouldn’t happen to have a man-sized cauldron, would you?”

 

Snape snorted. “Go to sleep, Potter...Harry.” Harry’s name penetrated him and streaked through his entire body in a thousand confounded flurries. If “Potter” was a leather whip, “Harry” was a smooth silk rope sliding over his bare skin before binding him tightly.

 

Harry settled further against the man, deciding not to think anymore about what would happen next. His last thought before falling asleep was directed at marvelling at the novelty of being shagged and then held afterward. He thought he could get used to that.

---

 

“Harry?”

 

Harry opened an eye to see Ron peering at him wearing a peculiar expression. Behind Ron Harry could see the bushy-haired figure of Hermione. He was thankful that he couldn’t make out her expression. The absence of a warm body pressed against his side was the next thing he noticed. Snape must have left last night after all. Probably for the best. Harry might not have a best friend anymore if Ron had come in and found the two in bed together.

 

Harry sat up. He heard Hermione gasp.

 

“Oh,” he said aloud, and looked once more down at his chest. He crossed his arms protectively around him and really wished he knew where his glasses were. Damn. He sighed. “What’s it say?” He flopped onto his back and covered his face with both arms straight away to save time.

 

“Harry. I don’t think...” Ron trailed off.

 

“Just read it. I can’t see.”

 

Harry could feel the bed sag on either side of him as his two best friends drew in to read what Snape had written. Well...sort of written—Harry still had no idea how. He heard Hermione gasp once more.

 

Ron took a bracing breath. “Right... ‘Harry Potter, poster boy for the powers of good...’ Harry, I can’t do this.”

 

“Ron. I’m already humiliated. How bad can it get?” Harry said into his forearm.

 

Hermione continued. “'...poster boy for the powers of good, offers his bare arse repeatedly, begging to be touched, licked, corrupted, and whimpering like a bitch in heat.’” Harry groaned loudly and laughed at the same time. It wasn’t a humorous laugh. Rather one of those laughs that one produces when crying isn’t appropriate anymore. “Do you want me to go on?” Hermione said quietly.

 

“Might as well,” Harry sighed.

 

“'I taste the sweat on you, can smell the smoke from the pub. Filth contrasting with the clean sweetness of your mouth and your tongue.’ Oh, that’s nice.”

 

Ron snorted and picked up where the girl left off. “'Your cock weeps for attention...’ Ew. ‘You’ll not get it until you fight back. How long will you stand to be tortured until your dominant sensibilities take over? Not long, I’d wager. I’m right. You gain control. I let you. That mouth, pink and pure, takes me in expertly. Wet warmth envelops me. I want to fuck that mouth, to sully that pristine tongue. How many others have done it before me, Potter?’” Ron coughed to hide his snicker.

 

Hermione began again. “'And yet you remain flawless. Your debauchery buried far away from the prying eyes of your public. Or are they just too blinded by your immaculate reputation to see it? I will seek out your depravity. You beg me to spoil you.’ Wow. Er...” Hermione cleared her throat before continuing breathlessly. “'I enter you tight and hot. Did you make those noises your first time? Or are they solely for my benefit? You wriggle like a wanton slut...’” Hermione broke into a fit of giggles. Ron joined in.

 

“Right. So when you two are finished laughing at my utter humiliation, could you please just finish?”

 

“Sorry,” Hermione said, taking deep calming breaths. Ron buried his face in his hands. Hermione read again. “'What would your fans say? I plunge into you and your muffled scream is enough to make me come. But I resist and you clench around me to urge me on. I lose my resolve. I fuck you, desecrating the idol of the wizarding world. And yet my own reverence grows exponentially the deeper I drive into you. Every groan, every curse that pours out of your mouth is gospel. A new testament for the boy saviour--all grown up now. You’re purer for your impurity. In these few moments I shall worship you. You come at my bidding. I come for a purpose. My gift to you, Mr. Potter. A journal of my own. Ephemeris corpus. I can say now, without hesitation, that it has been a pleasure knowing you.’”

 

A silence followed the reading. Harry had given up being humiliated in favour of listening to his lover’s words. Forgetting the strange praises that Snape had lavished on him, Harry couldn’t help but be disappointed that the message sounded like a goodbye. He sighed heavily and then became aware of his erection, quite visible under the thin fabric of his boxer shorts. He flipped quickly onto his stomach, remembering at the same time that Snape had written along his spine as well.

 

“What’s written on my back?” he asked into the pillow.

 

“Nothing,” Hermione reported. “There are scratches all down your spine, but there isn’t any ink. Er, Harry?”

 

“I’ve been lusting after Snape for a year. Last night he shagged me. Sorry you had to see this,” Harry rattled. He didn’t have the stomach for a long explanation. And it didn’t matter anyway now that it was over.

 

“Well...I knew you liked Snape. I mean you’ve been staring at him with a goofy grin all year. And I...er...gathered that he shagged you. I was actually going to tell you that your glasses are right next to you. With a note, it looks like.”

 

Harry raised his head. Sure enough, his glasses lay where Snape should have been. He cursed. “Somebody might have mentioned that before,” he grumbled.

 

“Well, I didn’t notice until I was halfway through,” Hermione admitted. “And I didn’t want to stop. Sorry. What’s the note say?”

 

Harry turned his head to glare at her before putting on his glasses and unfolding the parchment. He may as well read it to them. They were rather intimately involved already. Taking a deep breath, he read aloud.

 

“'Reluctant as I was to leave the comfort of this torture device you deign to call a bed, I had to see a man about a cauldron. I’ll expect you at Snape Manor at midnight. –S.’”

 

Harry stared at the words, taking a moment to transition from being completely disillusioned to ecstatically happy. Snape would expect him. At midnight. Harry puzzled over what the man meant by having to see a man about a cauldron. Snape was a Potions master, after all. But...

 

Harry tried to remember what he had learned about expectations. But seeing as how his had been exceeded, he wasn’t sure he cared for that lesson. And even if his cauldron fantasy wasn’t acted out, Harry had many more.

 

The sound of snickering pulled him out of his reverie. He looked back to see Ron, red-faced and about to explode from trying to suppress his laughter. Hermione wasn’t doing any better.

 

“What?”

 

Ron burst. “You’re a wanton slut.” He fell over.

 

Yes, thought Harry with a broad grin. I am.

 

 

fin