FIC: And Many More
Title: And Many More
Author:
chervil
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter / Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry receives a pleasant birthday surprise.
Disclaimer: This story is based in characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but no limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: My first NC-17. So sue me. My deepest gratitude to
aesthetickismet for putting up with this. =)
Written for:
lothy at
hp_on_demand - "Snape is given as a gift to Harry."
“Strip.” The command assaults him immediately upon entering his chambers. Potter’s voice is low and husky, gloriously roughened by desire and entombed in darkness. Two pinpricks of candlelight are the only source of illumination in the room, and he feels himself shuddering in anticipation.
Snape's fingers move to the multitudes of buttons lining the front of his robes. He casually slips the buttons through their respective holes, as if his guts aren’t churning in thinly veiled anxiety. Potter's eyes avidly follow their progress and he waits patiently. His lips curve into a self-satisfied smirk as Snape slides the last of his robes off his shoulders and stands there, shivering and naked and wanting.
Potter's stretched across the lush armchair in front of the unlit fireplace, skin and muscles and sinew coiling in a languid display of grace. He's not surprised that Potter's here, in his chambers, when the impertinent brat should be asleep in his own. Potter has a tendency to make himself comfortable in places where he isn't welcome, and always manages to escape unscathed.
Who is he to blemish the boy's pristine record?
“Kneel,” Potter commands, and Snape drops to his knees.
“What are you doing here?” Snape demands, even as he’s naked and chilled and subservient in his own chambers. “I was under the impression that you were supervising a detention.”
“I sent them back to their dormitories half an hour ago.” Those emerald eyes stare him down, composed and calculating, before Potter stands up and slips into a dark satin robe. It takes a moment for Snape to realize that Potter's helped himself to one of his robes, but he can’t be mad because he loves the way the sleek satin contrasts against tanned skin.
Potter stops a hair's breadth away from him. “You're such a tease,” he admonishes, apparently out of nowhere.
The atmosphere changes; Snape can feel it, and the tension coils restlessly in the pit of his stomach.
“You drove me crazy today, you cocktease,” Potter says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Next time you want to leave your robes unbuttoned, be so kind as to think of the consequences.”
Snape's confusion dissipates. He'd only missed two buttons, and the pale expanse of neck revealed was not nearly enough to drive anyone insane. His lips twitch despite himself.
Potter's fingers tangle in his hair and squeeze just enough to hurt.
“Would you have me apologize?” Snape inquires.
“Only if you're sincere.” Potter draws his head down to the apex of his legs, and stares down at him through half-lidded eyes. “Prove it.”
---
“Severus!”
Snape stopped in mid-step and looked up from the potions tome in his hands. Potter was bolting down the length of the corridor towards him, hair in disarray and glasses askew. On second thought, Snape considered, pressing a stained finger into the tome to hold his place, Potter always looked like that.
“Yes, Potter?”
Potter skidded to a stop moments before barreling into him. He graced Snape with a bright, beaming smile worthy of Gilderoy Lockhart. “It's Harry,” he corrected.
“Harry,” Snape acknowledged with a brief nod. “What can I help you with?”
Potter looked uncomfortable, and fingered his already crooked glasses. “Um, I wanted to invite you-”
“Severus!” Merlin help him, between the both of them, two of the most irritating people in his acquaintance had managed to corner him in a bloody corridor. Dumbledore was strolling in his direction, one hand clasped on his vibrant magenta and humming a distinct tune under his breath. “Would you care for a sherbet lemon, my dear boy?” he offered, eyes bright behind his half-moon spectacles.
Snape hadn’t heard that sentence in years now, but recalled all too vividly what it meant. He cast a look in Potter's direction. “Do you mind?” he asked Potter.
Potter grinned crookedly, not at all put off. “It's fine, Severus. I'll talk to you later.” He headed off in the opposite direction, presumably to his own chambers by the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Snape waited until Potter rounded the corner and his footsteps retreated into the distance before turning to Dumbledore. The Headmaster merely smiled and headed in the direction of his office, still humming that infernal tune. Snape fell in step beside him and kept his silence, though the gears in his head were working frantically. What did Dumbledore need him for?
“Sit down,” Dumbledore said upon entering the office, gesturing at one of the chairs in front of his rather opulent desk. A bronze knick-knack clacked rhythmically.
Snape gathered his robes about him and sat down. “What is it, Albus?” he asked. “You haven’t asked me in there for a private conversation since before the Dark Lord’s demise.”
“Voldemort,” Dumbledore corrected lightly.
Snape's lips thinned in displeasure.
“No, Severus,” Dumbledore said, “this doesn't concern Lord Voldemort.”
“Death Eaters, then?”
Dumbledore smiled indulgently and popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth. Snape could hear the distinct crunches as Dumbledore chewed happily.
“What I've got to tell you is more important than either Lord Voldemort or Death Eaters.” Snape waited patiently for him to continue, and was not disappointed when he added, “Professor Potter's birthday is this Monday.”
It took a moment for the news to process, and when it finally did, Snape pressed his eyes closed and counted to ten before opening them again. “Albus,” he intoned flatly, “you dragged me all the way to your office, via the method we devised for important, Dark-Lord-related purposes, to tell me that Potter's birthday is this Monday?”
“And for the sherbet lemon, yes,” Dumbledore quipped. His eyes crinkled in amusement as he smiled.
Snape breathed out through clenched teeth. “May I ask why you are telling me this?”
Dumbledore met his eyes. “Why, Severus, I merely thought you ought to know.”
“I… thank you for your sentiments,” Snape managed, averting his eyes. It was the only polite thing he could say under these circumstances.
“You’re very welcome, Severus.”
Snape prepared to leave. He was halfway out the door and onto the stone steps before Dumbledore suggested casually, “You might want to get him a gift.”
He paused with his hand on the bronze doorknob, halfway through closing it. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
---
Pain prickles at his wrists and ankles. They’re numb by now, and he can only imagine the abraded and chafed skin he’ll find after this. His arms are extended and stretched above his head, each wrist securely fastened to a bedpost. His legs are bound in a similar manner and he’s face down on the bed, so he can see nothing but the steady stream of sweat trickling from his temples and onto the sheets.
Snape stifles a moan as his wand sinks into his arse. He can feel his hole stretching to accommodate its newly-magicked girth; can feel it spasm and clench in protest.
Potter’s sitting on a chair beside his bed, watching him through narrowed eyes. He fingers his wand. “I saw you today,” he says.
Potter flicks his own wand and the makeshift dildo removes itself, drawing out inch by agonizing inch until his greedy hole is clenching uselessly around the head. “You’re mine.” It plunges into him now, and his breathing hitches as the strength of the blow forces him face first into the bed. “You should know better than that.”
Snape smiles bravely into the sheets. “I may be yours, but do not forget that you’re equally mine,” he retorts saucily, even as he feels Potter’s intense gaze on his gaping, hungry hole.
Potter’s eyes flash and he twists his wand hand and Snape keens in torment as the instrument inside him mimics the action. “Feisty today, aren’t you?” Potter comments.
He deigns to answer and merely clenches his arse around the wand in response.
“Draco Malfoy has no right to make indecent proposals to my property.”
He’s starting to think that his wand is attuned to Potter’s emotions, and not the wand in his hand. It saws in and out of him at record speed, and he twists indecently in the confines of his bonds. “Fuck, Potter,” he gasps, “I cannot control-” here, it draws completely out of him with an obscene pop and it takes him a moment to regain his train of thought “-w-what other people say t-to me.”
His wand teases him mercilessly, slipping its head in and out of him as he squirms restlessly in his bonds.
“But you can control how you respond to them,” Potter growls. “You didn’t have to invite Malfoy to your chambers for a conversation.”
It glides back in, brushing lightly against his neglected prostate, and the pleasure sends him fruitlessly rocking back and forth.
“We have a history,” Snape hisses through clenched teeth. “You cannot erase my past just because you are my future.”
Potter smirks then. He reaches out and wraps his long, slender fingers around Snape’s purpling cock. Snape involuntarily bucks into the tight tunnel of his hand and is mewling before he even knows that the sounds are his.
“Answer me this, Severus,” Potter implores, removing his fingers from Snape’s cock. They trace across his bitten and kiss-swollen lips, skimming lightly from one end to the other. “What did you do with Malfoy?”
Snape freezes at that. He cannot believe the utter nerve of Potter, to ask him such a question. Potter’s made insinuations before, but never asked outright. He yanks sharply on his bonds, hissing as the movement irritates his already sore skin. “Untie me,” he demands imperiously. “Untie me now.”
Potter is silent for a moment, but eventually complies and loosens Snape’s bonds with a flick of his wand.
It takes a while for his numb and prickling arms to push himself off the bed and when they do, he reclines back on his haunches. He shivers as the change in position dislodges the drop of precome from the head of his cock and watches as it trails down the length of his prick, only to disappear in the nest of wiry curls at his groin. Potter doesn’t seem to notice; his head is down, eyes focused on the slender wand he’s twirling in his hands.
Potter looks… mournful. He looks the complete opposite from the dominating presence that filled Snape’s chambers only moments ago. He looks… he looks… he looks like he’s waiting for his heart to be broken, Snape realizes.
“Look at me,” Snape whispers, and feels his gut wrenching when Potter merely stares listlessly down at his hands. “Look at me, damn it!”
Potter silently obeys, and Snape’s breath catches uncomfortably in his throat. Those jade eyes aren’t as he remembers them-arrogant and powerful and so achingly expressive-and it hurts to think that he caused that change. So he reaches out and grasps Potter’s hands in his, drawing them to his chest.
“I love you,” he says, ignoring the fact that the first time he says it is in his chambers, with his wand in his arse and chains on his bed. “Never forget that.”
Potter looks amazed now, and every bit as beautiful as Snape remembers.
“I belong to you; body, heart, and soul,” he assures Potter. “Nothing will change that, Harry. You needn’t worry that I’ll be unfaithful.”
Potter stares at him for a moment. Then Potter smiles that blinding smile of his and Snape loses his mind in a blaze of glory as he grasps Snape’s cock in one hand and presses his mouth to Snape’s and whispers against his lips, “I love you, Severus. Come for me.”
---
He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Of all the imbecilic, idiotic things he’d done in his life-joining the ranks of Voldemort as a Death Eater included-nothing compared to the ignominy of what he was doing right now.
The large pear giggled, as if it felt the weight of his tortured stare. Snape resisted the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he reached up to tickle the pear and watched resignedly as it transformed into the customary handle. Right. He took a deep breath, gathered the voluminous folds of his robes, and swept grandly inside the Hogwarts kitchens.
Snape was immediately bombarded with greetings and questions from the overly helpful house elves. Because he was not a friendly man by nature, he was becoming increasingly annoyed with them. He savagely stomped on the tiny voice in his head that told him no, it wouldn’t do to hex them, because despite the fact that the tallest one barely came up to his thigh, they more than outnumbered him. It took a moment for him to assure the elves that no, he wouldn’t like something to eat but yes, he’d certainly appreciate a mug of hot chocolate.
As the small crowd around him dispersed, he made his way to the Slytherin table and sat down. It wasn’t long before one of the elves came back with an only slightly chipped mug of hot chocolate and placed it on the table in front of him.
He coughed awkwardly as she was leaving. “Hey you, elf.”
The elf turned around and fixed her large, bulbous eyes on him. “Master is needing Winky?” she asked.
So the thing had a name. Snape nodded hastily. “Do you happen to know a house elf that goes by the name of Dobby?”
Winky beamed. “Winky is knowing Dobby! Winky is being right back, Master wait here!”
He watched in amusement as Winky bolted off in the opposite direction, tea cozy trailing behind her. She reached a corner where a group of house elves was cooking something in a large pot, and tapped one on the shoulder. She said something to it, presumably about Snape, and it hastily wiped its hands on the multitudes of sweaters it had on before approaching him.
“Dobby?” he asked as it neared.
Dobby bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Dobby is here. What is Master needing?”
Snape shifted uncomfortably. “I need your help, Dobby.”
The house elf beamed-why did they do that so often?-and nodded eagerly. “Dobby is being here to help. What is Master needing help with?”
He coughed. “Harry Potter’s birthday is this Monday, is it not? I need some… help.”
---
The pub is smoky and dark and not at all like something the Boy Who Lived should be frequenting. Snape casts a distasteful look at the patrons-half of them look like they should be locked up in Azkaban-and follows Potter through the entrance. The bartender greets Potter by an alias completely foreign to Snape, and Potter leads Snape to a secluded corner.
“Why have you brought me here?” Snape asks once they are seated.
Potter smiles that enigmatic smile of his and settles into his own rickety chair. “Would you believe it’s because I’m tired of Hogwarts?”
Snape arches a brow. “Mr. Potter, if you were capable of being tired of Hogwarts, you wouldn’t have come back to teach, no matter how much Dumbledore wheedles.”
One of the waitresses choose that time to make an entrance, plopping two mugs of firewhiskey on the table with a giggle and a wink. Potter tips her with that selfsame smile on his lips and shoos her away.
“It’s Harry,” Potter corrects, and he takes a sip of his firewhiskey. He indicates for Snape to do the same, but Snape doesn’t make a move. “And I brought you here because you need a break from Hogwarts. The students have been rather a handful lately, haven’t they?”
The corners of Snape’s lips twitch despite himself. “And whose fault is that, Potter? I wasn’t the one that barged into my lover’s classroom-and in the middle of a class, mind you-all debauched and in disarray to ask if I had left my-” here, Snape’s lip curled “-wand back in their chambers. They were fourth years and the innuendos in that sentence were enough to make anyone choke.”
Potter grins lopsidedly. “I honestly thought I’d lost my wand, Severus.”
“It was in the pocket of your robes,” he deadpans.
“My mistake,” Potter says unapologetically. “Here, let me buy you a drink to make up for it.”
Snape’s brow quirks and he stares pointedly down at his untouched firewhiskey.
“Harry?” a voice questions from beside them, and Snape rolls his eyes as Potter turns to the man standing beside their table. “It is really you?”
Potter’s brow furrows and he stares at the man for a moment before recognition dawns on his face. “Ernie, isn’t it?”
The man grins, evidently pleased that Potter remembers his name. “Ernie Macmillan. Blimey, Harry, I haven’t seen you in forever.”
Snape notes bitterly how Macmillan doesn’t even glance in his direction as he pulls up a chair from the nearby table and says, “Mind if I join you?”
Potter casts a desperate look in Snape’s direction, but he crosses his arms over his chest and resolutely stares in the opposite direction. He briefly debates on leaving when Macmillan starts on about how much fun they had at Hogwarts, as if Potter remembers. The boy never did know how to be rude, so Snape takes pity on him.
Macmillan’s completely engrossed in the one-sided conversation-it might as well be, seeing as Potter’s only making one word replies while shooting anxious looks in Snape’s direction-and so he doesn’t notice as Snape silently slides his chair backwards and slips under the table.
He does notice, however, when Potter’s eyes widen and he emits an odd sound that is a cross between a squawk and a moan.
“Are you okay, Harry?” Macmillan asks earnestly, and Snape is forced to smile around the mouthful of cock he’s sucking.
Snape sees Potter’s hands clenching and unclenching on the material of his slacks, twisting and clawing. He hums around the girth of Potter’s cock, and is mildly surprised when Potter cries out softly.
He can only imagine the increasingly perplexed look on Macmillan’s face as the man oblivious queries, “Are you sure you’re okay, Harry? You look a little flushed.”
Potter can’t seem to speak, so Snape helps him out by tracing his tongue over that broad vein on the underside of Potter’s cock while making lewd slurping and sucking noises worthy of the most accomplished whore.
“I-I’m f-fine,” Potter stammers at last, and Snape can see Macmillan visibly relax in his chair. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, he muses.
Snape continues sucking avidly on Potter’s prick, occasionally letting it slide free from his mouth with a loud pop that he’s sure Potter can hear over the dim murmur of the pub.
“O-on s-second thought,” Potter says suddenly, “I don’t think I’m feeling too well.”
“Oh,” Macmillan says. “I should leave, then. I hope you get well soon, Harry.”
He can feel Potter relax as Macmillan’s feet walk away from the table and Potter’s fingers tangle in his hair as he looks down at Snape.
“What the hell do you think-?”
“On second thought,” Macmillan says suddenly, evidently after turning back, “do you need me to take you to St. Mungo’s?”
Potter’s fingers tighten in Snape’s hair as he blows on the head of Potter’s prick and idly tongues the slit.
“Really, Ernie,” Potter growls, obviously peeved, “I’ll be fine by myself.”
There’s a pregnant pause, and Macmillan says, “Okay, Harry,” in a dejected tone before walking away.
Potter growls once again, but for a completely different reason, as Snape abandons all pretense of innocence and engulfs Potter’s prick down to hilt. He can feel his throat convulsing in protest, but ignores it and swallows around Potter’s cock.
“Oh, s-shit, S-Severus,” Potter moans, and his hips jerk upwards into the tight cavern of Snape’s mouth.
Snape’s head bobs up and down as he deigns to reply. He merely concentrates on swallowing around Potter’s hard cock, tongue wriggling against the underside. Potter’s making those lovely noises again; moans and mewls and wails that arouses Snape beyond all belief.
Several people turn to glance curiously in Potter’s direction at the expletive. Potter flushes a rosy red that rivals the color of his cock in hue, and untangles his hand from Snape’s hair to wave it sheepishly through the air. He valiantly fights and fails to keep his hips from thrusting upwards.
Snape applauds the attempt, and so redoubles his efforts. He can imagine the ‘o’ of Potter’s lips, can imagine the tensing of his thighs as he approaches orgasm, can imagine the sight of himself, on his knees and sucking Potter’s cock like he does it on a daily basis, which he does. His throat’s screaming in protest, and he obstinately ignores it in favor of scraping his teeth delicately over Potter’s cock. Potter gives a strangled moan and grabs Snape’s head in his hands, fucking his mouth one, two, three times before coming with a spasm and loud cry.
“F-fuck, S-Severus,” Potter gasps breathlessly, limp against the chair, “I promise you, your arse will be sore come morning.”
He’s looking forward to it.
---
The chimes on the door of the Three Broomsticks twinkled becomingly as Harry pushed it open. He paused in the middle of the threshold and turned around. “You’ll make sure he gets home safely for me, won’t you, Madam Rosmerta?” he asked the lady bartender.
Madam Rosmerta smiled indulgently at Harry from behind the counter. He had no doubt that she would, but had to ask for politeness’ sake.
“Bye, Ron!” he called.
Ron, already drunk and slumped against the bar, wriggled his fingers in Harry’s general direction without turning around. Hermione had long since left; in fact, she’d left before Fred and George, and certainly before they had all gotten gloriously drunk.
Harry started down the pathway toward Hogwarts with long, hasty strides. Halfway there, he stopped and cast a freshening charm on himself. He’d been disappointed that Severus hadn’t made an appearance-he knew that his lover disliked raucous parties and only invited a select few for celebratory drinks at the Three Broomsticks. Now he was determined to spend the last hours of his birthday with Severus, preferably thoroughly shagged and in his arms.
The first place he sought the Potions Master out in was his chambers. Adjacent to the Potions classrooms down in the dungeons, the doors parted silently for him as he approached, only to reveal an empty and strangely silent living room. Further searches in Severus’ study, bathroom, and bedroom were similarly unsuccessful.
Harry frowned and retreated back into the living room. Strange-where would Severus be at this hour? The only other plausible explanation was that Severus was on one of his rounds about the castle to weed out unfortunate miscreants breaking curfew. Sighing, Harry sank back into the sofa. His lover would most likely be back soon.
It wasn’t until half an hour later that Harry started feeling those twinges of doubt. Severus rarely took that long on his rounds. Still, he was determined to wait it out. He settled back in the sofa with a grim sigh.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry gathered his robes and tattered shreds of his dignity and proceeded to slink back to his own chambers. The trip from the Potions classroom and his lodgings beside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was mercifully short, but still left him infinitely curious as to where in the world Severus could be.
Upon entering his chambers, Harry instantly realized something was wrong. Years of evading Voldemort had honed his senses and intuition, and it didn’t take him long to realize that not everything was where he’d left it this morning. For one, he didn’t normally close the curtains around the four-poster bed dominating the left corner.
The other, more glaringly obvious indicator was that he felt the obvious sparkle of magic from someone in his rooms. It couldn’t have been Severus-similar situations had forced him to learn how to hide his magic. Wand extended, Harry cautiously approached his bed. He could make out the faint silhouette of someone inside. Gripping his wand tighter, he drew open the curtains with a flourish and, upon seeing who was inside, promptly dropped it.
Severus’ eyes followed the progress of his wand as it rolled under the bed.
The first thing that drew his eyes was the glimmering nipple clamps on Severus’ bared chest. It was hard not to-the single glove that encased his arms drew them back sharply, thrusting his chest tantalizingly forward. Harry’s lips curved into a predatory smile and he reached out to flick a clamp with his nail.
Severus gave a muffled cry around the ball gag, black against his obscenely red lips. Harry could see the flutter of his eyelashes as he fought to maintain his position, reclining back on his haunches. His fingers brushed against the purpling head of Severus’ cock and he was rewarded with an involuntarily thrust of the Potions Master’s hips.
“Be still,” Harry murmured huskily. “What brought this on?”
In response to his question, Severus stared pointedly downwards. It took him a moment, but he finally saw the tag dangling from the chain connecting Severus’ clamps. Harry reached forward and caught it in one hand. On the small scrap of parchment, penned in Severus’ firm handwriting, were the words “Happy Birthday, Harry.”
Harry grinned wickedly. “I think I shall enjoy my present very much so.”
Author:
chervil
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter / Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry receives a pleasant birthday surprise.
Disclaimer: This story is based in characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but no limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: My first NC-17. So sue me. My deepest gratitude to
aesthetickismet for putting up with this. =)
Written for:
lothy at
hp_on_demand - "Snape is given as a gift to Harry."
“Strip.” The command assaults him immediately upon entering his chambers. Potter’s voice is low and husky, gloriously roughened by desire and entombed in darkness. Two pinpricks of candlelight are the only source of illumination in the room, and he feels himself shuddering in anticipation.
Snape's fingers move to the multitudes of buttons lining the front of his robes. He casually slips the buttons through their respective holes, as if his guts aren’t churning in thinly veiled anxiety. Potter's eyes avidly follow their progress and he waits patiently. His lips curve into a self-satisfied smirk as Snape slides the last of his robes off his shoulders and stands there, shivering and naked and wanting.
Potter's stretched across the lush armchair in front of the unlit fireplace, skin and muscles and sinew coiling in a languid display of grace. He's not surprised that Potter's here, in his chambers, when the impertinent brat should be asleep in his own. Potter has a tendency to make himself comfortable in places where he isn't welcome, and always manages to escape unscathed.
Who is he to blemish the boy's pristine record?
“Kneel,” Potter commands, and Snape drops to his knees.
“What are you doing here?” Snape demands, even as he’s naked and chilled and subservient in his own chambers. “I was under the impression that you were supervising a detention.”
“I sent them back to their dormitories half an hour ago.” Those emerald eyes stare him down, composed and calculating, before Potter stands up and slips into a dark satin robe. It takes a moment for Snape to realize that Potter's helped himself to one of his robes, but he can’t be mad because he loves the way the sleek satin contrasts against tanned skin.
Potter stops a hair's breadth away from him. “You're such a tease,” he admonishes, apparently out of nowhere.
The atmosphere changes; Snape can feel it, and the tension coils restlessly in the pit of his stomach.
“You drove me crazy today, you cocktease,” Potter says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Next time you want to leave your robes unbuttoned, be so kind as to think of the consequences.”
Snape's confusion dissipates. He'd only missed two buttons, and the pale expanse of neck revealed was not nearly enough to drive anyone insane. His lips twitch despite himself.
Potter's fingers tangle in his hair and squeeze just enough to hurt.
“Would you have me apologize?” Snape inquires.
“Only if you're sincere.” Potter draws his head down to the apex of his legs, and stares down at him through half-lidded eyes. “Prove it.”
---
“Severus!”
Snape stopped in mid-step and looked up from the potions tome in his hands. Potter was bolting down the length of the corridor towards him, hair in disarray and glasses askew. On second thought, Snape considered, pressing a stained finger into the tome to hold his place, Potter always looked like that.
“Yes, Potter?”
Potter skidded to a stop moments before barreling into him. He graced Snape with a bright, beaming smile worthy of Gilderoy Lockhart. “It's Harry,” he corrected.
“Harry,” Snape acknowledged with a brief nod. “What can I help you with?”
Potter looked uncomfortable, and fingered his already crooked glasses. “Um, I wanted to invite you-”
“Severus!” Merlin help him, between the both of them, two of the most irritating people in his acquaintance had managed to corner him in a bloody corridor. Dumbledore was strolling in his direction, one hand clasped on his vibrant magenta and humming a distinct tune under his breath. “Would you care for a sherbet lemon, my dear boy?” he offered, eyes bright behind his half-moon spectacles.
Snape hadn’t heard that sentence in years now, but recalled all too vividly what it meant. He cast a look in Potter's direction. “Do you mind?” he asked Potter.
Potter grinned crookedly, not at all put off. “It's fine, Severus. I'll talk to you later.” He headed off in the opposite direction, presumably to his own chambers by the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Snape waited until Potter rounded the corner and his footsteps retreated into the distance before turning to Dumbledore. The Headmaster merely smiled and headed in the direction of his office, still humming that infernal tune. Snape fell in step beside him and kept his silence, though the gears in his head were working frantically. What did Dumbledore need him for?
“Sit down,” Dumbledore said upon entering the office, gesturing at one of the chairs in front of his rather opulent desk. A bronze knick-knack clacked rhythmically.
Snape gathered his robes about him and sat down. “What is it, Albus?” he asked. “You haven’t asked me in there for a private conversation since before the Dark Lord’s demise.”
“Voldemort,” Dumbledore corrected lightly.
Snape's lips thinned in displeasure.
“No, Severus,” Dumbledore said, “this doesn't concern Lord Voldemort.”
“Death Eaters, then?”
Dumbledore smiled indulgently and popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth. Snape could hear the distinct crunches as Dumbledore chewed happily.
“What I've got to tell you is more important than either Lord Voldemort or Death Eaters.” Snape waited patiently for him to continue, and was not disappointed when he added, “Professor Potter's birthday is this Monday.”
It took a moment for the news to process, and when it finally did, Snape pressed his eyes closed and counted to ten before opening them again. “Albus,” he intoned flatly, “you dragged me all the way to your office, via the method we devised for important, Dark-Lord-related purposes, to tell me that Potter's birthday is this Monday?”
“And for the sherbet lemon, yes,” Dumbledore quipped. His eyes crinkled in amusement as he smiled.
Snape breathed out through clenched teeth. “May I ask why you are telling me this?”
Dumbledore met his eyes. “Why, Severus, I merely thought you ought to know.”
“I… thank you for your sentiments,” Snape managed, averting his eyes. It was the only polite thing he could say under these circumstances.
“You’re very welcome, Severus.”
Snape prepared to leave. He was halfway out the door and onto the stone steps before Dumbledore suggested casually, “You might want to get him a gift.”
He paused with his hand on the bronze doorknob, halfway through closing it. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
---
Pain prickles at his wrists and ankles. They’re numb by now, and he can only imagine the abraded and chafed skin he’ll find after this. His arms are extended and stretched above his head, each wrist securely fastened to a bedpost. His legs are bound in a similar manner and he’s face down on the bed, so he can see nothing but the steady stream of sweat trickling from his temples and onto the sheets.
Snape stifles a moan as his wand sinks into his arse. He can feel his hole stretching to accommodate its newly-magicked girth; can feel it spasm and clench in protest.
Potter’s sitting on a chair beside his bed, watching him through narrowed eyes. He fingers his wand. “I saw you today,” he says.
Potter flicks his own wand and the makeshift dildo removes itself, drawing out inch by agonizing inch until his greedy hole is clenching uselessly around the head. “You’re mine.” It plunges into him now, and his breathing hitches as the strength of the blow forces him face first into the bed. “You should know better than that.”
Snape smiles bravely into the sheets. “I may be yours, but do not forget that you’re equally mine,” he retorts saucily, even as he feels Potter’s intense gaze on his gaping, hungry hole.
Potter’s eyes flash and he twists his wand hand and Snape keens in torment as the instrument inside him mimics the action. “Feisty today, aren’t you?” Potter comments.
He deigns to answer and merely clenches his arse around the wand in response.
“Draco Malfoy has no right to make indecent proposals to my property.”
He’s starting to think that his wand is attuned to Potter’s emotions, and not the wand in his hand. It saws in and out of him at record speed, and he twists indecently in the confines of his bonds. “Fuck, Potter,” he gasps, “I cannot control-” here, it draws completely out of him with an obscene pop and it takes him a moment to regain his train of thought “-w-what other people say t-to me.”
His wand teases him mercilessly, slipping its head in and out of him as he squirms restlessly in his bonds.
“But you can control how you respond to them,” Potter growls. “You didn’t have to invite Malfoy to your chambers for a conversation.”
It glides back in, brushing lightly against his neglected prostate, and the pleasure sends him fruitlessly rocking back and forth.
“We have a history,” Snape hisses through clenched teeth. “You cannot erase my past just because you are my future.”
Potter smirks then. He reaches out and wraps his long, slender fingers around Snape’s purpling cock. Snape involuntarily bucks into the tight tunnel of his hand and is mewling before he even knows that the sounds are his.
“Answer me this, Severus,” Potter implores, removing his fingers from Snape’s cock. They trace across his bitten and kiss-swollen lips, skimming lightly from one end to the other. “What did you do with Malfoy?”
Snape freezes at that. He cannot believe the utter nerve of Potter, to ask him such a question. Potter’s made insinuations before, but never asked outright. He yanks sharply on his bonds, hissing as the movement irritates his already sore skin. “Untie me,” he demands imperiously. “Untie me now.”
Potter is silent for a moment, but eventually complies and loosens Snape’s bonds with a flick of his wand.
It takes a while for his numb and prickling arms to push himself off the bed and when they do, he reclines back on his haunches. He shivers as the change in position dislodges the drop of precome from the head of his cock and watches as it trails down the length of his prick, only to disappear in the nest of wiry curls at his groin. Potter doesn’t seem to notice; his head is down, eyes focused on the slender wand he’s twirling in his hands.
Potter looks… mournful. He looks the complete opposite from the dominating presence that filled Snape’s chambers only moments ago. He looks… he looks… he looks like he’s waiting for his heart to be broken, Snape realizes.
“Look at me,” Snape whispers, and feels his gut wrenching when Potter merely stares listlessly down at his hands. “Look at me, damn it!”
Potter silently obeys, and Snape’s breath catches uncomfortably in his throat. Those jade eyes aren’t as he remembers them-arrogant and powerful and so achingly expressive-and it hurts to think that he caused that change. So he reaches out and grasps Potter’s hands in his, drawing them to his chest.
“I love you,” he says, ignoring the fact that the first time he says it is in his chambers, with his wand in his arse and chains on his bed. “Never forget that.”
Potter looks amazed now, and every bit as beautiful as Snape remembers.
“I belong to you; body, heart, and soul,” he assures Potter. “Nothing will change that, Harry. You needn’t worry that I’ll be unfaithful.”
Potter stares at him for a moment. Then Potter smiles that blinding smile of his and Snape loses his mind in a blaze of glory as he grasps Snape’s cock in one hand and presses his mouth to Snape’s and whispers against his lips, “I love you, Severus. Come for me.”
---
He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Of all the imbecilic, idiotic things he’d done in his life-joining the ranks of Voldemort as a Death Eater included-nothing compared to the ignominy of what he was doing right now.
The large pear giggled, as if it felt the weight of his tortured stare. Snape resisted the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he reached up to tickle the pear and watched resignedly as it transformed into the customary handle. Right. He took a deep breath, gathered the voluminous folds of his robes, and swept grandly inside the Hogwarts kitchens.
Snape was immediately bombarded with greetings and questions from the overly helpful house elves. Because he was not a friendly man by nature, he was becoming increasingly annoyed with them. He savagely stomped on the tiny voice in his head that told him no, it wouldn’t do to hex them, because despite the fact that the tallest one barely came up to his thigh, they more than outnumbered him. It took a moment for him to assure the elves that no, he wouldn’t like something to eat but yes, he’d certainly appreciate a mug of hot chocolate.
As the small crowd around him dispersed, he made his way to the Slytherin table and sat down. It wasn’t long before one of the elves came back with an only slightly chipped mug of hot chocolate and placed it on the table in front of him.
He coughed awkwardly as she was leaving. “Hey you, elf.”
The elf turned around and fixed her large, bulbous eyes on him. “Master is needing Winky?” she asked.
So the thing had a name. Snape nodded hastily. “Do you happen to know a house elf that goes by the name of Dobby?”
Winky beamed. “Winky is knowing Dobby! Winky is being right back, Master wait here!”
He watched in amusement as Winky bolted off in the opposite direction, tea cozy trailing behind her. She reached a corner where a group of house elves was cooking something in a large pot, and tapped one on the shoulder. She said something to it, presumably about Snape, and it hastily wiped its hands on the multitudes of sweaters it had on before approaching him.
“Dobby?” he asked as it neared.
Dobby bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Dobby is here. What is Master needing?”
Snape shifted uncomfortably. “I need your help, Dobby.”
The house elf beamed-why did they do that so often?-and nodded eagerly. “Dobby is being here to help. What is Master needing help with?”
He coughed. “Harry Potter’s birthday is this Monday, is it not? I need some… help.”
---
The pub is smoky and dark and not at all like something the Boy Who Lived should be frequenting. Snape casts a distasteful look at the patrons-half of them look like they should be locked up in Azkaban-and follows Potter through the entrance. The bartender greets Potter by an alias completely foreign to Snape, and Potter leads Snape to a secluded corner.
“Why have you brought me here?” Snape asks once they are seated.
Potter smiles that enigmatic smile of his and settles into his own rickety chair. “Would you believe it’s because I’m tired of Hogwarts?”
Snape arches a brow. “Mr. Potter, if you were capable of being tired of Hogwarts, you wouldn’t have come back to teach, no matter how much Dumbledore wheedles.”
One of the waitresses choose that time to make an entrance, plopping two mugs of firewhiskey on the table with a giggle and a wink. Potter tips her with that selfsame smile on his lips and shoos her away.
“It’s Harry,” Potter corrects, and he takes a sip of his firewhiskey. He indicates for Snape to do the same, but Snape doesn’t make a move. “And I brought you here because you need a break from Hogwarts. The students have been rather a handful lately, haven’t they?”
The corners of Snape’s lips twitch despite himself. “And whose fault is that, Potter? I wasn’t the one that barged into my lover’s classroom-and in the middle of a class, mind you-all debauched and in disarray to ask if I had left my-” here, Snape’s lip curled “-wand back in their chambers. They were fourth years and the innuendos in that sentence were enough to make anyone choke.”
Potter grins lopsidedly. “I honestly thought I’d lost my wand, Severus.”
“It was in the pocket of your robes,” he deadpans.
“My mistake,” Potter says unapologetically. “Here, let me buy you a drink to make up for it.”
Snape’s brow quirks and he stares pointedly down at his untouched firewhiskey.
“Harry?” a voice questions from beside them, and Snape rolls his eyes as Potter turns to the man standing beside their table. “It is really you?”
Potter’s brow furrows and he stares at the man for a moment before recognition dawns on his face. “Ernie, isn’t it?”
The man grins, evidently pleased that Potter remembers his name. “Ernie Macmillan. Blimey, Harry, I haven’t seen you in forever.”
Snape notes bitterly how Macmillan doesn’t even glance in his direction as he pulls up a chair from the nearby table and says, “Mind if I join you?”
Potter casts a desperate look in Snape’s direction, but he crosses his arms over his chest and resolutely stares in the opposite direction. He briefly debates on leaving when Macmillan starts on about how much fun they had at Hogwarts, as if Potter remembers. The boy never did know how to be rude, so Snape takes pity on him.
Macmillan’s completely engrossed in the one-sided conversation-it might as well be, seeing as Potter’s only making one word replies while shooting anxious looks in Snape’s direction-and so he doesn’t notice as Snape silently slides his chair backwards and slips under the table.
He does notice, however, when Potter’s eyes widen and he emits an odd sound that is a cross between a squawk and a moan.
“Are you okay, Harry?” Macmillan asks earnestly, and Snape is forced to smile around the mouthful of cock he’s sucking.
Snape sees Potter’s hands clenching and unclenching on the material of his slacks, twisting and clawing. He hums around the girth of Potter’s cock, and is mildly surprised when Potter cries out softly.
He can only imagine the increasingly perplexed look on Macmillan’s face as the man oblivious queries, “Are you sure you’re okay, Harry? You look a little flushed.”
Potter can’t seem to speak, so Snape helps him out by tracing his tongue over that broad vein on the underside of Potter’s cock while making lewd slurping and sucking noises worthy of the most accomplished whore.
“I-I’m f-fine,” Potter stammers at last, and Snape can see Macmillan visibly relax in his chair. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, he muses.
Snape continues sucking avidly on Potter’s prick, occasionally letting it slide free from his mouth with a loud pop that he’s sure Potter can hear over the dim murmur of the pub.
“O-on s-second thought,” Potter says suddenly, “I don’t think I’m feeling too well.”
“Oh,” Macmillan says. “I should leave, then. I hope you get well soon, Harry.”
He can feel Potter relax as Macmillan’s feet walk away from the table and Potter’s fingers tangle in his hair as he looks down at Snape.
“What the hell do you think-?”
“On second thought,” Macmillan says suddenly, evidently after turning back, “do you need me to take you to St. Mungo’s?”
Potter’s fingers tighten in Snape’s hair as he blows on the head of Potter’s prick and idly tongues the slit.
“Really, Ernie,” Potter growls, obviously peeved, “I’ll be fine by myself.”
There’s a pregnant pause, and Macmillan says, “Okay, Harry,” in a dejected tone before walking away.
Potter growls once again, but for a completely different reason, as Snape abandons all pretense of innocence and engulfs Potter’s prick down to hilt. He can feel his throat convulsing in protest, but ignores it and swallows around Potter’s cock.
“Oh, s-shit, S-Severus,” Potter moans, and his hips jerk upwards into the tight cavern of Snape’s mouth.
Snape’s head bobs up and down as he deigns to reply. He merely concentrates on swallowing around Potter’s hard cock, tongue wriggling against the underside. Potter’s making those lovely noises again; moans and mewls and wails that arouses Snape beyond all belief.
Several people turn to glance curiously in Potter’s direction at the expletive. Potter flushes a rosy red that rivals the color of his cock in hue, and untangles his hand from Snape’s hair to wave it sheepishly through the air. He valiantly fights and fails to keep his hips from thrusting upwards.
Snape applauds the attempt, and so redoubles his efforts. He can imagine the ‘o’ of Potter’s lips, can imagine the tensing of his thighs as he approaches orgasm, can imagine the sight of himself, on his knees and sucking Potter’s cock like he does it on a daily basis, which he does. His throat’s screaming in protest, and he obstinately ignores it in favor of scraping his teeth delicately over Potter’s cock. Potter gives a strangled moan and grabs Snape’s head in his hands, fucking his mouth one, two, three times before coming with a spasm and loud cry.
“F-fuck, S-Severus,” Potter gasps breathlessly, limp against the chair, “I promise you, your arse will be sore come morning.”
He’s looking forward to it.
---
The chimes on the door of the Three Broomsticks twinkled becomingly as Harry pushed it open. He paused in the middle of the threshold and turned around. “You’ll make sure he gets home safely for me, won’t you, Madam Rosmerta?” he asked the lady bartender.
Madam Rosmerta smiled indulgently at Harry from behind the counter. He had no doubt that she would, but had to ask for politeness’ sake.
“Bye, Ron!” he called.
Ron, already drunk and slumped against the bar, wriggled his fingers in Harry’s general direction without turning around. Hermione had long since left; in fact, she’d left before Fred and George, and certainly before they had all gotten gloriously drunk.
Harry started down the pathway toward Hogwarts with long, hasty strides. Halfway there, he stopped and cast a freshening charm on himself. He’d been disappointed that Severus hadn’t made an appearance-he knew that his lover disliked raucous parties and only invited a select few for celebratory drinks at the Three Broomsticks. Now he was determined to spend the last hours of his birthday with Severus, preferably thoroughly shagged and in his arms.
The first place he sought the Potions Master out in was his chambers. Adjacent to the Potions classrooms down in the dungeons, the doors parted silently for him as he approached, only to reveal an empty and strangely silent living room. Further searches in Severus’ study, bathroom, and bedroom were similarly unsuccessful.
Harry frowned and retreated back into the living room. Strange-where would Severus be at this hour? The only other plausible explanation was that Severus was on one of his rounds about the castle to weed out unfortunate miscreants breaking curfew. Sighing, Harry sank back into the sofa. His lover would most likely be back soon.
It wasn’t until half an hour later that Harry started feeling those twinges of doubt. Severus rarely took that long on his rounds. Still, he was determined to wait it out. He settled back in the sofa with a grim sigh.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry gathered his robes and tattered shreds of his dignity and proceeded to slink back to his own chambers. The trip from the Potions classroom and his lodgings beside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was mercifully short, but still left him infinitely curious as to where in the world Severus could be.
Upon entering his chambers, Harry instantly realized something was wrong. Years of evading Voldemort had honed his senses and intuition, and it didn’t take him long to realize that not everything was where he’d left it this morning. For one, he didn’t normally close the curtains around the four-poster bed dominating the left corner.
The other, more glaringly obvious indicator was that he felt the obvious sparkle of magic from someone in his rooms. It couldn’t have been Severus-similar situations had forced him to learn how to hide his magic. Wand extended, Harry cautiously approached his bed. He could make out the faint silhouette of someone inside. Gripping his wand tighter, he drew open the curtains with a flourish and, upon seeing who was inside, promptly dropped it.
Severus’ eyes followed the progress of his wand as it rolled under the bed.
The first thing that drew his eyes was the glimmering nipple clamps on Severus’ bared chest. It was hard not to-the single glove that encased his arms drew them back sharply, thrusting his chest tantalizingly forward. Harry’s lips curved into a predatory smile and he reached out to flick a clamp with his nail.
Severus gave a muffled cry around the ball gag, black against his obscenely red lips. Harry could see the flutter of his eyelashes as he fought to maintain his position, reclining back on his haunches. His fingers brushed against the purpling head of Severus’ cock and he was rewarded with an involuntarily thrust of the Potions Master’s hips.
“Be still,” Harry murmured huskily. “What brought this on?”
In response to his question, Severus stared pointedly downwards. It took him a moment, but he finally saw the tag dangling from the chain connecting Severus’ clamps. Harry reached forward and caught it in one hand. On the small scrap of parchment, penned in Severus’ firm handwriting, were the words “Happy Birthday, Harry.”
Harry grinned wickedly. “I think I shall enjoy my present very much so.”