Harry Potter
Harry Potter
Severus/Harry; one-sided Severus/James
R
850ish words
slightly dub-con
It is so easy at first. You see Harry Potter, and his childish likeness to his father brings back the memories of James Potter’s casual cruelty to you; your own bitter spite in return. You loathe him on sight. But now you are a teacher, in a position of power. You can repay many an old grudge - and you do. The sins of the father (and there are many)… oh, indeed the sins of the father are visited on the son.
Then - ah yes, then - he begins to mature. His short, stringy figure fills out; and he is the image of an adolescent James. Different memories - so long repressed, denied, rejected - return to you. That moment one night when James, in anger, had you pushed up against the wall in a deserted Hogwarts corridor, barely an inch of him not touching you. You could feel the sensual masculinity of him; smell his scent of playing-fields and - something else, something indescribably James, indescribably sexy. That moment when you realised that loathing mixed all too well with lust; when you knew you wanted him…
Now, when you look at Harry, you feel that same need, same desire. Now you want to do as James once did to you - thrust him up against a wall, your body pressing into his. And then - why not? - take it further: rip his robes from him, turn him round, force your way inside him. Work off the lust and loathing in one fell gesture. Abuse your position, abuse your power, abuse the boy.
But Harry is not James: his eyes are not James’s eyes. He has his mother’s eyes - the eyes of the mudblood Gryffindor who dared to pity you - pity you, a Prince (by blood if not by name). And when you catch his gaze, his look is superimposed by the green-eyed pity of Lily Evans. You despised her for that - but she did not affect you like James did. So you look, look, look into those eyes to avoid seeing the rest of the boy - Harry/James. Allow yourself to be consumed by anger against a pity his eyes do not even show, to avoid a different consummation. He doesn’t know how grateful he should be to bear your cold, hard anger; doesn’t know what the alternative would be.
Until one night, as you are walking silently down an all too appropriate corridor, you suddenly see him.
“Potter,” you say quietly, threateningly.
”Snivellus,” James hisses.
You have him pushed against the stone corridor, arms forced above his head by your hands, one thigh thrust between his legs. He is in your power.
James has propelled you against the wall, his body pressed against you, his face only inches from yours. You can not move.
“What are you doing here, Potter, when you should be in bed?”
”Why are you skulking about the corridors at this time of night, Snivellus?”
“Are you out looking for trouble again?”
”It looks like you just found trouble.”
Harry is leaning back against the cold stone, his eyes screwed shut. You realise that he is trying desperately to close his mind against penetration by occlumency. How ironic, when your mind is on an altogether different type of penetration.
“Open your eyes, Potter,” you snarl at him.
Those eyes - his last defence, if he but knew it. And reluctantly he opens them, but… that look is not Lily’s; that dazed, longing expressing is never one that graced Lily’s face when she looked at you.
“Oh God,” he mumbles; and he is struggling against you - but not to get away; instead, to rub himself more firmly against your thigh (which you had not done with James, no - but be honest: you wanted to. You wanted to, oh yes, so much), thrusting and moaning. He is so hard, and if he continues to press himself closer like this he will notice - even in his state, he will not be able to miss - your own erection, own desire.
“Please,” he cries; “please…”
And at the sound of his begging you break, scraping the backs of his hands against the wall as you lean in towards him and… oh no, that is not a kiss; it is a mark of possession.
“Is that what you want, Potter?” you demand. “Is it?”
“Oh God,” he moans again, his thrusting faster and regular; and you are rocking with him - for at this moment you do not care for position, exposure, scandal.
Your teeth are on his neck, and he likes it; is making his pleasure known with little cries he can’t suppress, as his breathing becomes more and more ragged. Then he comes; and the feel of his orgasm against your leg sends you into your own, private ecstasy. And then the tremors stop for you both, and you look at each other once more. His green eyes have a dangerous shimmer of tears in them. Yours are cold and black, emotionless.
“Oh God,” he says for the third time, but this time it is laced with misery and shame.
You step back. You ought to feel guilty, ashamed, shocked, but do you?
Do you, Severus?
Severus/Harry; one-sided Severus/James
R
850ish words
slightly dub-con
It is so easy at first. You see Harry Potter, and his childish likeness to his father brings back the memories of James Potter’s casual cruelty to you; your own bitter spite in return. You loathe him on sight. But now you are a teacher, in a position of power. You can repay many an old grudge - and you do. The sins of the father (and there are many)… oh, indeed the sins of the father are visited on the son.
Then - ah yes, then - he begins to mature. His short, stringy figure fills out; and he is the image of an adolescent James. Different memories - so long repressed, denied, rejected - return to you. That moment one night when James, in anger, had you pushed up against the wall in a deserted Hogwarts corridor, barely an inch of him not touching you. You could feel the sensual masculinity of him; smell his scent of playing-fields and - something else, something indescribably James, indescribably sexy. That moment when you realised that loathing mixed all too well with lust; when you knew you wanted him…
Now, when you look at Harry, you feel that same need, same desire. Now you want to do as James once did to you - thrust him up against a wall, your body pressing into his. And then - why not? - take it further: rip his robes from him, turn him round, force your way inside him. Work off the lust and loathing in one fell gesture. Abuse your position, abuse your power, abuse the boy.
But Harry is not James: his eyes are not James’s eyes. He has his mother’s eyes - the eyes of the mudblood Gryffindor who dared to pity you - pity you, a Prince (by blood if not by name). And when you catch his gaze, his look is superimposed by the green-eyed pity of Lily Evans. You despised her for that - but she did not affect you like James did. So you look, look, look into those eyes to avoid seeing the rest of the boy - Harry/James. Allow yourself to be consumed by anger against a pity his eyes do not even show, to avoid a different consummation. He doesn’t know how grateful he should be to bear your cold, hard anger; doesn’t know what the alternative would be.
Until one night, as you are walking silently down an all too appropriate corridor, you suddenly see him.
“Potter,” you say quietly, threateningly.
”Snivellus,” James hisses.
You have him pushed against the stone corridor, arms forced above his head by your hands, one thigh thrust between his legs. He is in your power.
James has propelled you against the wall, his body pressed against you, his face only inches from yours. You can not move.
“What are you doing here, Potter, when you should be in bed?”
”Why are you skulking about the corridors at this time of night, Snivellus?”
“Are you out looking for trouble again?”
”It looks like you just found trouble.”
Harry is leaning back against the cold stone, his eyes screwed shut. You realise that he is trying desperately to close his mind against penetration by occlumency. How ironic, when your mind is on an altogether different type of penetration.
“Open your eyes, Potter,” you snarl at him.
Those eyes - his last defence, if he but knew it. And reluctantly he opens them, but… that look is not Lily’s; that dazed, longing expressing is never one that graced Lily’s face when she looked at you.
“Oh God,” he mumbles; and he is struggling against you - but not to get away; instead, to rub himself more firmly against your thigh (which you had not done with James, no - but be honest: you wanted to. You wanted to, oh yes, so much), thrusting and moaning. He is so hard, and if he continues to press himself closer like this he will notice - even in his state, he will not be able to miss - your own erection, own desire.
“Please,” he cries; “please…”
And at the sound of his begging you break, scraping the backs of his hands against the wall as you lean in towards him and… oh no, that is not a kiss; it is a mark of possession.
“Is that what you want, Potter?” you demand. “Is it?”
“Oh God,” he moans again, his thrusting faster and regular; and you are rocking with him - for at this moment you do not care for position, exposure, scandal.
Your teeth are on his neck, and he likes it; is making his pleasure known with little cries he can’t suppress, as his breathing becomes more and more ragged. Then he comes; and the feel of his orgasm against your leg sends you into your own, private ecstasy. And then the tremors stop for you both, and you look at each other once more. His green eyes have a dangerous shimmer of tears in them. Yours are cold and black, emotionless.
“Oh God,” he says for the third time, but this time it is laced with misery and shame.
You step back. You ought to feel guilty, ashamed, shocked, but do you?
Do you, Severus?