http://jade1x2.com/Password/HPotter/Bedknobs/bedknobs1.html
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http://www.myhq.com/public/a/i/aireonna/#117865098610011823
Title: Bedknobs and Broomsticks Authors: Anj and JadeDisclaimers: Don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell
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Ten more points from Gryffindor, and Harry silently seethed. It wasn't Neville's fault that he couldn't make a decent potion with Snape breathing down his neck. Snape knew just how intimidated Neville was by him, and yet he insisted on terrorising the boy every chance he got. Harry was quite sure the man enjoyed it. Now, Harry wouldn't mind at all if Snape came and stood right behind *him* while he made a potion. In fact, he'd *love* to have the man breathe down his neck. The thought of Snape pressed up behind him made him flush slightly and his cock twitched in his trousers. The man was a git, but a dark, powerful, sexy one, and it had been because of him that Harry had figured out he liked boys better than girls. It just figured he'd have a crush on the teacher that hated his very existence. The fact that he knew Snape hated him made what he'd accidentally seen in Snape's memories all the more confusing. During a particularly grueling occlumency lesson, he'd struck back in anger, and he'd felt himself slice right through Snape's defences. He'd been shocked, and unprepared, and had grabbed wildly at the nearest memory. It was of him. Riding his Firebolt in a Quidditch match. And then another scene, one he was sure he'd never actually participated in, because he was naked in the dungeon, on his Firebolt. Then Snape had shoved him out of his mind, and Harry had been so confused that he'd not even had the nerve to bring it up. He'd filed it away for further thought, and in fact he thought about it often. When he was alone, in his bed at night.
Snape pressed his lips together in irritation, stalking up to the front of the classroom and whirling around to glare at the two tables of Gryffindors that had somehow managed to make it into his NEWT-level Potions class. He was aware that the Slytherins were looking on smugly, but he couldn't care less. "Anyone with an unsuccessful potion will give me three feet on the proper procedure for concocting a Dreamless Sleep potion by next class." He narrowed his eyes, and glared nastily. Christmas always put him in a fouler mood than usual, as the good cheer and decked halls made him feel physically ill. "Get out of my sight," he barked before folding himself gracefully into his chair and glaring at the class.
Harry sighed as he gathered his books together, shooting one more look at Snape before he left. Not that he'd be leaving; he was of course staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. He'd been invited to stay at the Burrow, but Hermione was going as well, and Harry didn't think he could stand being around her and Ron's blissful couple-ness any more. They were unspeakably cute, calling each other pet names, and Harry was nauseated as well as envious. Not that he was attracted to either of them, but they had something he was beginning to suspect he would never have. So he claimed he needed the time to study his occlumency, and it was certainly true. In fact, he had a lesson tonight, which probably accounted for Snape's surly mood.
Snape sighed in barely disguised relief as the door swung shut, and cast a disgusted look around the ruin of the classroom. Even after seven years, most of the students were still utter dunderheads who never failed to cause chaos and ruination with even the simplest potions. There were, of course, a few exceptions. His Slytherins had continued to live up to his expectations. A few of the Ravenclaws were entirely methodical in their creation of potions, although they treated it as more of a science and less than an art, which led to perfectly functional but rather boring potions. Similarly to spells, potions reacted to the intentions of their creators, and the more passion one put into a potion, the more intricate it would be. The surprising individual in the class this year was Potter. While he had spent the first five years occupying himself with mindless pastimes, it would appear that the mongrel's (Snape still couldn't refer to Sirius as anything but) death had resulted in a change of attitude, and Potter had actually begun to apply himself. His potions, while never quite up to Snape's standards, were surprisingly adequate.
Harry walked up to Snape's office door, glaring at the wood as if it was the cause of his problems. He sighed, pausing to gather his thoughts before he knocked. He was beginning to doubt the accuracy of the vision he'd seen in Snape's mind. If the man lusted after him, he was sure hiding it well. As if going to a funeral, he knocked on the door, running a hand nervously through his hair.
Snape glared at the door, barking, "Enter!" before continuing the process of separating his thoughts from his mind and dropping them into the Pensieve. Ever since that one fateful afternoon, when Potter had managed to break through his defences, Snape had been especially careful to remove any thoughts that might compromise his authority and place them into the Pensieve before their sessions. He was not entirely sure what Potter had seen, but he had caught the little looks Potter had been shooting him so he gathered that it must have been something incriminating, or at least highly embarrassing. He scowled at the silvery surface of the Pensieve before dropping in yet another thought. This was sure to be a grueling session, especially since, as Harry had aged, he had become quite the attractive one, and Snape was finding it more and more difficult to ignore that fact.
Harry slunk in, casting a sideways look at his professor before setting his bag down in his customary spot. The routine never varied; Snape would make him wait while he finished whatever he was doing. There were no chairs provided for Harry's comfort, so he just stood in front of Snape's desk, trying to clear his mind in preparation for whatever the man was about to throw at him.
Snape sighed angrily as he felt another improper thought course through his mind, and seized that and dropped it into the Pensieve as well. Damn the boy! Did he always have to stand so....jauntily? Honestly. He should learn to show some respect. He straightened, setting the Pensieve inside the wardrobe and locking the door - it wouldn't do to have Potter snooping in there again - and then faced Potter. "Well," he said, his lip curling ever so slightly. "Have you been practicing?"
"Yes, sir," Harry said, trying to keep the sullenness out of his voice. Yes, he tried to practice, at night when he was in bed, but that always made him think of Snape and his velvet voice, and he got distracted, and... no, don't get distracted now, Harry told himself. If only Snape wasn't so dark and sexy and brooding... "A bit."
"A bit," Snape repeated mockingly, raising one elegant eyebrow. "We shall see how much 'a bit' covers." That was all the warning Harry got before Snape whipped out his wand in one graceful movement and barked, "Legilimens!"
Harry felt more than heard the spell; he wasn't ready, as always, but he was getting better at snapping up his defences quickly. But Snape was already in his mind, the feeling of his memories being sifted through unnerving Harry as always. He clenched his wand, trying to draw his power to him, and *pushed* back at Snape. It was like hitting a brick wall.
Snape pushed back, straining just the slightest amount, narrowing his eyes in concentration. He saw fuzzier memories than usual - the boy had been practicing - but was still able to break through Harry's defences. After a few moments, he let go of the spell. "Well, Mister Potter," he drawled smoothly. "I see you have been exercising the feeble organ known as your brain, although your success has been less than adequate." In Snape-tongue, that was almost a compliment.
Harry was breathing hard, mind still reeling from the effort, and frustration seethed through him. He had been so close! But Snape's mind was just too strong. Snape's words seemed like a challenge to him, and he said, "I want to try again. I can do better." His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glittered.
Snape raised both eyebrows this time in an expression of surprise. "The famous Gryffindor courage," he sneered, but flicked his sleeves back from his wrists nonetheless. "I am certain you THINK you can do better. Let us see if this is the case. Legilimens!"
But Harry was ready this time, adrenaline still pumping and he immediately snapped back at Snape with his mind. He almost felt Snape's spell as he slipped past it, pushing through defences as if they were jelly. He kept pushing and he was through, looking wildly around, grabbing for a memory. He might not get this chance again.
Harry's impression of Snape's memory was that it was a dark one, very dark, with the barest amount of light trickling in from a crack underneath the door. A seven or eight-year-old Snape sat huddling in a corner, covered in bruises and what looked like whip marks, knees tucked up to his chest, long hair filthy and bedraggled and hanging around his tear-stained face, looking mournfully up at a heavy door. It looked to be a dungeon, what with the heavy, rough stone floors and the chains hanging from the wall.
A gasp escaped Snape's lips and he pushed back hard, almost desperately, needing to get the boy out of his mind right then.
Harry reeled; at first he'd thought he was seeing his own memories of the cupboard that had been his home most of his life, but it had never been that cold. But then he knew he was seeing Snape, locked away as he had been, and Harry felt a stab of empathy for the man, like he had after he'd seen how he'd been treated in school. He grabbed tightly on to the memory, wanting to see more, know Snape better.
Snape, disgusted with himself for allowing a mere boy to enter his mind, shoved back with a great deal of force, a soft growl tearing from his throat, pushing back toward Harry desperately, angrily, feeling the inexplicable urge to actually hurt the boy for daring to be nosy.
Gasping, Harry felt himself pushed back, *hard*, propelled out of Snape's mind with such force that he actually flew back across the room. He felt his head hit the shelf behind him and he slid down, vaguely hearing the crash of glass around him.
Snape shook his head, trying to regain his wits. "Fuck," he cursed under his breath as soon as his eyes fell upon the prone figure on the other side of the room, furious with himself for losing control in the first place and then reacting so badly. He usually didn't have a problem with this sort of thing, but nothing was ever usual when it came to Potter. He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing a phial along the way, and crouched down beside Potter, wrapping his arm around the boy's shoulders and pulling him up against his own body, uncorking the phial with his teeth and putting it to Potter's lips. "Drink that," he commanded hoarsely as he spit the cork out, a faint note of panic hidden by the gruffness in his voice.
Harry swam back to consciousness, confused for a moment as to where he was. There was a warm body pressed against him, and his head hurt terribly... He opened his eyes and got a shock. Snape. Closer than he'd ever been to the man, it was Snape holding him, his lean body pressed against him, and the shock of it made him open his mouth, following the order instinctively.
Snape forced him to drink the entire contents of the phial before shifting Potter's position in his arms, looking at him with a concerned fire flickering in his black eyes. It wouldn't do to be killing a student while attempting to teach him something, especially one as high-profile as Potter. "Potter, are you hurt anywhere?"
Harry tried to lift his head, still gazing at Snape. "I don't... ohhh..." he moaned as his head swam, the potion still burning down his throat. He felt it hit his stomach, and the pain lessened. Enough that he became more aware of just how close to Snape he was. He blushed furiously.
Snape went from concerned to uncomfortably aroused in one second, the sound of that disorientated moan going straight to his cock. The fact that Potter was pressed up against him, touching him in various places, and looking rather wanton with his messy hair, lidded eyes, and flushed cheeks, certainly was not helping. He fought to control his reactions, shifting ever so slightly to they weren't in such close contact without letting Potter go, cursing himself for feeling this way about a student, especially one as irritating as Potter...irritating and beautiful...NO! He forced those thoughts from his mind and averted his eyes as he asked, "Where does it hurt?" in a low voice to keep it from shaking.
Oh god, that voice, practically in his ear... Harry gasped softly as all the blood rushed to his cock. He hunched instinctively, although in his position it probably wouldn't show. He stammered, blushing more, "My head..." Other parts of him ached as well, but he didn't think he should mention that.
Very gently, repeating to himself over and over that it was just professional concern, Snape raised a hand to Harry's temple and began ghosting the cold fingertips over the skin. "Where exactly?" he breathed, his other arm still supporting Harry's back.
Harry barely held back the moan that threatened to escape. Snape was touching him, almost gently... his teenage body reacted, and Harry was hard as a rock now. He licked his lips, trying not to arch into Snape's touch, and stammered, "The back of my head..."
Snape tilted the boy forward slightly, supporting his chest on one of his own knees, and began sliding his fingers over the back of Potter's head, letting the rough silk that was Harry's--Potter's hair slide across the pads of his fingers and attempting to ignore the sensation, trying as hard as he could to feel only for any bumps or broken skin rather than allowing himself to notice the boy's breath ghosting over his arm, the softness of his skin, the lushness of his hair...
Harry whimpered out loud this time, Snape's graceful fingers driving away the pain and leaving only desire. God, he'd dreamed of this, being in Snape's arms, and it was all he could do to keep from kissing the man.
Concerned by the soft sound, Snape looked down at the boy, taking in the closed eyes, the mouth slightly twisted, the flushed skin. "There?" he asked, his voice still low, afraid of what it might reveal if he raised it. He knew far better than to show any interest in Potter beyond his continued vehemence toward the golden boy, but he had seen so many things in Potter's mind that reminded him of his own childhood, and while his opinion of the boy had long been twisted by his knowledge of the boy's father, he had come to realize over the last few years that Harry and James were very much alike. In fact, Harry reminded him much of himself, and the shared experiences and memories had only helped to enhance those thoughts. He couldn't help but feel a protectiveness toward the boy, who had already suffered far too much, who had been forced to grow up long before his time. There was only so long that he could delude himself into thinking his concern was entirely professional, and that he didn't feel more than just empathy and respect toward the boy.
"Y-yes," whispered Harry, gazing up at Snape. He was so hard now that he felt he could come from the slightest touch. His head did hurt but it was secondary to the ache in his groin. And Snape was still holding him.
Gradually, Snape released Harry's head, tilting him back so he was in an upright, seated position again, leaning back against his arm still, and looked down at him. *To make sure his eyes are focused all right,* Snape tried to convince himself, trying to force the blatant concern from his face. "Are you all right to stand?"
"I... don't know," admitted Harry, reluctant to lose Snape's touch. God, he liked being so close to Snape, so close he could smell the other man's scent. "I can try," he said, not wanting the older man to think him weak.
"Very well," Snape said, moving back a bit and gaining his footing before putting a very firm hand underneath Harry's elbow, keeping the other wrapped behind Harry's back, and starting to straighten slowly, giving Harry a chance to gain his footing on the floor.
Harry stood, leaning more than was absolutely necessary on Snape. Finally, he was upright, his cock still rock hard but not obvious in his robes. "Thank you, sir," he whispered, looking up at Snape.
"You're welcome, Mister Potter," Snape returned briskly, avoiding Harry's eyes, turning away and returning to the desk. "If you feel you may be suffering from any lasting damage, pay a visit to the Hospital Wing. You are dismissed."
Harry stared at Snape for a long moment, searching for some sign of what had happened, but all was as normal. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then thought better of it. He reached down to grab his bag, wincing just a little, then slung it over his shoulder. With one more look at Snape, he walked out the door, body still tingling.
Snape watched him go, keeping his face as neutral, as irascible as possible, his customary glare and sneer in place, but as soon as the door whispered shut, he sank down into his chair and brought one hand up to his face to massage the bridge of his nose. What the hell had just happened? He had lost control of the situation, lashed out, and then felt a fierce protectiveness and even lust for the boy he had all but abhorred for so many years. He was cracking. He'd even thought he'd seen a hint of reciprocation in those huge emerald eyes...but that couldn't be possible. He was a greasy old git, and Potter was the golden boy, the savior of the Wizarding World. He was certainly delusional if he even deigned to think otherwise.
Harry yelled in triumph as his hand closed around the Snitch once again. It was the last Quidditch game before Christmas holidays, and despite the fact that Snape had been refereeing, and trying his best to make Gryffindor lose, Harry had won again. Though they'd been behind, the capture of the Snitch gave them the win. He shot a triumphant look at the black-clad man, even though Snape couldn't see. He'd thought that maybe Snape would be nicer to him since the incident in his office, but of course he'd been fooling himself. If anything, Snape had been nastier than ever.
Snape growled angrily as he landed his broomstick, trying to ignore the feel of the wood against his... leg, and definitely ignoring the glances the Potter brat was shooting his way. So what if he looked positively edible in his Quidditch robe, and so what if he kept his broom carefully polished and gleaming? He was NOT going to let Potter see that he was affected. He cursed to himself as he pulled out his wand and Accio'd the quaffle and the bludgers, fastening them into the case, and then turned to glare at Potter, who was still doing laps of the field. "Potter!" he snapped, putting every hint of his arousal into vehemence. "The Snitch!"
Harry landed near Snape with a bit more of a flourish than was absolutely necessary, and he smirked nastily at the man as he handed him the Snitch. "Here you go, *sir*," he said insolently, trying not to notice how good the man looked in Quidditch robes and gloves.
Snape snatched the Snitch from the boy, glowering at him as he turned his back and bent over to slide it into its place in the case. The stands were mostly empty at this point, and he wished the stadium was completely empty so he could turn and tell the boy exactly what he thought of the way he had played...although, all things considered, that probably wouldn't be a good idea. He shifted, hiding the bulge in his trousers - curse these Quidditch robes! - and straightened slowly. "You had better go join your teammates," he said in a low voice, not facing the boy. In truth, he wanted them gone and then out of the shower so he could get out of the disgusting uniform and get cleaned up.
Harry realised he was staring at Snape, trying to see the line of his body as he bent over. God, what was wrong with him, lusting after Snape of all people, he really was as stupid as the man said. "Yes, sir," he sighed, with one more look over his shoulder at Snape as he trudged off to the showers. He took his time, not wanting to deal with Ron or anyone else when he was in this mood. In fact... he glanced over his shoulder once more, his body reacting to Snape again, and he decided if he dragged behind enough, he could have the showers to himself to relieve his frustration. He grinned and walked slowly toward the changing rooms.
Snape turned, sighing deeply as he watched Potter walking away, his young arse swinging ever so slightly, his cloak billowing out behind him. He gathered the broomsticks and bundled them up, not allowing himself to run his hand over their polished shafts -- sticks! -- HANDLES, as much as he wanted to. He growled and gritted his teeth. Sometimes, having a strange sort of fetish was the most irritating thing ever.... He made quick work of collecting all the items together and then, leviosa-ing them, made for the broomshed, a place where he DEFINITELY did not want to spend too much time.
Harry's dawdling gave him just the right timing; he walked in just in time to bid his teammates goodbye. No one hung around, because dark was falling quickly and it would be dinner time soon. Harry wasn't hungry, he never was after a game, he just had all this excess adrenaline and he wanted to get rid of it in a very specific way. He shed his clothes quickly, walking naked to the showers because there was no one else there to see. He turned on the spray, gloriously hot, and eased under with a sigh.
Snape left the broomshed, taking a deep sigh, and then looked around with a grimace. Although everyone had been at the game, he didn't especially care to walk back through the halls of Hogwarts wearing the disgusting referee's outfit, especially when it was dirty and sweaty and smelled rank. He felt very uncomfortable in anything but his black robes, and decided on the lesser of two evils - the Quidditch showers. He only hoped that Potter had finished his ablutions and would leave the shower to himself. And speaking of the boy...he grumbled as he once again felt the tightness of his trousers. That was something else he would need to take care of, although he thought that might wait until he returned to his own room.
Harry took his time, luxuriating under the hot spray. That was another advantage of the magic world; the hot water never ran out like it did at the Dursleys. He washed his hair and his body, ignoring his half-arousal for now, knowing he had plenty of time.
Snape entered the showers via the Slytherin entrance, looking around to make sure there were no hiding students in the changing room, before stripping and finding a towel which he wrapped around his waist. He then headed for the showers, eagerly wanting to get the Quidditch grime off his skin, and stopped dead in his tracks as he saw that the showers were, unfortunately, not yet deserted. Potter stood with his back to him, but Snape was still hyperaware of the water trickling over Potter's shoulders and back, sliding over the curve of his arse, running down those Quidditch-toned legs, plastering his unruly shock of hair to his head. He swallowed. He knew he should leave, but his legs seemed to be unwilling to obey.
Harry had learned to be aware of small noises, as he had grown up trying to avoid his cousin. He was pretty sure he had heard someone over the water's spray, and he turned slightly so he could see through the steam. He resisted the urge to call out, just in case he was wrong. He'd been just about to relieve his tension but now he paused.
Snape saw the small shift in motion and quickly forced his legs into motion, ducking behind the wall, where he still had an unobstructed view of the showers but where Potter couldn't see him if he so decided to turn around. You really should leave, he told himself, but he couldn't seem to convince himself to do so. Besides, after what they had been through with Occlumency, physical nakedness was nothing, or so he tried to justify himself.
Harry caught a flash of something, but no student was that tall and lean. Harry's heart pounded as he realised it could only be one person. Snape. What was Snape doing in here? And more importantly, what was he doing lurking in the shower room? He tried not to give an indication that he knew there was anyone there.
Under normal circumstances, Snape would be eager to get as far away from Harry Potter as possible. However, all things considered...he inched forward, looking around the wall again just slightly. Potter certainly had grown up, and was nearly no longer his student. Although a part of him screamed at him to stop being a dirty perverted old man, the other, more vociferous part, that seemed to be run by the pulsing organ underneath his towel, quickly drowned out his voice of reason.
Oh god, Snape was still there, he could sense it somehow, and the man was watching him, looking at him wet and naked... In an instant, Harry was rock hard, and he whimpered, amazed at this hidden streak of exhibitionism. Well, if Snape wanted to watch, Harry would give him a show he wouldn't soon forget. Stretching slightly under the hot water, he turned his back, then bent over slightly, spreading his legs.
Snape's throat tightened and he swallowed hard, frozen, one hand on the wall, the other one resting just above his hipbone. The boy was so utterly wanton in his ignorance, it was enough to bring a whimper to Snape's lips, a sound that hadn't emerged in years. His dark eyes flashed with lust, the front of his towel tented hopelessly, and he stood there, immobile, unable to do anything but watch.
Really getting into it now, Harry leaned back, arching his back, before turning sideways, presenting his side to the watching man. A thrill ran through Harry, knowing Snape could see his erection now, and he slowly ran his hand down his chest and over his flat stomach. Why this turned him on so much he didn't know, and didn't care any more.
Unaware of what he was doing, Snape almost took a step forward before catching himself and cursing under his breath. As delicious as Potter looked, and as much as Snape wished that was his hand instead of the boy's own hand teasing that golden, toned flesh, this was already far beyond wrong, and he really should leave, go back to the changing room, wait for Potter to finish... Heedless of his mind's vociferous objections, Snape continued to watch, enthralled.
Harry took a deep breath; was he really going to touch himself like this, wank off in front of Snape? But he moved his hand farther, wrapping it around his aching length, and he let out a deep moan, and it was better than anything he'd ever felt. Yes, he was going to do it.
Once again, Snape froze, that sound going straight to his cock and making it even harder, as impossible as that seemed. Potter was... touching himself with blatant disregard for his surroundings, and Snape found himself wondering who the boy was thinking about. Potter had had very few public attachments, although he'd been rumored to be a sex god involved with every girl and several of the boys in the upper classes. Snape doubted that, as the boy had always been so embarrassed even by the simplest glimpses of sexual attention he'd come across during their sessions together. He soon stopped thinking though as his cock throbbed insistently against the roughness of the towel, wiping his mind blissfully blank, and he continued to watch, his face heating.
The second Harry wrapped his hand around his cock, he stopped thinking about anything but the fact that Snape was watching, and how perfect it was. He wanted Snape to touch him this way, but the man watching was the next best thing. He stroked, slowly at first, gasping from the feeling.
Snape couldn't hold back a moan, thankfully one muffled by the wall and muted by the pounding of the shower. If he didn't know better, he'd think Harry was putting on a show, being as blatantly licentious as possible. One hand moved toward his aching erection, only to be snatched back. He couldn't possibly, no way. And at the same time, he still couldn't convince himself to move. He was caught, between...ahem, a rock and a hard on.
The more Harry pumped his cock, the less he worried that he had an audience. He knew he wouldn't last long at this rate, and he stroked faster, imagining Snape's elegant hands all over him. That did it for him, and the thought of what Snape would sound like when he came. Harry climaxed hard, his creamy seed spurting out over his hand as he cried out.
Snape muffled a cry with his fist as he watched Harry come, imagining it was his hand wrapped around that glistening cock, that he could raise it to his mouth and taste the Essence of Potter, flavored of chocolate and butterbeer and courage and heroism, and he let his head fall against the wall with a thunk, breathing hard and desperately trying to will away his erection. At this rate, he'd never make it back to the castle. He'd just have to do something about it here.
Harry hoped he hadn't cried out Snape's name as he came, but right now he didn't care. His body was flooded with pleasure and the fact that he knew Snape was watching made it even better. He slumped against the wall, breathing hard, and let the water wash away the evidence of his desire.
Snape swallowed hard, shivering all over, feeling almost as if the orgasm had been his own but without the pleasure of release. His stomach was still tied in knots and his cock throbbed with unreleased tension, and he wanted to cross the room, bend Potter over, and fuck him into the wet, tiled wall. Instead, he remained there, shaking slightly, hoping Potter would leave soon so he could indulge himself.
Harry finally gathered himself, stretching gratuitously before turning off the water and reaching for his towel. With no need to hide himself, Harry toweled himself off but didn't bother to wrap the towel around his waist. Trying not to smirk, he walked past where he knew Snape to be standing, resisting the urge to look over at him. He walked back to where he'd gotten undressed, and slowly put clean clothes on.
With Potter that close and that unaware of his own presence, Snape was so thoroughly hypnotized by his innocence and his blind trust that he was in no danger. No wonder the boy had a propensity toward getting himself killed. He wondered how on earth he'd managed to survive all those years. Of course, Potter would never survive an encounter with his greasy old potions master. He felt his erection begin to diminish a bit at the thought.
Harry tried not to smile too much as he searched for any possible reason other than the obvious why Snape would be watching him. Well, he hoped he enjoyed the show, and that if it ever happened again he'd do more than watch. Harry shivered at the thought of Snape pressing him to the tiled wall, the powerful man taking control of him. He finished getting dressed, and reluctantly left the room. Once outside, though, he paused, realising he'd left his bookbag.
Watching Potter walk past him again, this time fully clothed, brought to mind the sight of his climax, and Snape found himself instantly hard again, and this time there was nothing to stop him. Potter had left, and the showers were his. Feeling like a teenager again but hardly caring, he hung up the towel and slid his lithe frame under the spray of hot water, letting it drench over his pale but firm body, running long fingers over his smooth skin, his lean muscles bunching and releasing.
Harry stood outside the door, undecided. He knew Snape was in there, but he needed his bookbag... but was it possible to get in there and out again without the man knowing? He flushed slightly; was it possible that Snape was showering, just like he had done just moments ago? He pushed open the door as silently as possible.
The hot water served to pound the grit and sweat off his body, which Snape was very grateful for. He hated being dirty, preferred the pristineness he maintained on a regular basis. Unfortunately, leaning over cauldrons all day served to turn his skin yellowish and his hair greasy, no matter how often he washed (which was very often - twice a day, at least), but he was determined to remain as clean as possible. He ignored his throbbing erection for a moment in favor of the pure pleasure he got from the spray of the shower.
Sneaking in, Harry had to go past the door to the shower room to get to his bag. And he absolutely could not resist having a peek. So quietly that he couldn't even hear himself, Harry snuck toward the door. He didn't even risk a silencing spell.
Snape turned toward the tiles, raising his hands and massaging them across his scalp, the muscles in his flat abdomen stretching out as he did so. It felt so good to stretch, to relax, to soothe his skin, he let out a soft moan of contentment and turned his face up into the spray, closing his eyes and letting the water beat over his features and past his partly opened lips.
Oh fuck... Harry caught his first sight of Snape naked, and his mouth fell open. Why did the man hide that body under his robes? Snape was pale and lithe and Harry couldn't tear his eyes away. He crept closer.
Snape sighed deeply, making quick work of lathering himself all over, bending down to thoroughly wash his legs, balancing effortlessly as he washed his feet, and then shampooing his hair with gusto. His erection glistened and throbbed, but still he ignored it, leaving it for last.
Harry watched transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away from Snape's graceful form. Even though he'd just come, he felt his cock start to twitch again. He thought he should feel guilty about spying, but considering Snape had just done the same, he didn't.
Once done washing, Snape let his muscles relax under the hot spray, his eyes closed, his mouth open, his head tilted slightly back. If any of the students could have seen him then, they wouldn't have recognized him. With the furrows in his brow gone and the expression on his face open, he looked almost handsome. Of course, he never completely let his guard down, and the slight rigidity to his shoulders said as much, as did the faint twitch of his head every so often, as if he were listening to something. Almost lazily, his hand drifted down toward his erection, now nearly purple, his long fingers wrapping around the hardness and giving it one long, smooth, elegant stroke.
Harry whimpered to himself as he watched; Snape looked like a wet dream, and he drank in the image of the stern professor indulging himself this way. He couldn't have left now even if a Dementor had shown up. The sight was too arousing, and Harry knew he was getting hard once more.
Like everything else about him, Snape's manual indulgences were elegant, classy, none of the heated and animalistic nature of sex. He practically seemed to be seducing himself, his long fingers curling expertly around his shaft, his movements sedulous but slow and unhurried, his eyes lidded, his mouth partially open, the water caressing his pale skin that was just beginning to show the faintest flush.
Harry was practically panting now, leaning against the wall and without his knowledge one hand had snuck down to press against his aching cock. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Snape. He'd never dared to imagine the man this way. But he could not stop watching.
Languidly, Snape's hand picked up the pace, sliding expertly along his length, which was, like the rest of him, long and firm, and his eyes snuck closed. For a moment, he almost looked abandoned, his defenses down, his shoulders relaxing, his white teeth biting down on one thin lip as he sucked in a sharp breath, obviously nearing the edge.
Harry's trapped cock throbbed, and he still watched transfixed, amazed and not in the least ashamed to be witnessing this private moment. In the beauty of watching Snape, he'd forgotten it was supposed to be wrong.
Snape's toes curled against the tiled floor, his head fell back, and he released his lip, moaning now through his open mouth as his hand sped up still further, his body beginning to shake ever so slightly. With a soft cry that sounded suspiciously like "Harry!", he came in white-hot pulses, his hand continuing to move as his creamy seed splashed against the tile and were washed away by the pounding of the water.
Harry's eyes went wide. Had he just heard what he'd thought he'd heard? He suddenly came back to his senses, and all but ran out of the room, grabbing his bag and fleeing back to the castle, cheeks burning.
Snape's head snapped up as he heard a rustling, and he quickly shut off the water, ignoring the pleasant haze of the orgasm's aftermath in favor of wrapping the towel around his waist swiftly and stalking into the Gryffindor changing room. There was nobody there, though, so he moved back into the Slytherin changing room to dry off and dress, realizing he probably had very little time before supper.
Harry rushed into the great hall, taking his place with his classmates who greeted him with congratulations and didn't seem to notice his flushed cheeks. He was just in time for dinner, and though he knew exactly where Snape was, his eyes went automatically to the head table. He forced his eyes away from the table and tried his best to immerse himself in the conversation around him and keep his mind from what had just happened.
Snape arrived a few minutes later, after a drying charm on his hair and a few moments to compose himself thoroughly, stalking to the High Table with the same irascibility and elegance as usual, making no sign that he even acknowledged anyone else save Dumbledore, who twinkled in his direction. Snape scowled and sat down, helping himself to chicken and potatoes, showing no outward appearance of having done anything out of the ordinary.
Harry felt rather than saw Snape enter the room, and he felt his cheeks burn as he concentrated on his plate. But there was no way he could keep his eyes from the man for long. The man who he had just showed off for, touched himself intimately for, and whom he'd just watched in return. He shivered as he raised his eyes.
Snape let his gaze rest on Potter for a moment, his expression blank, but tendrils of something indescribable curling around the pit of his stomach. All of a sudden, he felt very not hungry. He pushed his plate back, a bit horrified at the repercussions of what he'd just done - wanking off while thinking about a student in the Quidditch showers?! watching said student get himself off? - and stood hurriedly, stalking out of the Great Hall awhile ignoring the calls from McGonagall and Sprout, thinking only of returning to the peace and quiet of his rooms.
Harry's mouth dropped open as he watched Snape actually seem to lose his composure for once. He ignored Ron's jokes about Snape and instead stared at the closed door, wondering what it all meant.
Once safely back in his rooms, Snape sat down at his desk and put his face in his hands, massaging his brow. It would do no good to think of Potter in such a way. He was a student. He was the fucking Golden Boy of the Wizarding World. And of course, he was an attractive, popular teenager who would never feel anything aside from disgust and possibly a sort of tolerance toward his greasy old professor. He groaned, and stayed there for a long time. What had he done?
A cheer went up from the Gr...
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