My door creaks slowly open with no warning knock and no visible agent for its opening. I look up from the books and papers before me as if surprised, as if I haven't been expecting - awaiting - this intrusion all day. All week, even. A well-known step, intentionally loud, introduces itself once more to my ears. The door shuts again, seemingly of its own accord, then the empty air folds back to reveal his face, finally sliding off to show the rest of him. All green eyes and glasses and faintly nervous smile, he steps from the air like a dream taking shape in my world, too thin, yet perfect even when concealed in his uniform.
My eyes rake almost greedily over him, searching for the inevitable changes, seeking to swallow him whole with my gaze and keep him safe and protected. The tiredness in his face shows the need for it. Yet even after these long hard years he is still boyish - The Boy Who Lived. I suspect he will always be a boy to me. My boy.
After a minute or two, I pointedly return my attention to my note-making. He is late, and I intend to make my displeasure known, even if it is only in this most gentle (for me) of ways. Seemingly it is not enough for him that he reduces me to loving him, now I must suffer the indignity of waiting for him too. Still, at least I stopped hating myself for loving him long ago, and stopped trying to change his mind about loving me very soon after.
He leaves his cloak in a silvery puddle on my floor. I have never yet been able to break him of the habit and, truth be told, I find the implied impatience of the action disconcertingly endearing.
He steps somewhat cautiously to my side, not speaking. The soft whisper and crackle of the fire is all that breaks the peaceful almost-silence, that and the scratching of my quill across the parchment as I continue to attempt my note-making. Sadly incoherent, but who's to know save him and I? Neither of us will tell of the effect he has on me. And wasn't that the greatest surprise of all, that I trust him - not only with this secret? Discovering I still knew how to love was nothing to that.
"Severus." My name breaks the silence, accompanied by the touch of his hand, barely brushing my cheek. I cannot help myself; I turn into the touch, seeking - craving - more. I have never been able to ignore him for long. It has been so long, and it will be longer until the next time.
He takes advantage of the fact that my face is turned towards him to kiss me, his mouth opening eagerly to welcome my tongue again, greeting it as a much-missed guest. Always so eager, my Harry. I break away to tell him so. His only reply is a smile.
I lick my lips, savouring the taste of him again after so long. Honey-lemon as usual and a hint of chocolate - what he last ate, no doubt. Well, he can certainly afford to gain a little weight. Under it I imagine I can taste the others he has kissed while he has been away. I know he seeks his solace in others on the long, lonely nights. Nights I cannot be there for him, and that he cannot come to me. He told me of them, with the fear of my rejection evident in his eyes. But I could not turn him away, not when I also know that he loves me - how could I not believe it, when he says it with such shattering sincerity, when it shines forth from his eyes on the all too rare occasions he can truly look at me, when we are alone? It shines so now.
Still, I have never been good at sharing. I claim his mouth again, seeking to drive out those intruders who have dared to touch my Harry. "Mine," I whisper, as good as a growl.
"Always," he replies with both ease and honesty. His standard response to my possessiveness. Tonight I will imprint him with my being again. He will be only mine. Always mine, as I am his. He knows it, but never needs to say it.
Somehow he manoeuvres his way to perch on the desk in front of me. My book and papers have vanished somewhere. Doubtless we, or I, will find them on the floor in the morning. No matter. Tomorrow, or the day after, will be soon enough for them. Carpe diem - his favourite saying when seeking to persuade me of his point of view. He is a day that is all too fleeting, and I fully intend to seize it.
Time enough also tomorrow for the familiar phrases of conversation, to question and to answer. Even the spaces between owls have been too long for my liking this time. Our responsibilities have left us with precious little time for each other, even for letters. Tonight, though, is about this. About his mouth pressed to mine and his body against me. About sweat and semen and reclaiming what is ours.
He breaks away briefly to gasp, millimetres from my mouth, "Too much thinking, not enough kissing." My smile is converted into a matching gasp by another kiss. Our tongues tangle and caress and slide across each other, each kiss flowing into the next with no tangible seam. His toes clench and relax convulsively on my thighs. I wonder, faintly and distantly, when he removed his shoes. His arms are around my neck, mine around his waist. Our clutching grips have brought me perilously close to pulling him off the desk and into my lap.
Hmm. Not a bad idea. I fit thought to action, and he ends up straddling me with a slight squeak. A very familiar erection brushes against mine, and he pulls away slightly again.
"Is that your wand…"
"Hmpf." I cut him off. "Mr Potter, I believe I already warned you about the dangers of using bad lines around me."
He looks innocent. I don't believe it for a minute. "And I believe I already warned you about the dangers of calling me by my surname."
"So you did. Shall we exchange hostages then?"
"Sure, fine, whatever. As long as you kiss me again."
I'm glad to comply. I've missed this. Dare I say it, missed him. For now I am content just to kiss him. But only for now. We have all night, there is no rush, but by a similar token, no time to waste.
Some indefinite amount of time later, I manage to persuade him to stand up. His eyes focus on me questioningly. "I'm sure this is all very well for you, Harry, but my legs simply aren't used to the weight."
He glares at me. "I'm not heavy."
I smirk ostentatiously. "Of course not. I'm just old."
"Old my arse. Just lazy."
"And a very nice arse it is too."
He rolls his eyes at me as I stand too, stepping very definitely into his personal space. "Besides," I purr, knowing exactly the effect my voice has on him, and loving the shiver that rolls up his spine at even the first innocuous word "Don't you think this would go rather better in the bed?"
"Now there's a good reason to stand up," he says with admirable enthusiasm. On occasion, he's very good for my ego. Of course, on other occasions he can be very bad for it. I let him take my hand and virtually drag me in the direction of the bedroom.
He pauses in the doorway, and pouts slightly. "You're not acting terribly eager."
I raise an eyebrow at him. "No?" My wand is in my hand and a word divests him of his clothing. "Eager enough for you?" The action complete, I regret it slightly. I would have liked to remove each garment slowly, worship the flesh beneath, drive him to distraction. Still, this way has its benefits too.
"Definitely. Although you're a little overdressed now."
I reach out and gently pluck his glasses, all that remains of his clothes, from his face, laying them carefully aside.
With him finally stripped for my gaze, I let my eyes linger on him appreciatively. He has not changed as much as I feared, perhaps a little less weight, a few more scars, a touch more tan. His hair is still raven-wing black, a contrast to mine which is now more than merely streaked with grey. I will examine him more closely. Soon. But he is whole, and here, and very obviously both ready and willing. That is enough, and more than enough, for me. "What matter, when you're so wonderfully underdressed?" I reply, finally, and reach for him.
He comes eagerly, winding about me, sighing my name before kissing me once more. I wrap my arms around him again, stroking from shoulder blades down to ass and back. The texture of his skin under my caressing hands is another glorious layer to refresh my tactile image of him, rebuilding and refleshing my memories, which were in danger of growing faded from much viewing.
It takes a few moments to register that his fingers are busy on the buttons on my robes, the same few it takes him to realise that only some of them are actually done up. I can practically hear the thought - most certainly eager enough - in the faintly surprised little huff he lets out through his nose, his mouth being otherwise occupied. He slides my robes off my shoulders and leaves me as naked as he, and as clearly excited.
The press of skin against skin is a delirious sort of pleasure, a drug, a miracle. I shift slightly to rub ever so gently, seeming almost accidentally, against him. He smiles against my shoulder, but says nothing. Thank Merlin for small mercies, and not the smallest of those is in my arms right now.
I lose track of time for another indeterminate length of it. When I come back to myself, or as much as it is possible to do so given the circumstances, we have made it onto the bed, lying on our sides and face to face. Clearly my body knew what was required even when my mind had departed.
Time to speed the pace just a touch, I decide. I shift, rolling him under me, my mouth moving across him. Nose, cheekbones, chin, I map his face, then move to his throat, suck just above his collarbone where neck meets shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. Easily covered by robes or magic, but he - and I - will know it is there. Tracing lower, flicking a nipple in passing, lured back by his moan to suck and linger over its partner.
My hands move lower, resting on his hips which shift slightly under them, trying to urge me further down. I smile, just a touch cruelly, against his sternum. "Tease," he mutters almost inaudibly. His hand, tangled in my hair, tugs gently in reproach. My tongue flicks out in mingled apology and something resembling triumph, and I move on to his navel. My tongue there imitates what he and I would like to do with lower parts.
Soon, my Harry, very soon. His hissed "Yes," informs me that I spoke that thought aloud. Well enough, that he know what I plan. Not that it wasn't obvious before.
My hands shift from his hipbones and brush his cock for just a second before my mouth joins them. I lick the head delicately, refreshing my memory of that taste, and then I take him as far in as I can. His hands clench once more in my hair as I swallow around him, flutter my tongue against him, suck and lick and seek all the ways I can to worship him. I can finally banish the lingering fear that I will have forgotten how to please him since the last time. After a few moments - flatteringly few, in fact - he is tugging me up. Almost part of ritual this, familiar and comforting.
He kisses me, his tongue seeking out the faint slipperiness of his own pre-come. I shiver again. "Fuck me," he whispers into my mouth, knowing that he doesn't need to ask, but also knowing how much I like, need even, to hear it. I am more than glad to comply with his order. I reach over to the nightstand for the bottle I'd placed there earlier in the day. In seconds my hand is coated and the bottle replaced, seconds in which he has shifted, propping his feet on the bed and tilting his hips up to offer me free access.
I reach for him, but he shakes his head. "I'm ready. Want to feel you." I blink slightly, and smile at the faint blush that stains his cheeks, even after all this time. Adorable is a word I hate to use, but at moments like this, it seems perfectly appropriate. So do 'fiendishly sexy' and 'good enough to eat', but I'll get to them later. For now, I stroke my slick hand over my own prick, more than eager, and position myself. His legs wrap around my waist with complete familiarity as I refuse urgency and begin to press slowly against, into, him. Into my Harry. As always, the thought and the reality send mingled wonder and pleasure spiralling through me.
I lose track of myself yet again, somewhere in that slow glorious slide, his flesh giving way to me, his voice murmuring my name under his breath like a mantra. Our worship, each of the other. Far too easy to lose myself in this. In him. He'd laugh, if he heard me say that. As well he won't then.
"You should not be thinking so hard now." He clenches around me pointedly, runs a perfectly distracting hand down my back.
"Sorry," I murmur - apology is always easier at these times - and lean forward to brush my lips across his forehead. I catch his mouth with mine and concentrate only on the rhythm of our bodies, thrusting slowly and deliberately with both tongue and cock. His movements under me incite me to move faster, and I angle my hips just a touch so I can stroke over his prostate with every thrust. Soon, far too soon, I can feel my climax approaching. I insinuate a hand between us, resenting even that slight distancing, but wanting to take him with me. His incoherent moans increase in volume as I grasp his prick, begin to move my hand in rhythm. He is writhing under me - a surprise, no matter how many times we do this - gasping my name loudly as he comes, the flood of wet heat over my hand and the tightening of his arse dragging me into climax along with him. I have no choice in the matter.
I collapse against his chest, breathing heavily, with just enough presence of mind left in me to roll to the side and perform a quick cleaning spell before we slide into sleep. I curl my arms around him and give in to oblivion.
I am woken by a tongue licking the hollow between my collarbones, and make a muzzy questioning noise. I am not at my best when just woken, and the irritating creature currently assaulting me knows it far too well.
"Carpe noctem," he mutters against my skin, the vibrations sending a shiver through me, only familiarity with his habits enabling me to decipher it. I have to smile as I begin to wake more fully.
"Indeed you are," I reply, unable to keep fondness out of my voice. His answering smile is hidden against my chest.
His hands are wandering over me, seeming to want to remap me as I did him. I arch into their attentions and gasp softly as he finds and stimulates seemingly every sensitive spot I have. His memory appears to have been as faithful as mine, and I am glad. I would snort at the thought of me, glad of Harry Potter's memory of my likes in bed, were my breaths not going toward a better cause.
His smile shifts, holding more than a hint of triumph as his mouth joins his hands in seeking to drive me insane with their gentle attentions. Within a few minutes I am close to begging him to do something more. The difference between us is never clearer - in the same position, I would have made him ask, made him beg and plead until he quivered incoherently in abandon. He merely reads it in my body and responds.
He has prepared for this wondrous assault on me - shifted the bottle to the other nightstand, closer to him, at some point before I awoke. I watch avidly as he tips a little onto his hand, but take it from him and place it close to me when he moves to replace it.
We have moved while he has been seeking to drive me insane with sensation, leaving him kneeling between my legs. He slides a finger cautiously against me, testing my resistance. It has been longer for me than for him, and I need the preparation. The thought is bitter, and I chase it away. The thought of others has no place in my - our - bed. Ours, even though he is so rarely here.
A finger slips in to the first joint, an excellent remedy for unwelcome thoughts. I gasp and arch against him once more, involuntarily pushing down despite the slight burn. I know what comes after, and I want it in all the ways I can. "More." He smiles again, pushes the finger in all the way, moves it ever so gently inside me. Crooks it to brush against my prostate ever so briefly. "Bastard," I manage to choke out, and his smile blossoms into a laugh. Perhaps the difference between us is not so great; after all, that epithet is usually applied to me.
When the depth of my reaction finally satisfies him, he adds another finger, moves it together with the first. His mouth swallows my moan as he leans in to kiss me, his other hand catching my nipple. I writhe, attempting to urge him to hurry with my body as my mouth is so pleasantly occupied. When he draws away, our breathing is unsteady. The addition of a third finger causes mine to hitch briefly. Seemingly, the reaction satisfies him as he thrusts all three into me hard and deep, then pulls away.
"Turn over," he commands, but I do not obey right away. It will not do to have him get used to obedience from me, and besides I have something else in mind first. I reach for the abandoned bottle of lubricant, coat him slowly and painstakingly, enjoying the moan he emits and the pleasure that contorts his face.
Then I turn, passing him a pillow to prop up my hips and resting my head on my arms. He tugs me into the position he requires and covers me. His weight is warm and comforting, yet another thing far better than my memories. His entry into me causes a greater burn, yet it all feels so good and I know it will feel better. He goes slowly, understanding that I need it or merely wishing to prolong the torture. Either way, I have no objection.
Finally - finally - he is sheathed in me. He drops a kiss between my shoulder blades, does not move. I shift under him as much as possible to incite him, but his weight is too great to allow me much leeway.
"Move!" I grit out. He is being unusually demanding of response today. Perhaps he has longed for this as much as I. No, I know he has. His laughter is muffled in my hair, but I tolerate it because he does indeed begin to move, and not as leisurely as I had anticipated. His hand snakes - hah - under me to grasp me firmly. The position is perfect, his co-ordination as much so. What else could I expect from Harry Potter?
The pace of his thrusts picks up rapidly, until he is driving into me, more fiercely than I did earlier tonight. It suits me, and I move back against him as much as possible. Rapidly the stimulation is too much. I tense and shudder, coming all over his hand and the bed sheets. He waits until even the aftershocks have coursed through me and then recommences thrusting, hard and fast. I clench around him, striving to drive him over the edge too. At last, he drives in deep and I feel his lips move against my neck in the pattern of my name as he spurts inside me. He collapses against my back and I am content to let him remain there awhile.
Finally, he withdraws from my tender ass, coaxing another gasp from me, and rolls aside so I can breathe. His turn to perform the cleaning spell, and he cuddles close again.
"I love you," he says sleepily. He never falls asleep without saying so. Sentimental fool. I can no longer imagine anyone else beside me. It must be catching. I remind myself to be horrified at some later point.
"Talk in the morning," he adds almost inaudibly, before burying his face in my neck and closing his eyes.
"Yes, Harry," I murmur fondly, stroking gently. "I love you too." I'm content for the moment. Here, now, he is mine or I am his. Either way, it is enough. In the morning we will need to talk, and neither of us can be wholly the other's, but for now, for now we will sleep and be whole.
Ask me to admit that aloud and I will deny everything.