Sweat rolled down his face, pooling around his spine, while, in the dark, he skittered backwards in his bed, glancing at the heavy velveteen trappings around his room at Hogwarts. If Harry Potter knew one thing and one thing only, the Boy-Who-Lived thought, ignoring the way the blankets arched away from his lower half, he knew what had just happened was ridiculous.
Because even more than Harry knew that he was fifteen years old, a wizard, a Gryffindor, the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter knew that there was no way he could ever be attracted to one Severus S. Snape.
Fuzzy and wild hair bounced into a seat beside him, looking as frazzled with sleep as it ever did. Curious brown eyes read him like the multiple books that Hermione set on the table beside her, and, after grabbing some scrambled eggs, she deduced with her incredible brilliance, "You don't look so good, Harry."
"Really?" He snapped, spearing a particularly rebellious looking piece of sausage off of Ron's plate. He hadn't bothered to fill up his own. The red-head moaned in dissatisfaction, but Harry was licking the tip before his best friend could do anything about it.
Breakfast food slipping along his tongue, Harry spoke with his mouth open, finishing his earlier snark. "Never could of guessed without that bit of help."
"I was just trying to help..." she mumbled, rolling her eyes and throwing a napkin in his direction. "Another one of those dreams?" Of course, he should've known Hermione wouldn't give up.
"Yeah," Ron answered, egg fluff smoothed along the roof of his throat as he swallowed mid-response, Adam's apple vibrating along his pale and freckled skin. "He's been like this all morni--hey, get your own plate!" he snapped, inciting a fork war as he went to tackle Harry's latest attempt at food theft.
"HE's right here," the dark-haired Gryffindor pointed out, dropping his fork in a table-turning instance of unfair play, and grabbing the last piece of sausage with bare fingers. "And he-I- didn't dream about that again."
They thought he'd dreamed of Voldemort. And, Harry mused, while he allowed his pilfered breakfast to dance into his roiling gullet, he almost wished he had dreamed of the dark lord.
Anything would've been better than those olive limbs, leaning in, kissing him until he was begging to remove his robes--
Shaking his head, he asked Hermione to help him study for their History test later--- goblin rebellions was infinitely better than imaginings of Severus Snape's roaming limbs.
There was no better way to spend Divinations class, Harry Potter thought, as the wind rippled through his dark and messy hair, cooling the sweat forming on the back of his neck, than by necking with Ron by the Lake.
Pale lips massaged his own, fingers tugging through his hair and grunting every now and then, when his redheaded friend remembered. He could tell Ron was trying to please him-- he didn't have that natural grace that others had-- that Snape had managed in his dreams---
Choking, Harry stopped himself from picturing Snape in Ron's place, and instead managed to have a coughing fit into the base of the tree they were using to hide themselves from view. Skinny limbs tickled Harry's back, as Ron shifted closer, knees thundering over the grass, to massage the choking out of him. "You alright?" he asked, hesitation clear.
Recovering himself, Harry turned and watched Snape's features melt back into those of his best friend, and he managed a shaky grin back. "Sure," Harry responded, lips brushing the beads of sweat on Ron's forehead, tongue jerking out to taste the salt that had built up there. "Just thought I saw Snape."
Wrong thing to say, Harry realized, when Ron jumped a mile, eyes roaming the area around them. "Man, if he catches us," he worried, "we'll get detention for su--"
Sometimes, just sometimes, Ron really needed to learn to shut up.
Snape's looming and dark form whisked through the Potions dungeon, pointing out each groups flaws as they struggled to finish their invisibility potions. At some point, Neville was so upset he accidentally tipped over his cauldron -- now he was mixing in a loaned cauldron with a half-visible arm.
"Potter," Snape's gravelly voice called, snapping Harry's lenses into focus. Long dark hair hovered over the potion, gaze imperiously taking in the memory of Harry's dream, drinking it through the air between them, and the tension that was had.
Or, at least, it was what it felt like, as Harry swallowed back the urge to scream, "I never want to snog you," into his professor's face. Instead, he set down the spoon he was stirring with, exchanged looks with Ron, who had turned a ruddy shade of fuchsia, and asked, "Yeah?"
"Tell me, Potter," he smirked, full lips stretching into a tainted smile. His spine was straight, and the Boy-Who-Lived noticed that Snape's robes fell open over a broad chest, with a tightly buttoned undershirt. Four buttons laid exposed, round and glimmering in the light. "--or the tubeworms in first?"
For a moment he stood, transfixed, the weight of the eyes of his teacher pushing him down to the floor, watching as he tore his clothes off, fingers reaching below his belt to remove his in-the-way tightie whites. But instead of giving in to the fantasy that he refused to admit he had just had, Harry shook his head and went with the only choice he had heard. "Tubeworms?"
"Wrong," Snape droned, shaking his head and whisking away, leaving with, "and next time, look me in the eyes when I'm speaking to you," drilling it's way down Harry's spine.
"What was with you earlier?" Ron asked, between kisses. His pale fingers tapped out a rhythm on Harry's back, moaning every fourth count, just like they'd read in Hermione's girly-magazine that she'd left in the common room. Harry thought it was ridiculous, but Ron figured he was so charming that the ebony-haired boy who lived didn't argue.
Sighing, Harry leaned back in the inches of space they had in the crawl-space of the castle, gloomy light from their wands casting shadows against Ron's illuminated features. Shoulders rolled. "Tired, I guess."
Nodding, Ron went back to slipping his fingers below Harry's shirt and counting the amount of time between knee-melting groans and hip-bending writhing. Biting back the bile in his throat, Harry leaned down and captured Ron-turned-Snape's lips inside his own, fingers painting their way across freshly revealed skin.
"Potter," Snape growled, dark hair obscuring his face. His harsh angles were hidden by a hand and his dark desk, ebony oak shielding the teacher's frame from Harry's lecherous gaze.
He wondered, while he stood there, if he could fit his entire body under the desk, licking Snape's hard-on while the man graded papers. But he banished the thought just as quickly, when Snape's boot kicked the desk in question, apparently shifting behind the desk.
The hand weaving through his dark hair, fragile locks rushing through tense fingers, supported his head, tensing and relaxing as it stroked away at Snape's olive forehead. "I'm not feeling well, Potter, so you don't have to worry about how pitifully unprepared I'm sure you are. Occlumency lessons are canceled."
A half-sigh half-grunt rushed the air between them, and Harry fled the room before he whispered questions he'd never want Snape to hear.
"The greasy git's out sick again, today," Ron announced joyfully, surveying the empty seat at the teacher's breakfast table. Snape never missed an opportunity to glare at the students, not unless he was going to be missing his class.
Harry bit down the disappointment he felt, and argued with Ron as Hermione snapped, "Show some more respect. Really, Ronald."
"You're just sad because you wanted to take his test." Pale skin vibrated over a clearing throat, and Ron's luminously dark eyes shifted into what Harry could only assume was his Hermione-poise-- on the edge of his seat, spine straight, arm waving in the air. "Excuse me, professor?" The redhead chirped in his most feminine voice. "You spelled Glumbumble wrong in number nine, did you know?"
Harry cackled at Hermione's harrumph, ignoring the way Ron's foot was tapping hers below the table, instead of Harry's. He wasn't sure when this had started--- but he wasn't sure he cared, either. Ron was a great snog and all, but really, Harry couldn't help but admit that the Snape in his dreams-- not that he was interested in Snape, but still--the Severus loaming over him in his dreams, kissing him, stroking him to a perilous edge-- that man was much better at snogging than Ron could ever pray to get.
Dumbledore had appointed a temporary replacement for Potions, a ruddy-cheeked witch who bounced around the room, encouraging poor floundering Neville and ignoring the rest of the class.
Which, to be honest, was just fine with the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry hadn't been sleeping well, so he tended to use that class to rest, watching Ron's spindly fingers drop ingredients into their cauldron, while talking casually about Quidditch and what an idiot Malfoy was.
It didn't bother him that Snape hadn't shown up in class for about a week, or that Occlumency lessons had been canceled again, through an owl--- no, Harry convinced himself, readjusting his glasses as he raised his hand to ask for a bathroom pass.
He couldn't care less what Snape did-- and whatever he was doing, the ebony-haired wizard wasn't going to try to go find him.
The bathroom was four suits of armor in the other direction, but Harry didn't care, robes swishing around him as he murmured the entrance password to Snape's personal chambers. He'd over-heard it in his dream, and curiosity had made him try it when he'd known Snape would be away.
It had worked, and gone a long way to making Harry wonder more about the source of the dreams, which had been growing more intense the longer Snape was out. It wasn't just blowjobs, not just Snape's thick manhood tilting to hit Harry's prostate at just the right angle to make the Boy-Who-Lived howl with pleasure, no-- there were handcuffs, games, brutal searing lips that tore flesh from bone-- and Harry had enjoyed it all.
Slipping into the room, he hesitated for the first time during his idiotic mission. It wasn't that he was worried the substitute would catch him--- he knew she'd be busy with Neville until the class ended-- but that he was literally walking into Snape's chambers uninvited.
And, if he knew anything about the snarky potions professor, Harry knew that he'd be angry. To put it lightly--- try to get him expelled, was more like it.
But, with true Gryffindor backbone, Harry brushed aside a stray strand of dark hair and snuck forward, trainers squeaking along the floor as he shut the door behind him.
It was colder in Snape's chambers than anywhere in the basement, if it was even possible to get that cold. Harry was surprised he hadn't grown icicles yet, as he shivered, gaze stealing over a reading lamp and chair, a book with ancient golden text sprawled along the cushion.
Snape wasn't in there, big surprise, so Harry crept through the narrow room, peering at the doorway that was to his far left. In there--- he had to be-- and the Gryffindor inhaled, spine straightening as ice shivered from his gullet to his toes, and then through his skull.
If he went in there, he wouldn't be able to go back, call this all a dream--
If Snape caught him---
Turning, Harry fled the room, breathe struggling to chase after him.
Midnight tolled in the Gryffindor common room, and Harry listened to the gentle wheeze of air sneaking in and out of Ron's chest, fingers brushing his hair before he closed the curtains around his best friends bed, who was the last person in their dorm to fall asleep. Ron had taken long enough, insisting that he stay up and talk to Harry about how he didn't like Hermione romantically, no matter how often their feet touched, or their hands connected across the table.
Almost, just almost, Harry felt like a bad friend for just wanting Ron to shut his mouth and fall asleep, so he could sneak out of the Tower without being noticed.
Invisibility cloak firmly in-place, and nerves back in their respective places, Harry flew down the stairs and out of the portrait hole, heading straight for the dungeon.
He would find out what was wrong with Snape-- if only so that then, maybe the bespeckled boy could get a free night's sleep.
Sneaking through the same room as earlier, Harry paused under the cloak's shimmering cover, biting back a laugh at the prediction Trelawney had given in class earlier about his death. 'You'll be strangled, dear boy,' she'd told him, finger closing uncomfortably around Harry's smirking cheeks.
Maybe she'd be right this time, Harry thought, noting the book that hadn't moved from where it had sat earlier that day. If Snape found him, he wouldn't be the Boy-Who-Lived for very long.
Peering at the door, it's hinges tilting, and the crack of darkness that loomed into the living area from it's cavern beyond, Harry took a survey of himself. Messy dark hair, fifth year, Gryffindor, faced down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and yet he was standing in his Potion professor's living room like a complete and utter prat.
Worse yet, he was planning on sneaking in, talking to the man.
A shudder went down Harry's spine-- Sirius would kill him if he knew about the dreams his god-son had been having.
Moans leaked inside Harry's skull, and he shifted to the side, craning his neck towards the sound behind the door. They were faint, and more like pants than anything else, but they drew Harry's feet closer to the door than he would've gone on his own, cloak or no.
He felt less-in-control than when he'd thrown the Imperius Curse-- he had to push open the door, had to know.
Fingers grazing over well-worn and smooth wood, he pushed the door, which squeaked open, causing a wince from the Boy-Who-Lived, emerald eyes shrieking shut behind his glasses. He knew Snape couldn't see him, but it wouldn't be long if---
---but he wasn't moving to look at the door. Instead, Harry's eyes adjusted to the dimness, and an image of Snape sprawled in a dark puddle on the floor, blood dribbling from his left arm, below the Mark of Voldemort. Harry'd seen the Dark Mark on Snape's arm enough in his dreams, licked it, touched it, scraped it---
Vomit had joined the blood on the floor, with Snape's hand convulsively opening and closing with the moans and jerks of his body.
It wasn't right-- not what Harry had imagined, not the scene of seduction he'd had stupidly planned, had wanted to act on, even if he got suspended for the whole asinine thing---
Frozen with confusion, Harry was tossing the cloak aside after breaking the spell of concern, and squelching through the puddles of chunks and sanguine suspension.