Thirty years as a Death Eater cum double agent and it came down to this. The venerated wizards and witches of Hogwarts scattered all over the Forbidden Forest, playing a deadly game of paint ball against their enemies with killer spells.

Snape shook off the distracting thought and dodged a burst of violent puce majick heading with deadly intent for his head. Too close. Flying without benefit of broom behind a nearby tree, he took stock of the battlefield.

Of course. The only one in sight who was nominally on his side was Harry Potter. Who was apt to deflect a death-dealing curse onto Snape out of sheer frustration. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so tough on the lad for the last decade or so.

Potter deftly warded off three spells, assorted hardware and a tree branch the size of a Great Hall Yule log without once losing his concentration or getting a scratch. Snape grinned internally. No, he'd done what he had to do, and Potter could handle anything thrown at him. Literally.

Then a flash of gold and crimson caught his eye, and he cursed fluidly, disaparating and reaparating between Harry and the spell. No one could stop that one. Leave it to Voldemort to play as dirty as one could get.

And catch Snape in the middle of it.

Fire hit him mid-chest, throwing him off his feet and spinning him round mid-air. The last thing he saw before the world drowned in pain was the look on Harry Potter's face.

Disbelief.

The last thought he had before his mind dissolved was, 'Of course he can't believe it. He never understood what I tried to do for him.' Then agony crashed over him and the last thing he heard was his own voice screaming.

***

One would think after spending the last eleven years of his life consciously battling the ultimate evil, and the first eleven in hiding from it, he'd be used to it. But one never got used to such targeted malevolence. He hadn't ever grown accustomed to it from his Muggle family, unnatural as they were, or from Snape, regardless of his motives, and he certainly never became accustomed to the sheer hatred Voldemort and his followers held for him.

Concentrating fiercely, drawing on all the stoicism his difficult life had taught him, Harry fought off attack after attack. He could sense the desperation in his enemies, in large part from the increasing frenzy of the magickal and physical attacks centering on him. None were fatal, but all of them hurt.

On his seventeenth birthday, Voldemort had tried a direct assassination via magickal attack, and everyone had been surprised at its sheer uselessness. Since discovering that he couldn't kill Harry directly, he'd tried everything else in the four years since to debilitate, seduce or immobilize Harry. When none of them worked, he gave up on subtle and went for an all-out assault.

The denizens of Hogwarts were dealing with the fall-out from that now. Harry scanned the area quickly. He was deep in the Forbidden Forest, far from most of his friends and allies. Dumbledore and McGonagall were near the school, fighting off trolls and magickally animated hostile gardening tools, with Hagrid's help. It sounded ridiculous but it was a dangerous combination, rather like winged keys or animated chessmen. The advanced students were gathered in the main hall, combining their talents to buttress the walls against invasion, while the youngsters were hidden in the dungeons, warded by enchantment and guarded by ghosts. Most of the faculty were scattered between the forest and the school, battling the minions of evil one-to-one. The only ally in sight was Severus Snape.

What a surprise.

Snape always seemed to be there, making his life miserable when he wasn't saving it. At the moment his mouth moved as he cast spell after spell, his hands moving so quickly in the air they were a blur, eyes locked on Voldemort's followers. Before Harry could get distracted by the usual attack/protect conundrum of his relationship with Snape, which had gotten progressively worse since attaining his majority, a tree branch the size of a boat nearly took his head off. Biting his lip, he glared at the branch and it burst into a puff of ash.

Then spells were zinging in at him from all sides again and he lost sight of Snape in the heat of battle. Until he heard, "Bloody hell!" and out of nowhere Snape materialized in front of him. Just in time to get hit with what looked like a cannon ball of a spell. Harry stared in horrified fascination for a moment as Snape's entire body seemed to expand and contract with the sheer power of the spell, his screams echoing in Harry's ears, his eyes pinning Harry in place. There seemed to be a plea in them, to make the sacrifice worthwhile, and Harry felt his own scream bubble up out of his chest. Of rage, not pain.

Snape's agony made an effective distraction to the attackers. Gathering every ounce of his considerable power, Harry called on the universe itself to send the cancer of Voldemort and his followers to hell where they belonged. For once, the universe answered.

By the time the silver sparkles cleared in front of Harry's eyes and his palms stopped burning, the forest was conspicuously free of any evil presence. Charred spots in the underbrush, along tree trunks, even in some upper leafy branches, attested to the passing of Voldemort and his crew in a blaze of retribution. Harry felt two hundred years old, not twenty, and as if he'd not slept in at least a century. Staggering slightly, he wobbled over to Snape's body, lying sprawled on the ground, and fell to his knees beside the corpse.

Who groaned.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. Apparently Snape wasn't as dead as he'd feared. Even magickal immersion couldn't kill him off. Gingerly, Harry placed a hand under Snape's shoulder and gently turned him over onto his back.

Then he stared, fascinated, at Snape's face. Snape's *young* face. The scowl lines and permanent frown were gone. The sallow skin actually had a flush along the cheeks. The thin lips were softer, and the lank hair had a sheen to it Harry'd never seen before. He touched the fall of fringe across the high forehead, surprised at its silky feel. His hand, of its own volition, traced the rounder lines of Snape's cheek, the line of his jaw, the firm neck.

Leaning over to get a closer look, Harry finally realized what had happened. Since Voldemort couldn't kill him directly, he'd tried to do it indirectly, with an age-reversal spell that would take a good quarter century off, effectively erasing him from existence as it took him to a time before he was born. Only Snape had flung himself between Harry and the threat, and borne the brunt of the curse.

Grinning slightly at the startlingly attractive, now-young man inches from him, Harry couldn't help but think the curse had turned out to be a blessing.

In that instant, the long dark lashes he'd been staring at flew open, and bright brown eyes stared back at him, unfocused with shock and lingering agony. Of course. It must have been brutally painful, as every cell in his body was instantly transfigured, regenerated and rebuilt. Then those eyes snapped back into focus, intensely, on him, and the strangest thing happened.

Snape smiled.

Then he kissed Harry.

***

He must be dead.

Yes, that must be it. He must be dead, and there was a God, and he was being rewarded for all his empty years playing the villain by being embraced by Harry Potter.

No, wait. That wouldn't be heaven. That would be hell. Because Harry was a student. Who hated him. Who was convinced he was hated in return.

But no, that couldn't be right, either. Harry had graduated, was gone from Hogwarts. No, he'd come back. To meet a final threat. Yes, that was it.

Snape's memory was fuzzy, but it was clearing as he lay there, weirdly enough cradled in Potter's arms. Underbrush crackled beneath him, his head was muzzy from the lingering aftereffects of whatever spell -- or lorry -- hit him, and every inch of his skin tingled. He felt more alive than he had in decades, so he couldn't be dead.

And if he wasn't dead, he wasn't in heaven *or* hell, Harry Potter wasn't his student, they'd somehow survived the final assault, the forest was bright around him in a way it hadn't been since he'd been a boy himself, and he felt vaguely drunk. Potter was close enough to touch, so he did.

With his lips.

It was insane, of course. Even beyond the barriers of age and hierarchy, there was still the lingering question of past emotional abuse, no matter how noble the cause. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to convince his body that it was a bad idea to be kissing Potter, and Potter didn't seem to mind, either.

In fact, he was actively participating. Kissing him back. Not like an amateur, either. With enthusiasm. Feeling an inexplicable urgency he hadn't felt in a very long time, Snape opened his mouth and let Potter at him.

Got more than he bargained for, too. The tongue stroking along his knew what it wanted, and he echoed the sentiment. Strength surged through him and he curled his arms around Potter's back, shifting and rolling them over until he could comfortably blanket the warm body with his own. It amused him momentarily that Potter was an inch taller than he; he'd been glaring down at the boy for years, and he wasn't used to their positions being reversed. Then Potter thrust up against him, pressure of a firm erection bumping against his own, and he lost his train of thought.

Robes were in the way, and soon shed. Trousers followed, shirts rucked up and underpants tugged down, and Potter's hand on his skin felt like perhaps he was in heaven after all. He broke their kiss to gasp for breath, and tried to mutter a protest when Potter drew away, until Potter's mouth replaced his hand, and the protest strangled before it could be uttered.

Whatever he'd been doing when he hadn't been doing his homework had certainly paid off. It hadn't *all* been fighting evil.

Mind zipping to Ron Weasley and away again just as quickly, Snape managed to untangle one hand from the grass he was clutching and reach for Potter's head. Whether to push away or pull closer he didn't know, and had no time to decide, because his orgasm was upon him, and Potter wasn't letting go. Snape's scream was much quieter this time, no less heartfelt but much more pleasurable than earlier.

Gentle hands held him, soothed him, and nudged his legs apart. Staring dazedly up into Potter's flushed face, an expression of concentration in the glittering green eyes staring back at him, Snape barely had time to blink before Potter was nudging his thighs back together and thrusting between them. The friction against his recently emptied testicles bordered on pain, but Snape had never been one to shy away from pain. In his private moments he'd been known to enjoy it, and this was an oddly private moment for a shag session in the middle of a forest in the aftermath of an epic battle.

So he drew Potter's face down to his, held the shaking body close and kissed him as he shuddered through his climax. A last gasping moan into his mouth, and Potter collapsed against him, tension draining from his body as he fell into sleep.

Snape was almost as exhausted, from the battle and the unexpected sexual encounter, but the aftereffects of the spell were energizing him. He lay there for some time, enjoying the weight of Potter curled atop him, until he started to itch in places he didn't appreciate scratching. Sighing in mild disgust, he carefully shifted Potter onto his side on their bunched robes. Potter twitched once, then settled deeper into sleep. Snape stared at him a moment longer, then pulled himself up and headed for a nearby stream.

He kept Potter in sight as he washed, wincing at the cold water but enjoying the slight sting. Instinct told him the war was truly over, but he'd been on guard so long, and guarding that particular young man so long, it was ingrained by that point. Finally tearing his eyes away from Potter's sleeping form, he splashed water on his face and glanced down into the little pool of still water by the bank where he crouched.

What he saw startled him so badly he nearly fell in.

Impossibly young. Nearly as young as young Potter. He blinked. Shook his head. Narrowed his eyes and glared at his reflection.

The boy in the water glared back at him.

His eyes widened of their own accord. That had been one hell of a spell. A rustle behind him made him freeze, and he saw Potter's uncertain face peering down at him over his shoulder. Snape took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling an odd burning in his cheeks. The uncertainty on Potter's face melted into a strange mixture of defiance and lust. Snape glanced down at his reflection again and set his jaw.

Yes. He *was* blushing. He hadn't blushed in decades. His teeth ground together. Closing his eyes briefly, he opened them again with renewed determination. Rising, circumnavigating Potter carefully so that they didn't actually touch one another, he stomped as well as he could, being completely nude, over to their clothes. He dressed quickly, ignoring his trembling hands, trying to ignore Potter dressing equally as quickly less than a foot away. Watching him.

Shaking out his robe, tossing Potter his, Snape told the fabric bunched between his fists, "We must never do this again. It is *wrong.*" He risked a glance at Harry, paused with his robe falling off one shoulder. Snape's fingers tightened against the strong urge to strip the robe right back off again.

The shoulder shrugged. Snape's fingers clenched harder.

"I've been breaking rules all my life," Potter told him softly. "I'm not going to start following them now."

Stepping forward, he gently tugged the robe from Snape's hands and helped him into it. Snape stood there and allowed it, feeling strangely helpless. Before he could form an adequate response, the sound of familiar shouts and trampled brush alerted them to an incoming rescue party. Snape bit back a growl, and warned, "We'll see about that!" as he glared as coldly as possible at Potter.

Potter, damn him, grinned at him. Broadly. "The Glare worked better when you were old enough to be my father. And when I didn't know what you look like naked. Now we're of an age, I think it's cute."

Then he blithely pecked Snape on the lips and turned to stride off toward the Hogwarts contingent, calling out to them joyfully. Snape watched him go, the glare down-scaling to a bewildered stare. Eventually, he gathered himself enough to join Potter, regaling Dumbledore with a carefully edited rendition of the day's events, ignoring the outcry over his own changed appearance. He stared at Potter from under his lashes, caught between revulsion at being thought cute by anyone and the sick conviction that this was one battle he was doomed to lose.

At least losing this time wouldn't doom the world to evil.

He hoped.

End

If one more person gawked at him, Snape had the sneaking suspicion he'd throw a hex. A nasty hex. Something permanently wielding jaws together, perhaps.

McGonagall kept blinking at him. Shaking her head, and blinking at him. Hooch kept licking her lips. Unnervingly, so did Flitwick. Dumbledore took one look at him and bellowed, "My dear boy!" bringing the entire surviving faculty's attention to his changed demeanor.

Potter smirked at him through it all.

Ignoring the loony lot of them as best he could, Snape held his head high and stomped through the no-longer-Forbidden Forest toward the school. It was in good shape, a few scorch marks and slimy streaks marring the stone walls but on the whole intact. The sixth year and graduating students were literally dancing on the grounds, adrenaline and relief making them giddier than usual. Percy Weasley, youngest faculty member if one didn't take into account Snape's sudden reversal of chronology, hugged a tree near the main entryway. When he saw Snape, he let go of the tree and fell flat on his arse. Shock could take a man that way.

"Master Snape! What happened to you?!" The question began with genuine surprise and transmuted into sexual arousal by the final syllables, a change that made Snape genuinely twitchy. Not that Percy was a bad sort, really, for a Weasley ...

Mentally slapping himself across the face, blaming Potter for his slide into salaciousness if only internally, Snape snarled at Weasley. It didn't have the usual effect. If anything, Percy's look of mild interest bloomed into full-bore lust. Not the standard reaction at all. Grumpily, Snape wondered if his snarl was now 'cute' as well.

Yet another mental readjustment to blame on Potter.

Escaping Weasley by ducking down the back steps and uttering a password only he and Dumbledore knew, Snape burrowed far into the dank lower passages of the school until he made it to the sanctuary of his rooms. He was in no mood for company, convivial as it no doubt would attempt to be. It wasn't every day the ultimate evil was overcome, after all. But he wasn't up for more slack jaws, more lustful glances, or the failure of any of the other tried and true weapons in his professorial armory. After all, in the space of twenty minutes both his glare and his snarl had evoked, not squelched, naughty thoughts. He had some re-evaluating to do before he could face his fellow faculty again.

Not to mention his students.

With a shudder, he ran a bath and slowly sank below the surface of the steaming water. It felt good, easing the aches of the day, both from battle and the unaccustomed strain of sexual intercourse. He scrubbed and scrubbed, emptied the tub and filled it up twice, washing away the memories of the day from his skin, if not from the nerves still singing beneath the skin. Dipping his head, he blew bubbles into the water above him, until he had to surface for breath. The hot water felt wonderful streaming from his scalp down over his chest and back. Finally, finally he could relax.

Blinking droplets from his lashes, he glanced lazily about the room, then nearly levitated from shocked disapproval. The frisson of arousal lurking below his official reaction was something he refused to admit. Harry Potter sat, sprawled more like, on the toilet, one foot pulled up to rest on the lid, his chin propped on his knee. He stared at Snape, half-reclined, half-recoiled in the bath. He was smiling.

Snape tried to expostulate. Tried to call upon his famous sarcastic wit and shrivel the impertinent bastard with a few pithy, well-chosen words. What actually came out of his mouth sounded closer to "Awck!"

"You should get wet and naked more often, Snape," Potter told him seriously. "It's a very good look for you."

The half-recoil closed more tightly, until Snape was in an utterly unrelaxed ball of stressed bone and muscle huddled against the far edge of the bath. He tried glaring at Potter, a little more wildly than was his norm. Potter looked intrigued, not intimidated.

Damn. It wasn't working.

After gulping several times, actions which trained Potter's attention on Snape's neck and did nothing to calm either of them, Snape was finally able to speak. "How the bloody hell did you get in here?" It came out an enraged squawk. Potter shifted forward on his perch, smiling at Snape with an innocence that bordered on evil.

"Headmaster sent me down to make sure you were all right," he informed Snape silkily.

Snape's eyes snapped shut, then flew open, pinning Potter in place. Betrayed, by Albus, at the last. And betrayed to Potter, at that. "Leave," he commanded stiffly.

Potter shrugged one shoulder. His robe slipped, baring one rounded shoulder in a torn red jumper. Snape gulped again, finding his mouth inexplicably dry. "I'm not certain you *are* all right. After all, it has been a trying day, and you've been through so much ..."

Such caring words had never been uttered in such a caressing voice, at least not to Severus Snape. He had no idea how to respond. Potter even managed to lose the smirk, appearing completely sincere in his concern for Snape's welfare.

"Have you been playing with forbidden magicks again, Potter?" That earned him a startled look. "Or are you perhaps possessed? I told you to leave, and I mean you to LEAVE!" Snape's voice gradually grew louder until by the end of the sentence he was roaring.

Potter smiled at him. Snape attempted to glare. The smile turned sultry. Snape gulped again. Potter handed him a towel.

A hand towel.

Snape glared again, and Potter also handed over a robe. Snape waited for Potter to turn his back so he could maintain some modesty removing himself from bath. Potter continued to stare at him.

The bath water got colder.

Snape gnashed his teeth. "Turn around!" he finally ordered. Potter gave him his trademark expression of innocent inquiry.

"Why? It's not like I haven't seen it before."

It was amazing how close to "Awck!" the phrase "Piss off and die!" sounded when forced through clenched jaws. Determined not to let the little bugger get the better of him, Snape defiantly stood up and reached for the robe.

Potter dropped it. Snape opened his mouth to rage some more when the glazed look in Potter's eyes decided him against it. The boy was in no state to hear anything Snape had to say. He was too busy being mesmerized by rivulets of water as they disappeared into Snape's chest hair and down along his torso. Snape sighed.

Bent over to pick up the robe.

Potter made a sound quite like "Awck!" himself.

Snape wrapped his robe defensively around his body, tightened the sash with a yank, and stormed out into his study. Standing at his desk, he stared at the scrolls, assorted roots in various stages of preparation, and jumble of essays, the grading of which had been postponed due to Voldemort's version of the Apocalypse. He supposed he could get to work on those. Perhaps when he got no further reaction from Snape Potter would grow bored and leave.

It had been a long time since Severus Snape put any credence in Hope. She betrayed him as thoroughly as Dumbledore.

As he reached out toward the first essay, a long, muscular arm moved past his, stroking across the surface of the desk and sweeping everything onto the floor. "What the --" Snape began to demand in an outraged tone. Midway through the words he found himself face-first, bent over the desk, with the trailing tail of his robe tossed up over his shoulders.

The cold chill of air across his bare arse barely registered before it was replaced with warm hands. With wicked, brazen fingers. Whatever the rest of his words might have been became abruptly moot as the only sound his tongue was capable of making was "God!" His hands scrabbled at the surface of the desk, fingers finally wrapping around the edges of the top as he went up on his toes from the intrusion of a wet, questing tongue where the fingers had previously explored. At which point "God!" became "Yes!" and there wasn't a bloody thing he could do about it. His mouth had a mind of its own.

So did his body, and Potter was making it sing. No one, but no one at all, had ever kissed that particular portion of Snape's body, and Potter was going at it like a starving man at a banquet. Snape shuddered as the tongue ranged around and inside him, then up between thighs that spread of their own accord, slut that it made him, to testicles pressing tightly against the edge of the desk as if to escape the bathing they knew was coming. Nibbling and sucking and nipping, the last causing a moan Snape found positively embarrassing to emanate from his own chest, then back down again.

It wasn't merely the hands pinching and roaming his thighs, nor the tongue, as well-traveled as it became, that unnerved Snape. It was the prickle of beard-burn warming his skin, the way his balls tried to crawl up into his body and Potter tugged them back down again, the sheer need left unattended in his prick, now leaking across the top of the desk and smearing against his belly where it was trapped. Words fell from his lips and he thought they must be gibberish, but Potter responded to something he said.

Or perhaps he simply read it in Snape's body.

However he got the idea, it was a splendid one. Reaching up with one hand he slipped it against Snape's belly, pulling his prick back and down, shoving his balls roughly out of the way to tug the leaking erection until it bent back far enough for Potter to suck the end of it into his mouth. The unnatural angle hurt, and the strong sucking on the tip of his prick felt incredibly good, and the combination of both sensations melted what was left of his brain. He found himself humping backward, and Potter met the movement with his fingers, sliding back into his arse and working away at it.

The pressure against his balls kept Snape from coming, as the suction on his prick and the busy fingers working up his fundament demanded. "Yes!" eventually became "Please!" and there wasn't a blasted thing he could do about it, but it worked. Potter reared up, wrapped one hand around Snape's hip and yanked him up just far enough to relieve the pressure on his balls, then dove back down and sucked the still-down-bent prick as hard as he could. Snape couldn't be certain, because his head felt as if it exploded, but he didn't believe he had ever come so hard and so long. Even the tryst in the Forest wasn't that intense.

Sprawling bonelessly across the desk, the hard surface as homely and comforting as a feather bed, Snape made no protest as Potter steadied himself between Snape's still wide-spread thighs and pushed himself home. Snape grunted as he was shoved forward by Potter's weight, the edge of the desk cutting into his half-hard, extremely sensitive prick, then gasped as Potter withdrew equally as abruptly. The cycle continued, the pleasure of the thickness impaling him coupled with the lance of agony at his groin, then the absence of both, then filled and caught again, until he could do more than moan into the wood below his face and try uselessly to catch his breath.

He felt fluid dripping down his inner thigh, as his prick slapped against the front of the desk and rebounded against his leg, captured as it was by the proximity of his balls and the unrelenting pressure of Potter fucking him. Snape hadn't had many hard rides in his life, but even if he had, this surely would have ranked at the top. By the time Potter finally gave in and sped up, slamming him into the desk nearly hard enough to shatter both Snape and the furniture, Snape was nothing more than the delicious ache in his prick and the equally delicious fullness up his arse.

Then Potter crashed into him as far as he could go, and Snape couldn't contain the scream as his prick was pinched cruelly against the edge of the desk. His muscles contracted helplessly in response, and Potter groaned against his neck, humping against him as he climaxed. More fluid splashed down, leaking out, covering Snape's cockhead, and he arched, clearing enough space for what little remained in his balls to spurt out.

It felt like forever before Potter gathered his composure enough to pull out and lean back, giving Snape necessary room to breathe. Curious fingers ringed and tugged his prick, pulling and twisting the foreskin, pinching the tip, and he groaned as the incredibly sensitive flesh was tormented.

"Does that hurt?" Potter whispered above him. Snape nodded. "Do you want me to stop?" Snape shook his head, a decided negative. Potter laughed softly and suddenly tightened his grip. Snape's entire body shuddered. "God, you're sexy," Potter muttered, fingers milking hard now, and if it had been humanly possible Snape would have come again. As it was, his body reacted as if he had, and he humped Potter's hand and writhed against him as best he could.

Potter took that as encouragement and brought his face back down to Snape's arse, licking at the fluids spilled there, snapping at the tender flesh between his thighs and biting his balls, making the contractions there even fiercer. When the skin was clean, wet and red, he scraped the tiny bristles of his beard shadow all over the area, concentrating on the stretched arsehole, until a fresh rash stretched from Snape's tailbone over his testicles. Snape was too busy panting, "Fuck, yes! Harry!", not knowing when "God" had become "Harry", to make any complaint. Not that he would have if he could.

It felt too bloody incredible to protest.

When he finally couldn't move at all, completely wrung out, muscles limp as boiled noodles, Potter took pity, or perhaps got bored when Snape wasn't able to give him any further reaction. Bundling Snape up in his robe, he helped him to his feet, then half-dragged, half-carried him over to his bed. Dumping him on his side, Potter tugged until he freed the duvet and tucked it around Snape's nearly insensate body.

"Sleep well, Master mine," he murmured, then kissed Snape, biting his lips the way he'd bitten other parts, leaving Snape's mouth as wet and red as his arse had been. Snape barely felt it, being so close to unconscious as would make no difference.

When he woke, it was morning. He'd slept the night through, and felt the better for it. Rolling out of bed, he flinched and moaned involuntarily. His arse felt as if it had been reamed out by a wizard's staff, and in truth, it had been. As he pulled himself from bed and walked gingerly over to pull on his clothes, he spread his thighs and gently stroked the burning skin between them. His balls felt swollen, his prick extremely tender, his arse, utterly pulverized. Wrapping his hand around his prick, he squeezed hard. His breath caught in his throat and he whimpered, feeling light-headed. Dropping the reddened flesh, he stared down at the marks Potter had left on his body for a very long time before finally dressing and heading out to join the rest of the population of Hogwarts.

He smiled the entire day, ignoring everyone who commented on it. The day was interminable, filled with speeches to which he refused to contribute and merriment he preferred to observe rather than join. Throughout, he sat with his legs spread beneath his robes, closing them occasionally and flexing his thighs in order to feel the skin burn, fighting the urge to squirm and rub the beard-rash branding his flesh. Every time he did, he glanced over at Potter, sitting at the head table as befitted a hero. Each time he looked, Potter looked back. The expression in the bright green eyes was easy to read. It was a threat.

And a promise.

End

Even the greatest revelry must eventually pass, and so it was at Hogwarts. Voldemort defeated, the Forest freed from evil, the minions of darkness burned to a crisp and blown away by the wind, it was time to get back to the duties of the day.

Beginning with the appointment of faculty to fill positions eaten, disintegrated or otherwise blown from existence in the Apocalyptic battle. Since the latest unfortunate to fill the Defense Against Dark Arts position had been one of the first fresh corpses of the final assault, the position was up for grabs. Snape waited, sure, at last, he would get his due. Sitting at the head table, studiously avoiding Harry Potter's unsettlingly attractive and attentive face, Snape glued his eyes to Albus Dumbledore and awaited the pronouncement.

"While it's a tragedy, really, to lose yet another fine wizard to the clutches of doom," Albus droned on, "and we shall miss Jiddletwits -- "

"Twiddlejist!" McGonagall hissed the correction, but Albus floated past. In truth, the poor twit hadn't been around long enough for anyone to learn to pronounce his name properly.

" -- into every cloud a little silver must lie, and in this case that joy is in the announcement of a new Master of the Defense Against Dark Arts. Ladies and gentlemen, students and ghosts, faculty and staff, I give you -- "

Snape preened preparatory to gaining the spotlight.

" -- Harry Potter!"

He subsided as quickly as he'd begun to rise, his knees freezing then crumbling at the sight of Harry Potter, damnable TALL irritating SEXY young YOUNG -- well, he was only twenty-two, which was still (barely) younger than even a chronologically-metamorphosed Snape at twenty-five -- bastard WIZARD -- in so many ways, some of which had been invading Snape's dreams for days now -- stepping forward to the tumultuous cheers of the denizens of Hogwarts.

"Fuck," Snape muttered. It was lost among the noise. Or so he thought.

Until Potter turned directly to him and mouthed, clear as crystal, "Later."

Snape didn't say another word the rest of the night. After dinner, which he barely touched, the rest of the faculty lined up to hand-clasp Potter into his new position. Snape escaped out the back door of the dining hall and went to sulk in his chambers. His rooms, to which he'd changed the password, then lied through his teeth to the headmaster, so NOBODY knew what it was.

He didn't come out 'til morning, and even then, he skipped breakfast and went directly to class. The first three periods weren't too bad, once the obligatory sighs and gasps and moony looks were ignored. He spent lunch in his rooms, munching a scone and salad and wishing the day was over. The fourth period was worse than the morning classes had been, but the final class of the day was by far the worst.

His sixth years, the ones who'd survived the battle, looked disgustingly chipper. Many of them, many too many of them, also looked disturbingly horny. One witch, who really should have known better than to use eye pencil that dark with her dishwater blonde hair, blinked slowly enough at him that even before he got his first sarcastic word out, he read "LOVE YUO" on her lids.

Reining in the desire to correct her spelling, and give her the hint that when writing backward it was best to check perspective from the viewer's right to left, not her own, he cleared his throat and tossed back his head, preparatory to blowing the little bastards out of their chairs with sheer unadulterated scorn.

Three quarters of the class sighed lustily, choking his words on his tongue. The other quarter literally swooned.

He let his head fall forward again, peering through his hair at the bunch of nutters, and wondered if it might be prudent to bring in a bodyguard. Say, Hagrid. Then the memory of the appreciative, lusty grin the gamekeeper had given him last night as he'd walked the grounds before supper came back to him, and he decided that might not be such a good idea, either. God only knew what nasty habits Hagrid had picked up, hanging out with centaurs and other weird creatures.

Letting his breath out with a whoosh, he fell back into habits he'd soon need to change and glared at the class. At least half a dozen of them lunged out of their chairs involuntarily, before catching and restraining themselves. His glare melted into a look of utter confusion.

Three young witches squealed. Several young wizards moaned uncontrollably.

"Enough!" he bellowed. Several more students gave appreciative groans. "We haven't got all class to sit here and have you moon over me. We have work to do!" His jaw snapped shut and his eyes widened, unable to believe those particular words had ever come out of his mouth. A couple of the students who'd previously made aborted lunges strained forward again, as if bound to their seats by invisible leashes that were close to breaking.

Refusing to cede control either to their hormones or his need to have a quiet nervous breakdown, Snape refrained with difficulty from snarling, glaring or sneering, and gave them his very best poker face. It probably resembled indigestion more than anything, given how rusty it was from disuse, since his trusty glare had worked for years. However, it had at least partial effect on the lustful masses, and they settled down to stare with glazed eyes at him.

"Cauldrons!" he barked. They snapped to with all the skill of a highly trained drill team. Or a pack of marionettes. His eyebrow rose. Several students gasped. Hunh. It might work. "Paring knives!" Hands moved, knives were grasped. "Taro root! Beetles! Fish tails! Dandelion! No, not the fluff, the yellow ones. Wands! Page three hundred twelve in your text! Now hop to it!"

And hop they did. Snape carefully didn't smile, for fear it would send some poor idiot into a seizure and put them face-down in their boiling cauldrons. But he had a feeling he'd found his new technique. Merely give his best impression of an SAS sergeant and show them who was in control.

"Who?" a voice whispered close to his ear. Snape looked around carefully, wondering where the devil it had come from, since the nearest student was eight feet away on the other side of his demonstration table. "You?" the whisper came again. Snape looked around for signs of ventriloquism, but all he saw was three quarters of the class industriously mixing crap in cauldrons and the other quarter either mid-swoon or staring at him with their tongues hanging out. "I don't THINK so," the whisper giggled.

That was all the warning he got.

Out of nowhere, so subtly his robes didn't even sway, something opened in his arse. It didn't slide in, it didn't nudge, it didn't prod -- it just appeared, already in, stretching him wide open from hole clear into gut with absolutely no preparation nor prior expectation. His mouth fell open and he gasped before he could stop himself, bending forward to ease the strain and clenching the table with both hands. It was the equivalent of going from tight to fucked in a split second. Split being the operative word.

Immediately upon the sound of his gasp, every student who HADN'T already been staring at him in a lust-induced daze DID. Gritting his teeth, waiting for the apparated-out-of-nowhere truncheon up his arse to move or disapparate, he panted lightly through slitted lips and ground out, "Attend to your cauldrons! NOW!" The last yowl was added to prompt movement, since none was forthcoming, and reaction was slow even when he yelped at them. Those who did return to mixing, chopping and stirring peered at him with what they hoped was discretion and was actually blatantly obvious hunger.

Not that he had time to worry about it. The blockage up his arse had indeed begun to move, but not out as he hoped. Rather, it inflated and deflated, keeping his hole stretched and fucking up into his gut, rocking him on his heels until he stiffened his spine to the point it nearly snapped in order to disguise what was happening at pelvic level. He stood as close as he could to steady, legs spread behind the table, arse-cheeks clenching and releasing under cover of his robes, and stared unblinkingly at the students.

Eventually, when no further indication of activity came from him, all the ones still alert enough to move bent to their cauldrons. Just in time.

Before Snape could so much as draw a much-needed breath of relief, phantom fingers joined the bulk pistoning into him. They plucked at his nipples, at his balls, at the head of his prick now pushing against the underside of the table-top, wetting his robe even through the confines of trousers and pants. His foreskin came in for extra attention, pinched and peeled back and twisted around, and he knew, just knew, precisely who was responsible for his predicament.

"Bloody hell, Potter," he groaned inaudibly, "what are you trying to do to me?"

There was no answer beyond the ghost of a laugh, unrepentant and knowing, that ruffled past his hair. If it had been physically possible, Snape would have unclenched one clawed hand from the table-top and swiped at the air, so certain was he that Potter was in the room beneath an invisibility cloak. No one could manipulate matter that finely from afar. Unfortunately if he moved his hand he'd probably collapse in a moaning heap on the floor, so that was out.

Risking a glance down at his chest, he was relieved to note that the layers of vest and shirt and robe also hid the tips of his nipples, now standing out from his chest from the nipping pressure torturing them. As if his movement was a cue, in that instant, the bulk still reaming out his arse developed ridges, and began to twist as well as pump into him. The grind of the changing texture over his prostate nearly gave him heart failure. With a muffled groan he only kept back by biting his tongue hard enough to taste blood, he humped forward helplessly and tried to come.

Potter must have been waiting for that, too, because as soon as his balls started to draw up, a band wrapped around them, yanking them down and sealing them off, cutting the semen off at the base before it could boil up and out as it so desperately needed to. In the same instant his balls were pulled, a second noose looped around the head of his prick, just below the lips, tightened and pulled the opposite direction.

Tiny blunted teeth dug into the stretched rim of his arsehole, and much sharper teeth bit into his nipples, stretching and twisting them nearly off his chest. The overload of sensation, pain in his chest, arse, balls and prick mated with the incessant battering at his guts and the ecstasy jolting out through his prostate, rocked through him like bolts of lightning. His eyes closed and his mouth fell open, and he would have collapsed if arms recognizable from feel even as the cloak kept them invisible wrapped around his middle, holding him upright.

Dimly, he heard the bell, heard a few of the students offer goodbyes he couldn't spare the energy to answer, then after a shuffling that echoed through his head like a herd of elephants, they were gone. Not for the first time he was thankful for his reputation as a right bastard, even if the new face had turned them on. None of them questioned him, and none stayed after. When the door shut after the last one, he took a whooping breath, barely managing not to scream, balanced as he was between the conflicting pressures at groin, arse and tits.

The lock slid into place, barring the door, and Potter stepped from nothingness as he laid the invisibility cloak aside. Moving up to stand behind Snape again, he dropped a light biting kiss at the side of his neck.

"I think you're ready for me now," he purred, hand pressing unerringly against Snape's hole, the touch galvanizing the dildo in him to previously unattained heights of movement.

Snape whimpered, knees finally going completely, and Harry lifted him from behind, turning him mid-lift to splay him out over the demonstration table. Snape growled. Brilliant. Potter was now taller, stronger, and a hell of a lot meaner than Snape had ever expected to be faced with. As Potter opened his robe and wrapped his fist around Snape's reddened balls, Snape also had to face the fact that he loved it. He certainly made no move to stop him as Potter stripped him, leaving Snape lying in his puddled robe, arms bound by the sleeves of his shirt, pants hanging off one ankle, trousers on the floor somewhere behind them.

Using the ballsac as a handle, Potter lifted his groin off the table. Snape gasped and arched, staring down in helpless arousal at himself as nipple-clamps materialized, fully engaged, teeth biting into his tits, pulling them up and away from his chest. His nipples looked like cherries, red and swollen, and it must have appealed to Potter, because he leaned forward, still holding Snape suspended by the balls, and bit them.

Snape screamed, and a soft ball of material landed in his open mouth, effectively gagging him. Going nearly cross-eyed, he identified it as a gym sock. He gurgled, tongue fighting uselessly to rid himself of the obstruction. At least it tasted clean. His hands reached up to remove it and invisible chains came out of the table, clamping his wrists to the hard surface. He spared a thankful thought that he hadn't been cutting snails on the work table before being jumped in his own classroom.

Then any fastidiousness disappeared as Potter's hand moved to his arse and pulled the dildo out as abruptly as he'd planted it. The thought struck Snape that he was damned thankful Potter was so uncannily good at placement spells, or his arse would look like it had been hit by shrapnel, then fingers, FOUR of them, took the place of the dildo, and it was all he could do not to expire on the spot.

He didn't know when grease had been added to the mix, he could only be thankful it had, as the fingers within him wriggled and turned until the thumb could be tucked up to join them. A second thankful thought occurred, that Potter had an artist's hands and not a farmer's, then the fingers curled into a fist, the fist rammed up into him, his arsehole snapped around Potter's wrist like a plastic band, and had it not been for the sock stuffed in his mouth, his howl would have brought down the roof.

The slide of Potter's forearm against his still-tied balls as he moved his fist in and out of Snape's arse was yet another layer of delicious torment, warming his skin and making the urge to come nearly unbearable. Another clasp had materialized at the tip of his prick, yanking his foreskin up and pinching it closed over his glans, and even had his balls been free, he'd've had a hell of a time coming.

Potter's other hand moved over him, playing with trapped nipples, sending fire through his chest, drumming against his stretched prick, making him squirm, heightening the sensation of the bulk moving in his arse. The blur of agony and pleasure made him drunk, stole his breath and his mind, until he was nothing more than a writhing mass of nerve endings Potter played like a master.

Tears were sliding down his temples into his hair, his fists clenched uselessly over his shoulders, his body completely beyond his control, when Potter finally allowed him relief. The nipple clamps were released, first one, then the other, and he gasped again, sweet fire eating at his chest before being eased by Potter's tongue, washing over and over the abused nubs. Then his balls were unwrapped, each loop easing the pressure, as the clamp released its death-grip on his foreskin and the noose beneath the head of his prick disappeared.

The lack of restraint hurt unlike anything he'd ever felt, as blood rushed into the places it had been denied. He barely knew which to react to first, lightning striking down the length of his prick, up through his balls, and down through his chest at the same time. Hobbled as he was by the fist he still moved in Snape's arse, Potter still seemed to be everywhere, tongue soothing and stimulating nipples then balls then a hot mouth closing over the end of his prick.

It was the last that broke Snape, and he convulsed, finally free for orgasm to take him. Held in place by the fist in his arse and the weight of Potter's arm over his stomach, he arched as far as possible and loosed a stream into the air. Thick white gobs splashed down on his chest, even up onto his face, and he strained and gasped until he had no more air to draw and no more semen to give. With the last spasm, Potter twisted his fist and drew it out, and the abrupt cessation of weight from his gaping arsehole made Snape feel as if he was literally flying.

When he came back to himself, Potter was kneeling on the table next to him, lazily stroking his prick. Once he was certain Snape's attention was on him, he sped up his strokes until he came, mixing his semen with Snape's, spreading it all over him until Snape felt like an overly-frosted cake. Running two fingers through the mess, Potter plucked the sock from Snape's mouth with the other hand then thrust his gloppy fingers in, stroking them over Snape's tongue, scraping the stickiness off with Snape's teeth.

After the parching cotton, any moisture felt like heaven, and this particular wetness went down his throat like nectar. Potter took his time, wiping up more and pushing it into Snape's mouth. Peering down intently, bright eyes owning him, Potter said intensely, "You have no idea the number of times I pictured you like this, spread out over your own work table, naked and taken and covered with my come."

Snape had to close his eyes at the sheer satisfaction in the soft voice, but he kept his mouth open, and continued to lick Potter's fingers until Potter stopped feeding him. As he felt the shackles disappear, he moved his arms down over his stomach, his entire body shaking. Potter moved too, supporting him, lifting him from the table and carrying him bodily into the adjoining room before laying him down on the cot there. Tucking Snape's spunk- and sweat-drenched robe around him, Potter leaned down and kissed him, as possessive a move as any he'd made that afternoon.

"Something to keep in mind," he said when he stood up, looking down at Snape. "You're not in control here, Severus." He grinned, a feral expression that made Snape's skin tingle. "I am."

Snape let him get to the door before he said, with a hint of a whine, "Next time, will you wait 'til after class?"

Potter gave him an unreadable look over his shoulder. "Perhaps," he said, and was gone.

Lying there, too exhausted to move, every muscle that wasn't screaming at him turned to mush, Snape found himself grinning like a fool at the empty doorway. He couldn't wait.

End

It took three days and a variety of potions that left him feeling like a flashback to a bad acid trip before Snape had fully recovered from Potter's sensual assault on him in his own classroom. For almost half a second Snape considered reporting the incident to Dumbledore, but two facts stopped him.

Firstly, he'd die of humiliation if he had to admit to Albus that Harry Potter had fisted him on his own work table, making him come harder than he had in his life, which was saying something, considering how often he'd come since getting hit with the age-reversal spell and being jumped by Potter.

Secondly, if he told, Potter might never touch him again, and if that happened, Snape might just have to throw himself off the highest tower of Hogwart's.

The single positive repercussion of his, ahem, illness, was that it gave him some time to practise before he faced his students again. The unabashedly appreciative audience he'd had the one day he'd taught since regaining his youth had, he frankly admitted to himself, scared the holy hell out of him. So, nestled against several pillows when he could finally lie on his back again, he conjured a mirror and set it to float above his bed. Then he scowled at himself.

Hmph. It looked quite as intimidating as it had with lines on his face as it did without. So he tried a full-blown snarl. My! That looked positively frightening. How could the students not be cowed? Still, he practised, in between naps and soft foods that didn't hurt going through and pressing his fingers into the tender places Potter left behind, faint echoes of the pained pleasure he'd given Snape still lingering in the bruised flesh.

It had to happen, of course. The last afternoon of his, ahem, convalescence, he was lying flat on his back with his fingers up his arse and his eyes closed, when a heavy weight tipped the bed. Before he could move, Potter had straddled his shoulders, pressing down with his thighs on Snape's shoulders to trap Snape's hand behind him.

"I knew you were kinky, Severus," Potter purred, "but really. Adding to your decor and not inviting me to the housewarming!" He glanced up at the mirror still hovering above the bed and Snape followed his movement.

Oh, god. Potter was as naked as Snape himself, and there was something unbearably erotic about the sight of them, Snape trapped, Potter holding him down.

"Keep watching, Severus," Potter whispered, then began to slap Snape's lips with the end of his prick, already hard and dripping.

Snape was learning all sorts of things about himself since Potter had taken him up, not least of which was the deep well of obedience he only seemed to find in situations such as this. His mouth opened immediately, and Potter slid his prick all the way into Snape's throat with one thrust. With his thighs clamping around Snape's shoulders, he rocked back and forth, fucking Snape's mouth ruthlessly. The motion caused the bed to shake and rocked Snape's fingers, still in his arse. Unable to resist, he moved them in time to the prick reaming his mouth.

His eyes were wide, staring at the sight of Potter's shoulders, the line of his back and the swell of his buttocks, the slick red meat disappearing into Snape's mouth, the distention of lips and cheek around it. Further down, laid open for his hungry eyes, Snape's own prick jerked as his unseen hand worked his arse, growing harder until it was nearly parallel to his belly, snapping against it, leaving a sticky trail of pre-cum tying the two together.

Potter sped up, until he was fucking Snape's throat brutally and air was impossible to draw. Snape's vision blurred with tears as he struggled, not to escape, but for more, and when Potter drove in as far as he could and came, Snape choked and took it. Prick was replaced with tongue as Potter scooted down to kiss him, and Snape gasped for breath when he was finally allowed to do so.

The shift in placement had caused Potter to discover Snape's hard prick, still as full despite (or perhaps because of) the near suffocation. With a wicked grin, he raised up and slid past the raging erection, eyes gleaming up at Snape, who was busy blinking tears from his own.

"What have we here?" Potter teased. Before Snape could come up with an appropriate snarky comment, Potter drew back and slapped the hard prick full-force. Snape lost his breath as quickly as he'd caught it as his prick bounced smartly against his belly. "Lovely," Potter breathed, following the slap with a backhand, just as hard, a sharper sensation as his knuckles bruised the spongy flesh.

Snape didn't know when he'd started whimpering, but he couldn't seem to stop. Potter shifted again, shoving his knees between Snape's thighs to spread them widely. Then he bent his head, moved his hands, and drove two fingers into Snape's arse, twisted his ballsac, and bit his foreskin simultaneously.

To hell with whimpering, Snape was screaming now.

The hands kept working his balls and arse, squeezing the one hard and twisting deeply into the other. Potter let loose the chewed foreskin to say in a whimsical tone, "Never thought I'd say it, but I do love dungeons! So far away from everyone. Such ..." he swooped down and bit the weeping glans, "thick ..." he muttered around his mouthful, chewing further down as Snape squirmed and bellowed, "walls." The final word was practically unintelligible, given that he had half Snape's prick in his mouth and was slurping and biting enthusiastically.

By this point he had stretched Snape's arse out with three fingers, and the testicles in his fist were mashed to the point that Snape was involuntarily bucking to get his balls away from the vice. Which, of course, simply meant that he thrust up into Potter's mouth, a satisfactory arrangement for them both. Even with the pressure on his balls, or again, perhaps because of it, he was close to coming when Potter suddenly withdrew. Everything. From everywhere.

Snape whined like a bitch in heat. "Come back here!"

Potter laughed at him. "Do you want it?"

If Snape had had any energy whatsoever that wasn't preoccupied with his prick, he would have been throwing off sparks. As it was, he could only wave his neglected prick in the air and shift his arse on the sheets, desperate to scratch the itch Potter had ignited. Snape's hands went to work, as he spread his thighs, one pulling at his own balls, the other at his prick. Potter watched for a moment, hand working at his own prick, then abruptly he grabbed Snape's wrists and, in a quick move, rolled Snape over on his belly.

With a sigh of relief, Snape began to rub his prick against the sheets, but he didn't get the opportunity to do it for long. Potter wrapped his hands around Snape's hips and pulled him back until his arse was high in the air, his chest and face still flat against the bed. Then Potter took Snape's wrists and folded them under his cheek.

"Leave them there," he commanded. Snape moaned, but he didn't move.

More than half expecting to be fucked, hard, Snape was surprised when Potter commenced a lengthy examination of his arse, perineum, balls and prick. Not that he should have been, of course. If there was any way Potter could prolong the torment he would, to their mutual satisfaction. His arse was first, as Potter prodded and pulled, lowering his head to lick and suck at it, ripping another cry from Snape. He worked the tender hole with tongue and fingers until Snape was near coming from that alone, then withdrew completely, his hands wrapping around Snape's hips again, leaving his arse gaping and hungry.

"Please, please, Harry," Snape muttered into the sheets, trying to thrust his arse back, thwarted in the movement by Potter's firm grip.

"Not yet, Severus," Potter replied quietly, then leaned in again, this time bypassing the arsehole to lay a burning strip of tiny bites from the lower edge of the hole all the way to the back of the balls, nudging the heavy sac out of the way with his nose as he went. Then back again, licking and sucking the marks from the bites, then forward, lingering behind the balls, pressing with his tongue, massaging Snape's prostate from the outside until Snape was shuddering against the touch.

By now, actual words being beyond him, Snape was spouting gibberish. Potter ignored him. The stream of sound ended on a gasp as Potter suddenly took one ball in his mouth, sucking hard at it, rolling it on his tongue, pulling it back with his lips then nipping at the captured testicle with his teeth. Snape gave up on noise altogether and concentrated on trying to breathe.

The first ball was abandoned for the other, and the process was repeated until his sac felt twice its normal size, wet and swollen and incredibly tender. Breathing was becoming more difficult, and Snape sobbed for it, hanging on to consciousness fiercely, determined not to pass out and miss any of this. Finally, Potter left his sac and, in a move that Snape could become addicted to, pulled the erect prick back and down, sucking it into his mouth.

Pulling against gravity and natural inclination with a prick that hard gave a delicious ache from the strain, shivering through the shaft, down into balls already screaming, deep into his groin and seeming as if it reached all the way back to his spine. Potter pushed Snape's foreskin, already drawn back, even further with his tongue, then sucked hard and continuously at Snape's prick. In very little time indeed Snape was screaming out all his air again, head dizzy, hands shredding the sheet beneath his face, arse thrusting helplessly as he came.

In the instant that his balls tightened, Potter withdrew his mouth and milked Snape's shaft hard with his fingers. The first spurt escaped his fist, but the next few made it no further than his palm. When Snape was past the initial spasms but still half-hard, Potter coated the flinching prick with the semen and kept pumping it.

By now, Snape was squirming as much to get away as not. Potter, with a firm grip on his prick, wouldn't let him. "Hang on," he breathed, bending forward until Snape could feel the warm air moving over his arse cheek, "you'll like this." Then he pulled Snape's prick back along the heated skin between his thighs until he could work the head into Snape's own arsehole. The sensation was alien and exciting, and had he not come hard enough to practically give himself a nosebleed already he would have come just from the touch of his cockhead in his hole.

As it was, he didn't know which way to move. Frozen in place, panting harshly, he waited to see what Potter would do next. He didn't have long to wait. Smoothing his hand along the length of Snape's prick until it was as flat as humanly possible, Potter managed to get the glans and a good half inch of Snape's prick up into his arse. Holding it there, he inched one finger into the fluttering hole as well, resting it directly below the arched lips of Snape's cockhead.

Then he rubbed.

Several things happened at once. Snape got as hard as physically possible, given the awkward position of his prick. His arsehole, wild by this point, clamped down on his cockhead. The pressure there nearly took the top of his head off, causing his prick to throb, unsettling his balls, squashed to the side by his prick. Before he had the chance to so much as yell he came again, shooting sperm up his own arse. The hot slimy fluid felt like lava against his rectum, baking his quivering cockhead, and he spasmed over and over.

Potter kept rubbing.

When he had nothing left to give, and his prick was still trying its damnedest to give it, Potter relaxed his grip. Snape's prick whipped back to hang, jumping with muscular contractions, down between his widespread thighs. A second later, his still-spasming hole was reamed open as Potter slammed into him in one stroke.

His prick, pathetically hopeful, twitched. Not that it did any good. Had it not been for Potter holding him up and lying over his back, humping into him, Snape would've been a puddle on the bed.

Apparently his exhaustion wasn't satisfactory, because with a growl, Potter leaned up again. Shifted his knees further down the bed, draped Snape's thighs around the outside of his, and commenced thrusting. Every three or four strokes he slapped an arsecheek. The first crack galvanized Snape into active participation, as he jumped back, feeling his hole tighten involuntarily around Potter's delving prick.

"That's more like it!" Potter told him, rewarding him with another smack, to the opposite arsecheek. And so it went, Snape hanging on to the sheets for dear life as Potter fucked and spanked him.

The world had long since narrowed to the bed, the heat of Potter's hand prints branding his arsecheeks, and the prick splitting him open, by the time Potter grunted and thrust in hard. Clenching his fingers on Snape's arsecheeks hard enough to leave bruises over the slap-marks already purpling there, Potter pulled them as far apart as he could and buried himself as deeply as possible as he came. If there'd been a drop of moisture left in Snape's body he'd've given it, too. As it was, he decided he may as well resign himself to coming dry with Potter, since the man kept at him until he was completely drained. Every time.

Finally collapsing atop him, Potter released his grip and allowed Snape to collapse as well. They lay there for some time as Potter caught his breath and Snape tried to remember *how* to breathe. Eventually, Potter leaned down and bit him on the side of the throat, sucking and marking him. Snape protested as much as possible, which meant he moaned. A lot.

Satisfied when there was a mouth-shaped bruise darkening on the pale skin, Potter rolled off Snape and sighed happily up at the mirror. Snape gave him a suspicious look.

"What are you finding so amusing, Potter?" he grumped.

Potter gave him a truly evil smile. "Oh, nothing." Then he leaned over and kissed Snape, pulling his head back by the hair, as usual with him, more ownership than affection. Snape let him. Snape enjoyed it. Not that he was ever going to tell Potter that. "Oh, and Severus?" he asked when he broke the kiss.

Inhaling deeply, feeding his starved lungs, Snape made an interrogatory noise.

"Keep the mirror. I like it." Then he bounced off the bed, more energy than was at all decent, not that decency was any sort of standard for them, grabbed his robes and cheerfully left the room. Snape stared over at the door as it closed behind Potter.

Then he rolled further until he was flat on his back. He looked utterly debauched. Bite marks, finger bruises, semen stains, beard burn, swollen and reddened flesh everywhere he looked from his mouth to his thighs. He sighed. Potter had a point. There was something very erotic about seeing them ...

Seeing them ...

He looked closer. Then he blanched.

Sometime when he'd had his eyes closed, before he'd been thoroughly fucked, Potter had modified the charm on the mirror. It wasn't just a reflecting device now. It was a recording device.

Snape only thought he'd been thoroughly fucked. Now, he knew he was.

End

After Potter visited Snape on his, erm, sick bed, recovery was prolonged an extra day until Snape had energy enough to do more than pull a pillow over his head and try to think of a hex that would break the recording mirror fixed above his bed without showering himself in shards. After nearly suffocating when he fell asleep without displacing the pillow from its seat over his nose, he threw it across the room, pulled the covers up over his head and grumbled himself back to sleep.

Monday brought its own challenges. For only the second day in the eight schooldays since Voldemort's legions were toasted, Snape found himself facing a schoolroom full of students. Confidence in the frightfulness of his sneer restored, he used it to full and fatal effect on every one of his classes.

Three hundred eleven ruined potions, a gross of broken cauldrons, and eighteen students carted off to languish under Pomfrey's tender care later, he decided perhaps his mirror had lied to him regarding the ferocity of his trademark glower. It would appear that narrowed eyes, a curled lip and a scorching glare through hanging black hair, whilst terrifying at fifty, was downright electrifying at twenty-five. Not for the first time, he cursed Voldemort from the bottom of his heart.

Even worse than the utter waste of his time that the day had been was the fact that, for the first time in his entire teaching career, his students didn't flee from the classroom as soon as the bell freed them. No. Many of them stayed after class. To talk to him.

Hrmph. Moon over him, more like, and if that wasn't the most appalling thing he'd ever had to suffer he didn't know what was. Carefully refusing to think of Potter assaulting him in his own classroom (and in his bath, and in his bedroom, and in the forest ...), thankful at least that the new DADA professor was too busy fielding his own love-struck mooning students, Snape snarled and snapped at the idiots who gathered round him on all sides until they finally left.

The fact that they only did leave because the next class had filed in and there was no further room for them didn't ease his mind in the least. As predicted by earlier events, his seventh-years, final period, were an utter nightmare, which he only escaped by scuttling out the back door and aiming a locking spell at the door, slamming it in the over-eager faces of the horde chasing after him. Several of them bounced off. He smiled, a decidedly nasty edge to it, upon hearing their muttered curses and yelps of pain.

The day set a pattern for those to follow. He took to lecturing from the front of the class, leaving from the back, arriving via that same multi-magicked door before unlocking the front for the students to pour in. He was besieged. His fellow professors found it highly amusing, when they weren't dropping anvil-heavy propositions of their own in his unappreciative lap. The only saving grace to the ridiculous situation was that Potter left him alone, being in a similar state of siege himself.

Snape refused to admit he rather missed Potter's attentions. He'd gone without sex for years. Another few weeks surely wouldn't kill him. The fifth time he found himself staring intently at Potter over luncheon, to the point where young Professor Percy Weasley's hand was actually on his thigh before he was aware of the advance, precipitated a change in his eating habits. Scones and salad at lunch in his rooms wasn't that bad, considering the alternative.

Of course, such a state of affairs could not last. Called into Dumbledore's office to discuss the matter, Snape sat, tea cooling on his knee, and stared in utter disbelief at the headmaster.

"Office hours?" Are you completely insane? echoed eerily for an unspoken question. Dumbledore nodded and smiled at him. Potty. Potty as a potted plant, the man. Snape carefully placed his tea on the table by his elbow, planted both hands on his knees, and bellowed, "Over my dead body!"

"Well, if you insist," Dumbledore rumbled good-naturedly, reaching for his wand. Not quite sure in what state the Apocalyptic Battle had left Dumbledore's wits, Snape hastily demurred.

"No, no, no, that's quite all right, I'll ..." he gulped. "Office hours?" he whined, one last time. "All alone, one on one, in that little bitty dungeon with no - back - door?"

The whimsical smile on the headmaster's face broadened. "No need to fear, my dear Severus. After all, if worse comes to worst, there's always the side window."

Two days later, the first day of the ill-fated office hours, Snape resorted to exactly that. It wasn't his fault. He had no idea the fifth-year bastard cousin Malfoy raised in the wilds of Wales by a woman who made Lucius look like Mary Poppins had a crush on him, nor that he would be quite so ... pressing ... about pressing the subject. Snape backed the lad into a corner, threw a binding curse that had the boy literally chewing at his own sleeves to escape it, and, clutching his wand tight to his chest, he threw himself out the window.

Of course, being that the window was in the dungeons, that meant throwing himself out into a dingy, dusty, disgusting maze of underground corridors, but that was quite all right. Eventually he made his way to the surface.

Only to be surrounded by a half dozen Slytherins, ranging from third-year to seventh, who were neither put off nor even slightly slowed-down by the disreputable appearance of their house head. No, without a trace of hesitation, a couple of them giving cries much as huntsmen would upon sighting a fox (and several more sounding quite like the hounds when doing the same), they took out after him. He ran flat out for the Forest, hoping to either lose them in the trees or have them fall down and break their necks. Whatever got them off his heels would be gratefully accepted.

The solid wall that was Hagrid wasn't quite what he was expecting by way of a saviour, but when in need, anyone would do. Darting past a cowering Fang, Snape dove behind Hagrid, hanging onto his shirttails and trying not to inhale too deeply, it having been some time since the shirt had been anywhere near a laundry.

"Help!" he yelped dismally. The Slytherins closed fast. Hagrid gave a startled grunt, glanced down over his shoulder at Snape, gave him a leer that passed for a reassuring smile if one was exceedingly liberal in one's definition of reassurance, and turned on the Slytherins.

Snape had to let go his hold for Hagrid to do his work, but it was worth it. Slavering and laying about with his ham-sized fists, Hagrid made short work of the Slytherins, whose self-preservations instincts were stronger than lust and who finally departed. Whining. Snape wondered fuzzily when the house mascot had changed from Snake to Hound and why no one had mentioned it to him, then Hagrid loomed in front of him and his thoughts veered to wondering if he had exchanged one hunt for another.

Hagrid reached out a massive paw toward him and Snape cringed automatically, but all he got for his pains was a pat on the head, much as if he were a dog himself. Straightening, he glared at Hagrid for his presumption.

Oops.

If the Glare had failed dramatically to quell the students, it was positively flirtatious to Hagrid, or at least that was the only thing Snape could figure, since Hagrid immediately swept him up and covered him with kisses. Sloppy kisses. Obviously the man had spend much too much time with no one but Fang for company. Snape was just freeing his wand to throw a binding curse on Hagrid when Potter's voice rang out behind him.

"Expelliarmus!"

Damn and blast. His wand went flying before he could point it at anyone. Wrenching his head to the side, he glared wildly at Potter, grinning quite evilly at him from a few feet away. Hagrid took the change in position as an invitation and licked his neck. If it hadn't been for the drool soaking the collar of his robe, the rough caress would actually have been somewhat arousing, disgusting as the thought was.

"So, cheating on me, eh, Severus?" Potter asked, unanswerably, as he came up the last few feet to stand sandwiching Snape against Hagrid's bulk. "Bored already? We can't have that."

The last few words were spoken directly into Snape's ear, causing an involuntary shiver to ripple all the way down his body. Hagrid crooned and licked harder. Potter caught Hagrid's beard with one hand and tugged him away much more gently than Snape would have wished.

"Let's have some fun, Hagrid."

"Let's not!" Snape protested. Potter and Hagrid ignored him. Snape muttered, "Really, now, this is ridiculous --"

"Turn him around, facing me," Potter suggested, and Hagrid complied readily. Snape tried once again.

"This is outrageous! Quite enough --"

Potter took hold of his face with both hands, holding him completely still, and stuck his tongue most of the way down Snape's throat. Not being able to breathe, much less speak, Snape gave up protest and concentrated on remaining conscious. When Potter judged him thoroughly silenced, he broke the kiss. At which point Snape realized, by the breeze running across his bare arse, that Hagrid and Potter between them had rucked up his robe and tugged down his trousers.

Before he could think of any response whatsoever beyond gaping like a beached fish, Potter pushed Snape's head down and Hagrid held his hips up. It turned out to be fortuitous that his mouth was already open, because that made it quite easy for Potter to thrust in the erect prick he already had out, waiting and dripping. Snape's tongue was wrapped around it and he was sucking before he gave it a thought.

That was also just as well, because at an unseen command over his head from Potter, Hagrid sunk two huge fingers, barely wet with spit, deep into his arse. And twisted. Drew them out and plunged them again.

And twisted.

Snape's eyes closed and he screamed around the prick pistoning into and out of his mouth. Then Hagrid shoved harder, and Snape screamed again, only this time Potter thrust all the way into his throat at the same time Hagrid pushed, so when he screamed the vibrations bathed Potter's prick all the way up to his balls.

Judging by his wheezed, "Bloody hell, yes!" that must have felt good. Hagrid must've liked something about it, too, or else he really wanted young Harry to have a very good time, because they continued to fuck Snape in tandem, at both ends. Potter would pull out barely far enough for Snape to gasp a breath, as Hagrid pulled his fingers out, then they'd both drive in, Snape would scream, Potter would moan, and they'd do it all over again.

Somehow in all the commotion Snape's hands had ended up wrapped around Potter's hips, and his prick, though unattended, was rock-hard and leaking, whipping back and forth between his thighs as he was double-mounted. He tried to pry a hand away to attend himself, but before he got the chance, a huge hand reached beneath him. When the fingers wrapped around his prick, pressing it back into the wide palm, the poor erection was completely engulfed.

Potter was making incoherent noises now, echoed by Snape though no one would know it, muffled as they were. Hagrid started milking Snape's prick roughly, each squeeze feeling rather as if it would be pulled completely off, each time the thick fingers forced themselves back up his arse, redoubling his screams round Potter's prick.

Orgasm caught Snape unawares and he buckled in Hagrid's hands, arching and flopping like a mad thing. Potter's hands clamped about his jaw kept him from biting off anything important, and his thrashing carried Potter over the edge as well. As Potter shot his seed down Snape's throat, the paw at Snape's prick disappeared, and he heard a rustling like sandpaper on a log before Hagrid gave a huge groan.

In the next instant a hot stream of thick liquid gushed over Snape's flank, shooting over his hip and catching the fingers still working in his spasming arse. The stray thought struck him that Hagrid was cramming his sperm up Snape's arse without actually fucking him, and glancing out the side of his eye, he decided that was a good thing. If Hagrid had tried to shove that log up his arse Snape wouldn't have survived the experience.

Collapsed on his knees, head cradled against Potter's spent prick, Hagrid's fingers still rooting lazily in his arse, covered from ankles to mid-back with Hagrid's spunk, Snape happened to open his eyes and see, of all things, Fang. Lolling off to the side, tongue hanging out, eyes bright and happy. If he hadn't known better, he'd swear the blasted hound was laughing at him.

Then Hagrid was pulling his hand, with extreme reluctance, from Snape's arse, and Potter was pulling him to his feet. Snape tried to think of something appropriately cutting to put the fear of God and angry Potion Masters into Hagrid, but Potter trumped him. Again.

"Great fun, Hagrid! Must do this again sometime."

Snape gave a strangled groan. As usual, Potter and Hagrid ignored him. Potter added cheerfully, "But this one, you shouldn't tell anyone. Really."

Hagrid was still crossing his heart and hoping to die, a hope sincerely seconded by Snape, when Potter dragged Snape back to Hogwart's. Luckily, it was dinner, so no rabidly lustful students were lying in wait for either of them. Snape held a wounded silence all the way back. Once there, he unwound his arm from Potter's waist, pretending it hadn't been there the whole time, and stomped as well as he could, sloshing as he was, down to his rooms. Potter's chuckle followed him all the way down to the dungeon.

Life since Voldemort's downfall just kept getting better. Snape wondered if he could get away with spending the rest of his life in bed with his covers up over his head.

And if so, his libido suggested irrepressibly, then perhaps he could convince Potter to join him ...

End

Remus Lupin'd had his paws, er, hands full since the final battle against the Death Eaters of Voldemort (or as he liked to call them, those Pain-in-the-arse Losers with the Collective Death Wish). With the Dark Lord's normal timing, crappy for his side and perfect for his enemies, he'd called for the Apocalypse during a full moon, which played right into Remus' plans. As the Commander in Chief of the Combined Monsters Corps, leading mixed companies of werewolves, hippogriffs, and renegade mountain trolls against the Losers, Remus struck a blow for monsters everywhere, as many of the nastiest Death Eaters also turned out to be many of the tastiest.

On a personally triumphant note, as CiC-CMC, after the battle he was offered a position at Hogwarts as Master of Care of Magical Creatures. It was a task much more to his taste than his previous DADA position. Flush from victory, and with vivid memories of werewolves eating Death Eaters in precision formation, none of the surviving parents made a single protest.

Next step, legal rights for carnivores, an end to segregation of magical groups and the legalization of wolfsbane. Maybe even a push to fund Ministry of Magic trials to discover a way to make the shit palatable. Since the majority of the Ministry had either fled forever or been torched by Voldemort, and the new Head of Internal Affairs just happened to be one of Remus' werewolf buddies out of the Lake District, he had high hopes.

Then there was Sirius. Rehabilitation of Azkaban had included the destruction of the few remaining Dementors who hadn't already been assimilated by the Death Eaters, and with the help of the few remaining sane Aurors, several falsely imprisoned wizards had been cleared of all charges and let loose, his old friend Sirius among them. Of course, several free wizards had been found to be disguised Death Eaters, and they were fed to the mountain trolls, making everyone (except the Losers) quite happy. Lucius Malfoy, in particular, had been deemed "Luscious!" as he was going down. His whining little cub was still screaming about that, but not too loudly, lest he be dessert.

Still, a few whinging brats aside, it was a glorious time to be a werewolf and an even better time to be a werewolf named Remus Lupin. Life was grand, he was getting paid regularly with a roof over his head and new robes on his back, Sirius was ensconced in his bed when not helping McGonagall in the classroom, and their godson Harry was doing a bang-up job as DADA Master. There was one odd little tidbit that nagged at Remus' attention, though.

Severus Snape. He'd been cleared of duplicity with the Losers, since he was spying for the Winners most of the time. He'd fought well and bravely, and even suffered the permanent effect of a curse in service to the Light (or Harry Potter, but really, the two were synonymous). In the course of saving Harry from an age-reversal spell that would have taken him back before he was born, effectively killing him, Snape took the full brunt of the spell. Rapid age regression hurt like hell, nearly killed him, in fact, but the final results ... were stunning.

And if Remus' nose was anything to go by ... and it always was ... the DADA Master wasn't the only thing Harry was doing a bang-up job at. Snape looked dead sexy as a twenty-something, and he smelled like he was getting fucked on a *very* regular basis. He took to his rooms unexpectedly, staying there a day or more at a time, and when he appeared in public he was either being chased by his students or ogled by his fellow faculty. More often than not, he walked like he'd been ridden into the floor the night before. There'd even been rumors of Harry ambushing Snape in class. In the forest. In the halls. Everywhere he could find a shadow dark enough to hide them both and not frighten the children.

Although from the way the children followed the pair of them, tongues hanging out, they'd probably have a paying audience before they had a frightened one.

All in all, it was enough to drive Remus mad. His curiosity was piqued to the point of no return when Snape came to afternoon tea one day smelling of Harry, semen, sweat, dirt, dungeon dust, grass, and most intriguingly, Hagrid. So, armed with the excuse that he needed a sleeping draught for the griffin he was introducing to his fifth years the next week, that night after dinner Remus swept silently down the dungeon steps and made his way to Snape's chambers.

There was no one there.

Nor was there anyone in Snape's classroom. His workroom, his storeroom, the little room with the cot in it where he took naps between classes when his students gave him the headache, the bathroom, the toilet, or the teachers' retiring room. Remus then tried Harry's rooms, his classroom, the Quidditch pitch, under the bleachers, below the announcer's box, the broom room (informally known as The Seeker's Sex Space), and most of the No Longer Forbidden Forest. By the time he gave up it was dawn.

As he dragged himself back into Hogwarts he saw Harry hauling an exhausted-looking Snape down from Trelawney's old rooms. They'd been abandoned since the old bat failed to foresee Death coming down on her in the form of an explosive curse from one of the Losers. Harry was muttering something about 'best damned time I ever had in that hellhole' while Snape sleep-walked, from the look of him.

Shrugging philosophically, being nothing if not patient, Remus fell back and waited for a better opportunity. It came a few days later, after things came to a head on the student-assault front. Albus stood at the faculty table and addressed the assembled students, most of whom were so busy eating (those who hadn't hit puberty yet) or visibly lusting after Harry and Snape (everyone else including ghosts, assorted magical creatures and quite a few inanimate objects).

"It's come to my attention that there is a slight problem with discipline," Dumbledore began.

Several students either moaned or made enthusiastic suggestions for whips and bare bottoms. McGonagall glared fiercely around the hall, and Albus frowned vaguely. Most of the faculty drifted off into private fantasies. Remus glanced over at the lovebirds. Harry was looking at Snape with a measuring eye, and Snape looked grumpy, terrified, and aroused. Since his age regression and his new relationship, Snape's range of expression had expanded considerably beyond his standard rotation of 'pissy' or 'intimidating' stares.

Albus cleared his throat, then did it a second time, loudly enough to rattle the dishes. That finally shut off the stream of suggestions, rapidly becoming quite obscene. "This is a school, not a boudoir!"

"Bordello," murmured McGonagall. Dumbledore swept on.

"Students will act with the utmost respect toward their professors or they will be disciplined!" A yearning sigh swept all the students over the age of consent. "With a castration spell that will only be reversed upon graduation!"

The sigh strangled into a concerted gasp of dismay as, in unison, several hundred pairs of legs crossed instinctively in a genital-defensive position. Before the girls could take up the lusty cry, Dumbledore snapped, "And for those for whom such a spell is ineffective, there are always chastity belts! With teeth!"

The rest of the legs in the hall crossed and the dismayed gasp now spanned all octaves.

With a benevolent smile, Albus raised his glass, "And so, with that little problem solved, let's sing the Hogwarts Song and get this term off to a fresh start!"

The Song was a trifle higher-pitched and a tad more strained than usual.

Remus waited and watched. Dumbledore's proclamation hadn't mentioned other faculty, and given that he'd been canoodling Minerva for several decades, Remus knew he was safe stalking Snape and Harry. So late that night, when all the world but lovers and creatures of the night were asleep, he followed his nose up the tower on the trail of Harry and the surprisingly-sexy Snape.

He had an excuse, in the griffin-potion; he had a cheat-sheet of passwords Sirius had lifted for him from Minerva's office upon promise of recitation of all the details; he had his usual werewolf stealth-tread. He needed none of them. At the entryway to Harry's tower suite, the dame in the portrait who should have challenged him for the password sat in the corner of the frame, peering through the crack of the opened door, paying all her attention to what was happening inside the room and none to any possible intruders. From the way her hand was moving her petticoats Remus had no trouble understanding her preoccupation, and he took full advantage of it to slip past her into the room. She didn't so much as squeak.

Well, not about passwords anyway.

Once in, he crept silently into the bedroom, barely seen from the doorway. She must've had good eyesight. Not that anyone heard him. The inhabitants were too engrossed in one another to heed his entry, or demand his ready excuse. Remus was happy for that preoccupation, given his moaned, "bloody hell!" at the sight that met his eyes, and the not-exactly-stealthy way he had to grab his balls to keep from coming before the party had barely begun.

The bed sat three-quarters to the door, giving the audience of one a perfect view of the festivities. Snape lay on his belly, crotch propped up on pillows, arms manacled above his head to a hook in the wall, although there was plenty of play in the chains, as he had his head resting on his forearms. There was less play at the other end, as his feet were spread and his ankles were chained to the end-posts of the bed. The position showed off his lean body to perfection, the muscles outlined clearly in the long arms and legs, the lovely curve of the buttocks, the arch of the spine, all quivering beneath flushed skin streaked with sweat and scratch marks.

Remus licked his lips before the drool spilled down over his chin. He refrained from either growling or howling. Barely.

Between those long, shaking, bound legs young Harry, all grown up and quite a grown-up he'd become, rutted away enthusiastically in the offered arse. His legs were slightly longer than Snape's, and he used the added inch to advantage, putting his back in his thrusts and lifting Snape clear off the bed with each push. Remus inched closer, angling toward the foot of the bed. From the new angle, he could see Snape's prick and balls, bound in what looked like a leather cage, purpling and swelling, pressed at a downward angle on the backside of the pillow. Every time Harry came down on Snape's arse, the prick got crushed into the caged balls, and every time he drew back, the prick got dragged along the edge of the pillow.

It must have hurt like a bitch. And from the way Snape was urging Harry on, he must have been loving every second of it. The reek of musk and sex coming off the pair nearly knocked Remus off his feet.

So, Snape was kinky. No surprise there. So, so was Harry. Remus flashed on long-ago memories of himself in the middle of a sweaty knot, Sirius pumping away behind while James sucked enthusiastically from the front, hands squeezing everywhere. So, no surprise there, either. He got it from his Da. Remus was just settling in for a nice long show and a little handy wrist action when Harry nearly startled him into wolf-form.

"Why are you clear over there, Remus?" he panted, rotating his hips in a way that flexed his arse cheeks beautifully and made Snape scream. Or maybe the scream was shock at Remus' presence, it was impossible to tell, since Snape wasn't forming words, just making random noises. "Come join the party."

Remus was naked and bouncing on the bed almost before Harry got the words out. Snape glared at him, one dark eye burning through sweat-wet hair, but before he could say anything, Harry thrust all the way in, stayed there, grabbed the hair on Snape's head and yanked his head back. Remus panted.

"This is what you want, isn't it, my bitch?" Harry purred. Snape whimpered. "Louder, Severus," Harry commanded him gently.

"Yes!" screamed Snape.

Well, that was plain enough. Harry loosened his grip, then pulled out completely, bent over Snape's shoulder, and kissed him with unmistakable ownership. Remus' pant got a little growl in it.

"Good bitch," Harry whispered. Goosebumps rose all over Snape's body. "But you've been ridden for awhile, and I know how hot you are when you're tight." The goosebumps doubled, but Snape didn't say anything. "Remus," Harry drew his attention and Remus tore his eyes away from Snape to toss him a questioning look. "Go up to the head of the bed and feed him your prick."

Again, Remus was there practically before Harry finished speaking. "He doesn't bite, does he?" No joke there. Snape's eyes were open and glaring up at him again.

"If he does, we stop touching him and leave him like this. Then we call Peeves in."

The glare instantly mutated into a plea. Remus grinned. Snape's mouth opened. Remus stuck his prick in. As soon as he did, Snape started licking and sucking at it like a ravenous dog on a juicy bone. The growl that had been threatening broke through. Snape's sucking got even hungrier at the sound.

"God, that's sexy," Harry breathed. Remus forced his gaze away from the way Snape's lips stretched around his erection and the bulge it made pushing against his cheek to see Harry pulling a butt plug from a box next to the bed. It was at least five inches long, and close to three inches around in the middle, with little bumps and ridges all over it. "One of Severus' favorite little toys."

"Little?" Remus choked out. The sucking at his cock could only be described as frenzied as Harry gave a truly wicked grin and shoved the plug up Snape's arse, the force needed to pop it in making muscles stand out all along his arm and shoulder. Snape's tongue fluttered along Remus' shaft as he screamed, and the vibration nearly made him come. Reaching down, Remus gave his own balls a nasty twist, yelping with pain and relief when he softened just enough to keep from exploding. "Now what?" he panted, one hand twisting helplessly in Snape's hair as his hips began to move and he fucked Snape's throat.

"Now we tighten him up for you!" Harry informed him cheerfully, pulling out an evil-looking paddle from the same box. "Another of Severus' favorites. Oh, and Remus, make sure you pull out once in awhile and let him breathe. It'd be a shame to have to wait for him to come to before you fuck him."

Oh. Right. Remus eased out and Snape gasped air through his nose. Wait. Remus looked down at the watering eyes, distended mouth, and thoroughly excited expression on Snape's face and said, dumbly, "Fuck?"

"Sure," Harry answered, raising the paddle high. "Why d'you think I'm tightening him up for you?" Then he brought the paddle down full strength, directly across both arse cheeks, the middle of the paddle striking the finger-grip at the center of the plug, shaking it in Snape's arse at the same time that the muscles in his arse tightened from the blow.

If the first scream had nearly made him cream, the prolonged howl that move brought forth nearly took the top of Remus' head off, given that it was timed perfectly to land just as he thrust the length of his prick back down Snape's throat. His hand shot to his balls and he twisted again, hissing and yelping and pumping his hips. Harry matched his rhythm perfectly; as Remus drew out, Snape dragged in air, and as Remus pumped back in, Harry smacked Snape's arse, knocking all that lovely air right back out of him in the form of another spine-melting, prick-milking scream.

Remus would have been quite happy to continue in this vein for the rest of his natural life, or until the next full moon, given that if he wolfed-out in his current position he might instinctively eat Snape, and where would the fun be in that? But Harry had other plans. Snape was nearly delirious from oxygen-starvation, endorphins, agony and ecstasy in his arse, prick and balls to have any input, and Remus was along for the ride, so Harry did what he wanted and the others followed along happily.

Dropping the paddle carefully back in the box, muttering a cleaning spell as he did, Harry leaned down and bit Snape's arse cheeks, right then left, dead center, adding bite bruises to the welts from the paddle. Snape moaned around Remus' prick and Remus moaned along with him. Rubbing the stinging flesh firmly, Harry grinned up at Remus. "Ready?" he asked, leaning back up and hooking two fingers in the handle of the plug. "Pull out!" he ordered, and Remus did, at the exact same time that Harry yanked the plug out of Snape's arse.

The long, wavering howl Snape gave sounded almost as good as would have felt. Remus licked dry lips and glanced over at Harry, who motioned for him to move. Climbing carefully over Snape, dragging the dripping, sticky end of his prick over Snape's face, through his hair, over his shoulder and down his back as he did, Remus positioned himself on his knees between Snape's thighs. Then he looked over at Harry for his permission.

"On your knees, darling Severus," Harry commanded gently, and Snape automatically shifted backward until his arse was held high, his arms now stretched above his head, his steadily-leaking prick in its bindings waving in the air above the pillow. "Now, Remus," Harry said, reaching under to remove the pillow, "fuck him hard."

He didn't need to be told twice. Wrapping his hands around Snape's hips, Remus lined up his aching prick and shoved it all the way in with one hard thrust. Snape's head, hanging down between his biceps, reared up and he screamed again, but he didn't squirm away. Quite the contrary; he bore back, as if his arse was starving for Remus' prick, meeting the thrust with all the strength in his shivering body. The muscular curves of his arse cheeks were fire-hot against Remus' groin and upper thighs, the hole clenching around his prick felt like a moving iron band, fluttering convulsively, closed, relaxed, closed tighter still as Remus moved. Snape and Remus were both moaning and growling, panting as they rutted, Snape clawing at the sheets beneath his hands, Remus clawing at the hips beneath his own.

Harry watched with a greedy expression on his face, eyes shining, mouth open, muttering encouragement to Snape and Remus equally. One hand traced below Snape, and bending his head to glance under, Remus could see Harry pinching Snape's nipples, twisting and pulling them, then roaming down to pull at head of Snape's prick, as if trying to yank the trapped foreskin back over the swollen purple head with his fingernails. Snape shuddered with each pin-prick caress, bucking and squirming against Remus. Then Harry moved his other hand back behind Remus, his fingers heading unerringly for Remus' own arsehole.

Remus gave him a startled look, and Harry cocked his head in a question. "Fuck, yes," Remus groaned, then stilled as Harry carefully settled himself behind Remus, his knees pushing Remus's apart, thus forcing Snape's thighs even wider, until he was almost lying on his belly, only Remus' hands on his hips and prick up his arse keeping him in place. His bound prick bounced a bare inch from the surface of the bed, and he was sobbing for relief by this point. The hot bundle of flesh felt delicious against Remus' own balls when it hit them, and Snape's prick left a trail of pre-come all over the sheets. Despite his pleas, or perhaps because of them, neither Harry nor Remus would allow completion quite yet.

Working his way into Remus, Harry eventually seated himself. Remus held still all through, forcing Snape to do the same, although Snape's involuntary writhing couldn't be completely contained. Then Harry breathed, "All right, move it!" in Remus ear, and began to piston in and out. Remus shoved back to meet Harry, then forward to fill Snape, and for a moment, he was back in time twenty years. With James buried up his backside, and Sirius flat on his back under them, legs wrapped around both of them. The way Harry went at it, there was no doubt left whatsoever in Remus' mind that he took after his father.

Such intensity couldn't last too long, and Remus had pulled his balls until that move didn't work any more, so when he felt orgasm build again, he called out, "Gonna come!" Harry shoved suddenly all the way in and held him there, shoving Remus as deep as he could go in Snape, then Harry wrapped his arms around both of them.

"Severus," Harry cried, his arm moving up and down, and Remus heard the sound of snaps flicking open, "come now!"

With the bindings gone, Snape came like a fountain, arching and bucking as his prick sprayed semen over the bed, his chest, down between their legs, freckling Remus and Harry's knees with the mess. He howled until his voice broke, and Remus joined him as Snape's arse turned into a milking machine around his deeply-embedded prick, sucking his balls dry and begging for more. Harry clutched both of them against him, his hands hard against Snape's belly, his groin clamped to Remus' arse as he spasmed, filling Remus with nearly as much spunk as Snape spread all over the bed.

Eventually they collapsed, Harry rolling off to one side and Remus forcing himself off to the other. Snape muttered a few words and the chains at his feet and ankles disappeared. Harry spooned up behind him, biting and kissing the side of his neck, and Snape looked blearily at Remus.

"You mean you could've gotten out of them any time?" Remus asked, slightly disappointed. Snape tried to glare at him, but he all could manage was a smugly well-fucked expression.

"I could, but where's the fun in that?"

Remus could only agree. Then Snape surprised him by reaching out and pulling him into a snug embrace. Harry lifted his face from Snape's neck long enough to reach over and close his mouth over Remus'. He tasted of sweat and Snape, not a bad combination, and Remus enjoyed a nice long snog before Snape began to make little whining noises. Breaking off the kiss, Remus grinned at Harry, who grinned back, then swooped down to kiss Snape until there was no more air left for whining.

When he came up for air, he pecked Harry on the nose, licked Snape's lips one more time, then extricated himself from their combined embrace. Snape looked calculating; Harry looked confused.

"Aren't you going to stay?"

Remus glanced down to see a silent invitation in Snape's dark eyes mirroring the spoken invitation from Harry. "If I do, Sirius will come looking for me."

"Then by all means, do go," Snape immediately said. Harry bit him. Snape yelped then subsided, lip stuck out in a pout that was ridiculously sexy.

"Stay, Remus. Do," Harry pled nicely.

Remus gave them a lopsided, decidedly wolfish smile. "Next time," he promised. Then he gathered his clothing and stepped back out into the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Harry had pinned Snape to the bed, lying half on-top him and kissing that pouting lip like he was trying to devour him. Grinning at the portrait as he passed, Remus noticed that the lady in the picture had fainted, a blissful smile on her lips. Shaking his head, he climbed silently down the staircase and made his way back to the chambers he shared with Sirius. He had a lot to tell him.

When he was done talking, they had a promise to keep. He, for one, was looking forward to it.

End

It was seeing him pinch out the candles that gave him the idea.

Harry'd grown up with pain. He understood it, how it could be a weapon or a tool, could break a child or make a man. Knew the ebb and flow of sensation the same way he knew the way his pulse felt in his veins. Understood punishment and reward, and how the first could be the second when meted out by someone who knew what he was doing, to someone who knew what he wanted.

Severus knew what he wanted. What he needed.

Harry loved being the one who gave it to him.

Late one night, after Hogwarts was settled, even the ghosts slumbering in their stone crypts, he watched Severus pinch out the wicks of the candles, one by one, and knew what his man couldn't ask for but needed all the same. Rising from his chair, kicking his shoes off and placing his spell book to one side, he dropped his robes and walked naked across the chilled workroom.

Severus froze, only his eyes moving as he watched Harry cross the room. Steady hands reached out and pulled the buttons free along the front of his robe, dropping them around his ankles, leaving him as bare as Harry. Harry liked him that way. Liked knowing he could stop by and corner Severus any time he wished, push him against a wall or over a bench and fuck him dry, Severus stuffing the sleeve of his robe in his mouth to stifle his cries, Harry doing the same against the back of Severus' neck. It took the edge off, and kept the excitement high.

They both loved the bludgeoning pleasure, the knifing pain, the complete release they found in one another.

Reaching for the last lit candle, Harry held it steady an inch from Severus' chest, until the heat threatened to singe the dark curls on his chest. Then he moved his fingers, tilting the candle just enough to allow a single long drop to slide across the center of Severus' left nipple.

An indrawn hiss of breath and the instant beading of the soft flesh under the wax was all the answer Harry needed. He glanced up, recognizing hunger in Severus' obsidian eyes. He knew it mirrored his own. He nodded toward the bedroom. Severus sighed, anticipation silently expressed. Harry followed him, a step behind, as Severus stepped out of his robes, toed off his shoes and padded barefoot and naked into their bedroom.

He didn't stop at the bed, simply climbed on and spread himself prone, arms reaching above his head, legs spreading wide. A single word, the shimmer of air, and manacles appeared around wrists and ankles, enough chain between them and the bolts in the stone walls to allow Harry to manipulate Severus' body any way he wanted. By now it was routine, comforting and exciting at once.

Harry paused a moment beside the bed to sweep his eyes over his plaything. Pale skin, dark hair, long limbs, fingers and toes clenching and releasing, as were his buttocks, a shiver of muscle under rounded flesh. Setting the candle on the bed stand, Harry climbed over Severus' bound body, dropping kisses and bites as he did, warming the cold flesh for the intensity to come.

Settling between the spread legs, Harry leaned down and licked once, from the balls pushed up at the apex of the tensed thighs along the quivering perineum to the hole already beginning to dilate. He dallied there a long moment, teasing and nipping, flicking his tongue across and digging in then retreating, as Severus began to pant.

A few more words in the humid silence, and a warm pot appeared in Harry's left hand. Leaning down, he placed a loving bite on the underside of Severus' right arse cheek, enough to make him jump, a nip of pain presaging the pleasure to come. "Tighten the chains, my bitch" he said quietly, waiting as Severus instantly obeyed. Then without further teasing, with no warning, Harry spread the soft cheeks and poured out the whole contents of the pot, coating Severus in hot wax the entire length of the crease.

The moaning scream Severus gave as the wax poured over his hole and puddled on his balls was delicious. Harry flicked the pot away and placed his arm across the small of Severus' back, restricting his writhing, concentrating the sensation. The scream died away to a gurgle. Harry reached down past the reddening balls and pulled Severus' half-hard prick back until it lay pointing down. As he watched the wax harden, he played with his favorite toy, pinching and pulling Severus' foreskin until it was rosy red. By the time he finished twisting and jerking it, Severus' prick was fully hard.

Raising his arm, now that Severus had his involuntary movements back under control, Harry leaned down and caught the leaking head in his teeth. Rewarded with another sharp yelp, he chewed lightly, enjoying the taste of the pre-cum and the heat of the glans against his tongue. With a final nibble, he let it drop back onto the bed.

"You'll enjoy this, love," he whispered. Running a nail along the cool hard wax, he scored a line below Severus' balls, separating that wax from the strip now dried along perineum and crease. Then, with perfect timing, he put his knee down on Severus' downbent prick and ripped upward on the hardened wax.

Between losing his breath at the vice holding his prick to the bed and gasping at the pain as all the hair from the back of his balls to the small of his back was torn out along with the wax, Severus was unable to do more than gurgle again. Harry was satisfied anyway, by the way the long body beneath him arched and rippled, the shift of the trapped prick beneath his knee pulsing, and the gaping then clenching arsehole, so rudely defoliated.

Shifting down again, not bothering to lift his knee, knowing that Severus would appreciate the balance of pain and pleasure, Harry thrust two fingers into the clenched hole and stroked firmly across the prostate. Severus bucked again, the slick fluid dribbling down his prick allowing it to escape the hold of Harry's knee. A muffled keen of disappointment from the face buried in the linens made Harry pause in his finger-fucking.

"Poor darling," he chided. "Can't quite contain it, can you?" Removing his fingers, he placed a deep kiss on Severus' hole, tongue sweeping in, enjoying the clean smooth feel of the skin without the usual prickling of fine hair. He continued to fuck Severus with his tongue until the hips beneath his face were humping uncontrollably, and Severus was gasping.

"Please ... Harry ... don't want to come ... yet ... please!" He sounded desperate, and Harry took pity.

Sitting back with one last kiss to the fluttering hole, he commanded, "Turn over. Loosen your ankle chains. Bring your knees up to your shoulders and hold yourself open for me." When Severus had obeyed him, Harry conjured another pot, this one with a thin glass pipette leaning in it. "You don't want to come yet?"

Severus shook his head in a hard negative, sweaty hair flying, strands catching across his lashes and his open lips. Harry smiled sweetly, pushing the hair back until he could see Severus' eyes, burning up into him.

"Then you shan't," he promised. Lowering his hand until it rings Severus' prick, he lifted the head, tiny purple bruises already showing from the earlier teething. Pinched it until the piss slit gaped. Placing the pot of hot wax on the bed stand, he dipped the pipette into the stuff, bringing a glob quickly to poke it directly into the tiny hole.

Severus bellowed, but he didn't move. Didn't struggle, didn't protest. Harry's smile widened. He knew his man. Another glob of hot wax followed, then another and another, until a plug of wax widened and stopped the slit. When it was of a depth and breadth to satisfy Harry, and Severus was shifting uncontrollably, tiny whimpers pushed from behind clenched teeth, Harry laid the pipette aside. Taking up the pot, he bent Severus' prick back down again. This time, instead of biting it, he dipped the whole head into the pot of hot wax.

There was no containing the yelps that brought, as sweat sprung out all over Severus' body, making it shine in the candle light. His muscles twisted and his spine arched, but Harry rode him out, keen eyes noting the way the nipples tightened, the skin drew up in goosebumps, and most tellingly, the prick he coated tried to force itself back upright, hardening faster than the wax now coating the head.

He dipped it a second time, the sensation muted now by the initial coat, dulled to a warm glow rather than a splash of fire. Then a third, each time allowing rivulets to drip down over Severus' shaft and balls, adding an extra kick, as if his prick was the center of a sun, heat radiating out from it. The beeswax looked like lemon frosting on the straining flesh by the time Harry was content that, regardless of how much he might wish it, Severus would not come until Harry allowed it.

Waiting for sanity to seep back into Severus' eyes, Harry softly massaged the thin skin of the perineum below the wax-streaked balls. Pressed right behind them, firmly enough to stimulate without debilitating. Eventually the harsh breaths wracking Severus' chest evened out, and the fingers clenched white-knuckled around the chains relaxed until the bone no longer showed through the skin. Harry leaned up and kissed him, tongue exploring lazily, enjoying the desperation in Severus' return kiss, and the submission underlying it as well.

"Spread out and down, darling," he ordered, and the chains rearranged themselves, ankles drawn back toward the foot of the bed, arms allowed more play. Harry inched back and watched as Severus slowly turned himself back over onto his belly, hissing as his wax-sheathed prick rubbed the sheets.

"Knees," Harry quickly told him, before his hard work could be broken on the cotton. Severus immediately put his arse high in the air, his head now resting on crossed arms, knees as wide-spread as possible in his new position. All Harry could see of his face was the sharp line of chin and proud nose, the red-flushed lips and fall of jet hair covering his eyes.

He reached forward and drew the hair back again, tucking it behind an ear so he could have a clear view of Severus' face. He needed it, not simply to tell him when to push and when to wait, but because it fed his soul to see the ice in those severe features melt before the fire of pleasure to which Harry subjected him.

"More, now," he warned this time, as he conjured a third pot, this one wider and more shallow than the other two. Lifting the heavy weight of Severus' ballsac in his fingers, he placed a nipping kiss on each testicle, rubbing his nose along the veins, knocking off a few stray strands of wax. Severus began to pant again, balls drawing up despite their owner's desire, in anticipation. Harry didn't make him wait.

With a deliberate movement, he plunged the sac into the wax, smiling again at the convulsive movement of Severus' arse and the yowl the initial burn provoked. Up, into the air to cool a bare moment, then back down again, the searing once more muted into a deep warm glow with each additional coat. Five thin layers completely covered the sac when Harry deemed it sufficient.

Throughout, Severus had never lost his erection, and Harry could see the shaft swelling, frustrated at no longer being allowed to leak. He ran a nail along the heavy vein twisting up the front of the shaft, diverting Severus from the heavy wax drying on his sac, pulling another pleasured moan from deep in Severus' chest.

Another conjuration, another pot, this one mentholated jelly, with which Harry coated his own rampant prick. Placing the head against Severus' shiny bare hole, he pushed hard, thrusting in completely on the first push. Severus cursed, his control over his vocabulary finally broken, and Harry sighed happily.

"Language, professor," he teased, ignoring the breathlessness in his own voice to concentrate on the strain in Severus'. "Five points from Slytherin!"

"It'll be a bloody hell of a lot more than that from Gryffindor if you don't shift your arse, you shite!" Severus barked.

Harry couldn't help laughing, even as he conceded Severus' point and began pumping. Still, Severus wasn't in control, couldn't be in control to get what he needed, so Harry made certain that he fucked Severus as slowly as he could without actually staying still. All too soon, Severus was cursing again, nearly sobbing with the need for more movement, more pressure, more Harry.

Gradually, listening to the timbre of Severus' voice and ignoring his words, for the sound spoke more truly than the pleas ever could, Harry sped up his thrusts, harder and deeper as he went. When he was pounding into Severus hard enough to hear the wax on Severus' prick begin to crack, he leaned over the straining back and whispered, "Soon, love."

Reaching down with one hand, he ripped the wax casing Severus' ballsac off, clamping his other hand on the back of Severus' neck to keep him from coming right up off the bed. It was a good thing he did, too, as Severus went mad beneath him, his body arching and convulsing as he came, arse clamping and rippling around Harry's prick. The wax plug and cap over his glans kept the spunk in, but did nothing to stop the convulsions, sending him into a loop of continuous orgasm that nearly destroyed him.

Exactly what he needed.

Precisely what Harry intended.

Giving himself up to the sensation of Severus flying apart beneath and around him, Harry allowed himself to come, fucking hard, holding tightly, pouring himself deeply into Severus, feeling as if he was piercing the wildly-beating heart pounding below his chest. He lay for a moment in exhaustion over Severus' back as Severus continued to buck and writhe, then with a supreme effort, he muttered the words necessary to lengthen the chains. Keeping his softening prick buried in Severus' backside, he rolled them over until he could lean against the pillows, Severus trapped between Harry's legs, leaning against his chest.

Wrapping his arms around Severus' waist to hold him as still as possible, Harry took the base of Severus' red, swollen shaft in one fist and wrapped the other around the hardened wax encasing the end of Severus' prick. Timing it to heighten the effect, he lowered his head and bit the side of Severus' neck hard at the same moment that he tightened his fist, cracking the wax cap, crumbling it away until Severus' flesh leapt free.

It took a good few hard squeezes, each one wringing a scream of ecstasy from Severus, causing his pelvis to arch uncontrollably, before the wax plug in his slit worked free. When it did, Harry tasted blood as Severus jerked under his teeth, and the long-trapped prick pulsed out a geyser of come, spraying wildly over the bed, Harry and Severus' entwined legs, even up onto Severus' chest. Harry continued to squeeze, his free hand roaming, flicking wax off the one nipple, rolling and palming the newly-bare balls, eliciting a cry with each new touch.

Finally, Severus' head lolled back against Harry's shoulder and his body, utterly drained, collapsed back against Harry's hold. Harry petted and soothed him. Severus eventually rolled his head until he could kiss the underside of Harry's jaw, then fell asleep with no further ado. Harry grinned down at his exhausted Severus, loving the complete relaxation throughout the normally tensed frame.

Reaching down, he took the edge of the stained sheet, flicking it expertly to knock the worst of the dried wax off onto the floor, then drawing it up over the both of them. Settling further into the pillows, shifting the deadweight of the sleeping Severus as he did, without a whisper of protest, he nestled down beside Severus and closed his eyes.

Another boundary broken. Another bond formed. By the time they were finished they'd be so close they'd be one person. Harry smiled as he fell into sleep. One person. One heart. One soul.

As it was always meant to be.

End

Severus Snape stared in horrified disbelief at Professor Flitwick, or rather at the waist-high bulge in his robe that now concealed Flitwick. He didn't know how it had happened. Since Dumbledore's edict banning student pursuit of faculty, he'd been relatively safe (at least whilst on the grounds and protected by Hagrid, Potter or Lupin ... not that he'd admit he needed protection, but he really didn't have eyes in the back of his head, and someone needed to watch his arse. Er, back).

Unfortunately, Dumbledore hadn't extended the ban to fellow faculty. Snape had considered that a boon, given that he was enjoying sex with a wide variety of them, until Flitwick ambushed him in the staff room. Snape had reached for the teapot, steadied his cup, and frozen in shock as the diminutive wizard pushed his way under Snape's robes and dove for his fly.

Before he could set the teapot down or empty his cup on Flitwick or mutter a curse or run away, Potter breezed through the door. Stopped mid-step and glared at him. Snape stuttered.

"He just ... I wasn't ... Good lord, this isn't what ... I can explain!"

Wondering where his vaunted sarcasm and smooth delivery went in times of extreme stress, finding himself in utterly uncharted social waters given that he'd never in his life expected to have to explain to his lover (Harry Potter, of all people!) why he was being molested in broad daylight in the faculty lounge by a fellow professor (Flitwick, of all people!), Snape gesticulated wildly with teapot and cup. Potter's glare went glacial and slid downward. Flitwick's fuzzy little head popped out from the encompassing folds of Snape's robe and he smiled cheerfully up at Potter.

"Hullo, Professor Potter! I don't suppose you're of a mind to share the wealth, now, are you?"

Potter smiled. It wasn't pleasant. Flitwick quivered and disapparated, dismayingly close to Snape's groin. Snape shuddered. Potter prowled closer until he was an inch from Snape's body. Snape stared up at him, internally cursing the inch height difference since it was difficult to stare down one's nose, even such an impressive appendage as his own, whilst looking up. Potter's smile broadened, sending a wholly different type of shiver down Snape's spine.

"I didn't give you permission to stray, Severus," Potter whispered, green eyes narrowing down at him. Snape attempted to look haughty but had the feeling he only managed to look helplessly aroused. Damn Potter, but that whisper did it to Snape every time.

"As if I would, with that little pip-squeak! You keep me completely satisfied, Potter ... well, you, and the cadre of your friends and in-laws that you continually invite in on the fun."

All true. Not that it mattered. His defense was brushed aside. Potter reached down, hand parting his robes and closing hard around his prick and balls. Snape gasped, barely managing to suppress a moan. It hurt beautifully. His breath quickened. The green eyes glaring at him darkened.

"Guess I'll just have to make sure you come to me when you need ... satisfaction." His fingers tightened and Snape's eyes closed involuntarily as the jolt of pressure arrowed through him. Caged as he was in Potter's fist, he still began to harden. Snape's hands were magically yanked behind him and pinned in the small of his back. Not that he protested.

Potter started muttering, though Snape couldn't decipher the words through the blood rushing in his ears, and in an instant the long fingers wrapped around his genitals were replaced by a woven leather trap.

Snape's thighs opened wide. They had no choice, as his balls were now pushed back between them, spread apart, with his prick bent backward in the soft furrow between the hard nuts. Leather wrapped around spread balls and trapped prick, covering and squeezing until the only bit of his genitals left uncovered was the head of his prick. His foreskin was peeled back and caught with a thin strap, leaving his ultra-sensitive glans open to the air, the brush of the leather, the heat of his balls, the rasp of fine hair from his inner thighs -- Snape began to pant. And to leak.

Potter moved his hands to the outside of Snape's hips, then pressed down and in, forcing his legs closed. The moist head of Snape's trapped prick rubbed along his perineum, teasing at the lower edge of his arsehole, and the knots of leather along the cage pushed like dulled teeth into the tender skin behind his balls, setting up a ragged external massage into his prostate.

Standing there, Snape waited, breathing hard, wondering what Potter would do next. Potter leaned forward and kissed him, biting and sucking at his upper lip, then pushing his tongue in until Snape could feel it crowding his throat. Broad palms slid up from his hips to his chest, then clever hands dove under his robe, seeking his nipples. Two tight, sharp pinches, twisting and pulling, and Snape came, screaming around Potter's tongue, flooding the back of his robe and bathing his twitching arsehole with blood-warm spunk.

As soon as he came, he felt the cage around him tighten. His balls, pressed against his shaft, ached, trying to fill as Potter continued to torment his tits. His prick twitched but couldn't move, and the dueling sensation of helplessness and abandon made Snape's head spin.

One of Potter's hands left Snape's nipple and slid around to his arse, feeling down the crease then pressing hard on the end of his prick. Bound as it was, there was no give, and the sharp pain of Potter's nails scoring the naked glans jolted another rush of cream out of him. Given that there was no room to expand, the amount of fluid was tiny, and the sensation rocketing through his groin all the more intense for it. Balls empty, his body jerked and spasmed against Potter, and Snape could feel his orgasm spread through every nerve in his body.

Light-headed with the aftereffects of coming twice, hard and fast, coupled with the pain in his nipples and at his crotch, it took a moment for Snape to understand the instructions Potter whispered against his ear. Forcing himself to concentrate, he heard, "You will pee sitting down. You will not touch yourself. You will come when I tell you to. You will stay in this cage until I deem you fit to be free again. Tonight, at nine, in the broom room under the bleachers, you will be punished."

Then Potter bit his lip, licked the blood away, and pinched the head of his prick one last time before letting go of him abruptly. Snape leaned against the wall, weak-kneed, and watched his lover stride from the room. Nine o'clock in the seeker's sex space, getting ridden into oblivion by the star seeker -- a wet dream from a quarter century before finally coming true.

Better late than never.

When he could walk again, Snape straightened away from the wall and headed for his classroom. With every step, the end of his prick was rubbed raw by his wet thighs, his balls were crushed about his prick, and the urge to touch himself was nearly unbearable. A quick incantation dried the wet patch on the back of his robe, but the scent lingered, tickling his keen nose.

It made for a very interesting day lecturing. Thank God and Dumbledore the students were afraid of magically-enforced chastity (the threat of gelding having a great influence on the impulsiveness of youth), or he'd've been gang-banged a dozen times by luncheon. Which he ate in his rooms. Standing up.

Afternoon classes were somewhat disjointed, with neither students nor professor quite able to keep their minds on their work. Thankfully, they were eventually over with no lethal explosions or permanent poisonings, although Snape was convinced more than once that the clock had stopped.

Dinner was another solitary meal in his rooms, but his feet hurt from standing all day, so he sat. Every time he shifted his weight the hard stool pressed against the end of his prick. He was leaking steadily by the time he forced down the last of his supper, his skin crawling with the need to come unimpeded by leather. The need to feel, the need for release of all sorts that only Potter could give him. After being tormented all day, he couldn't wait until it was finally time to meet Potter under the bleachers.

He hurried as best he could across the grounds, enjoying the sliding pressure of his thighs against his balls and the way they ground into his prick, on high heat from being teased for the past twelve hours. He rapped quietly on the door to the broom shed and waited.

"Come," Potter's voice bade him enter, though his word choice gave Snape an involuntary spasm. Once inside, he saw a makeshift bed, heaped with blankets. Potter, naked, sat cross-legged at the end. His prick was already hard, pink and wet. It made Snape's mouth water. Remus Lupin knelt behind Potter, rubbing his shoulders, mouthing the side of his neck, and staring at Snape.

Snape licked his lips. "How do you want me?"

"Suck me, while Remus fucks me," Potter ordered him. Snape was on his belly on the bed with his lips wrapped around Potter's prick almost before the command was completed.

Manacles materialized around Snape's wrists, pulling them firmly behind his back, and he spread his knees, lifting himself off the bed to keep his weight off his caged prick without missing a lick of Potter's prick. Strong hands wove into his hair and began to move his head, as Potter fucked his mouth. Snape saw the shadow of movement, then Potter moaned and thrust harder as Remus' rhythm overtook his own, Remus pushing Potter into Snape's throat then drawing back, allowing Snape to snatch a breath.

With a muttered summoning spell, Potter called a crop to his hand, unwinding his fingers from Snape's scalp to catch the handle before it hit Snape in the head. Snape winced as a few hairs came free along with the hand, then moaned at the first delicious kiss of the crop across his arse cheeks. No one could wield a whip like Potter. One day, when his brain was functioning and his mouth wasn't full of cock, he'd have to ask Potter where he learnt the skill.

"Spread your legs," Potter grunted, and Snape obeyed immediately. The next whistling blow parted his cheeks and snapped across his hole, wrenching a scream from him that in turn pulled a moan of delight from Potter. The next strike was even better, as the tip of the crop caught the center of his piss hole, agony flaring through his prick and shooting up his spine. That scream nearly made Snape black out, as Potter thrust down his throat until his balls were crushed against Snape's chin, the better to appreciate the vibration of his throat as he screamed around Potter's prick.

The world narrowed to the bright slashes of agony on and between his arse cheeks, across his flinching hole and along the top of his swelling prick head, to the warm scent of Potter's sweat filling his head with every breath he managed to steal, to the heavy salty push of Potter's prick in his mouth, over his tongue, down his throat. Life couldn't get any better, as far as Snape was concerned.

Dimly, he heard Remus ask Potter, "Now?" and Potter reply with a guttural "Yeah." Then there was one final slash from the crop, the hardest yet, impacting directly across his arse hole and on the swollen meat of his glans. Sobbing now, senses almost overloaded, Snape was barely aware as a wide, soft tongue, very wet and very eager, began to lap at his arse.

Until the tongue swabbed over him from prick-head to arsehole, a soothing, arousing, vaguely disturbing sensation unlike anything he'd ever felt. The tongue was too wide, and too wet, to be human. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to twist his head far enough to get a glimpse of whom, or what, was licking his arse. Potter's hand tightened in his hair, pinning his head in place. He looked a question up at his lover, whose face was twisted in a grimace of pleasure so intense it looked like he was dying from it.

"More, Sirius," Potter urged, the words clearing some of the fog from Snape's mind. Sirius. Not a human tongue, working his arse over. Dog.

The mental image popped into his brain of how they must appear, himself with his hands bound behind him, Potter's groin shoved up against his face and hands buried in his hair, Remus pumping behind Potter, arms wrapt round Potter's waist, and the huge black dog crouched on the bed between Snape's spread legs, muzzle buried between his pale arse cheeks, slobbering enthusiastically as he licked and nuzzled Snape's arse and prick. Orgasm shot through Snape again, nearly dry and totally diffused, making him shudder helplessly.

A whine, muffled by flesh, sounded behind him, and groans from in front of him, as Padfoot reacted to the trickle of spunk wetting the leather beneath his snout, Potter reacted to the constriction of Snape's throat around his prick, and Remus reacted to Potter's arse clenching from Snape wringing his prick. The entire knot convulsed as Snape came, but they weren't finished. Not quite.

"Fuck him," Remus urged hoarsely, and Potter gave a sound that, garbled as it was, could only be construed as encouragement. Snape could do no more than lie there and twitch as the heavy dog clawed his way over Snape's legs until he was straddling his arse. A hot, thin, long protrusion, larger than a man's finger but smaller than a prick, pushed into Snape's arse.

The fact that he was getting fucked by a dog, who happened to be his worst enemy, at the behest of his lover, caused another orgasm to rip through Snape, unlike any he'd ever had. The spasms were small but continuous, cascading through his body, threatening to tear him to pieces. His prick, bound as it was, and his balls, crushed as they were, labored to spasm, and the leather around them felt like iron biting into his flesh.

He'd never felt such sexual bliss, never imagined it existed. Knew he'd have a difficult time facing Black come morning, and wished he could live in the moment he currently inhabited for the rest of his life.

Potter's voice broke him from the mindless loop of sensation he was caught in, as he gave a choked laugh and said, "God, Sirius, that's twisted! I like it, but come on, give it to him as a man, will you?"

A surprised and somewhat apologetic "Woof!" answered him, then Snape felt Black transform whilst buried up to the balls inside him. It was the weirdest thing he'd ever felt, and unbearably exciting. The spasms wracking him doubled, until his entire body was shaking as if from the palsy. He knew he wouldn't be able to go much longer without losing consciousness.

From very far away he heard Potter say, "Now, love."

The leather crimping his genitals disappeared. His prick unfurled, his balls uncramped, and a wave of agonized pleasure shot through him, running from his groin to his head to his toes and everywhere in between. His arse clamped down, catching Black mid-thrust and ripping his orgasm from him. Potter pulled his prick from Snape's mouth, leaving it free to release the scream building in him, then Remus gave a cry, humping hard against Potter's back. Snape watched through watering eyes as Potter arched, his pale body flushing, dark nipples standing out from his chest, then with a final clench of his fist around his prick he came, drenching Snape's face with the sticky mess.

Lying there in a spent, brain-numb, trembling lump, Snape felt Black's arms shaking around him, Potter's hands petting his head, and Remus' warmth alongside him, where the werewolf had collapsed on the bed. Licking spunk from his lips as it dripped down his face, Snape didn't have the energy to wonder what Potter had planned for him next. He did spare a thought to getting a dog collar made, so if Black got snarky Snape could remind him of his loss of control. It would be worth it, if only to see the bastard blush when Snape barked at him.

The final thought struck him that by the time Potter got done, Flitwick would be the only professor on staff who hadn't had a go at him. For some reason, that didn't bother him nearly as much as he supposed it ought. With a mental shrug, body too wrung out to make it physical, Snape resolved to let tomorrow take care of itself, then gave up and fell asleep right where he lay.

End

Harry knew something was wrong.

It wasn't just that Severus Snape was over an hour late returning from his supplies run at Diagon Alley, although Snape was never late to anything unless he was being held hostage by death eaters or unconscious somewhere. The man was irritatingly punctual and loved to rub others' noses in their own human failures. One of many things Harry loved about him.

No, the idea that worried him was the second of the possibilities. It was Snape's first run into Wizardly London since the Final Battle. Many of the details were still suppressed for security reasons -- the main one being if the majority of the magical public knew how many government officials had been dwelling in the dark side for decades they'd revolt. PR had been intense, and a few truths had been sacrificed for the greater good. If the greater good could be interpreted as pacifying the public and washing one's dirtiest linen in a filthy dungeon on the lowest levels of Azkaban.

Unfortunately, one truth, while it didn't get buried, had been relegated to very small print buried in the back pages of the Daily Prophet. That truth was that some presumed Death Eaters had been moles all along and were heroes. Or at least one had, namely Severus Snape. So too many of the people he'd worked so hard and suffered so much to save, none of whom read small print anywhere much less at the tail end of the newspaper, thought he was one of the slimy bastards who'd escaped justice. Given that many of them had also suffered through his Potions class, there was a lot of built-up resentment waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

He'd known this, Harry had, and he'd wanted to go with Snape, but the resultant tantrum from Snape about being an adult even if he didn't look it and needing no one to baby-sit or mollycoddle or hold his hand had been impressive, particularly given the fact that Snape had been tied hand and foot at the time, fucked well enough to make a normal wizard sleep for a month, and whipped until his thin pale skin was a uniform shade of cherry rose. Still, Harry had been determined.

So Snape snuck out.

When he found out, Harry was furious, but he'd been busy debating into retreat a snake the length of the circumference of Hogwarts that had invaded the castle. Snape had been gone for hours by the time he was done.

That was three hours ago. Snape should have been back exactly eighty one minutes ago.

Going with instinct that hadn't failed him since before he'd been old enough to be truly cognizant, Harry headed from the classrooms to the Great Hall and on into the main foyer. As he opened the front doors, he was just in time to catch a battered, tattered form as it fell away from the door frame and reeled into his arms. Snape opened the eye that wasn't swollen shut and glared up at him.

"Say told you so and I'll thump you," he hissed through split lips. Then he passed out.

Harry cursed under his breath, harmless Muggle curse words that made him feel better without turning any unfortunate who happened to get in his way between the door and the infirmary into a ferret. Or worse. Pomfrey looked up, wide eyed, and moved immediately to join them, hovering over Snape as Harry lowered him into the bed. He backed away, though not by much, to let her get to her work.

Snape didn't wake up until it was over. Just as well. Bone-setting hurt, especially when the bones had been splintered. Bruised kidneys and a collapsed lung weren't great fun either, not to mention the myriad of cuts, dark fist- and boot-shaped bruises, and deep abrasions scattered all over the man. Harry stared at him, then stared through him, reading the signature imbedded in those wounds in a way he didn't understand but instinctively knew how to use.

That night, a small gang of Wizardly thugs woke to more excruciatingly uncomfortable bouts of diarrhea and scabies than they ever could have imagined. They had no idea where they got it, but in the next month, their joints swelled at odd times, until their hands and feet were in such agony they wished they could cut them off. None of them could pee without feeling like they were passing acid, and every single one of them discovered the symptoms disappeared every time they went to a doctor and reappeared, to a greater degree, as soon as they got home. Since they were strangers to one another, drawn together in singular stupidity and mob mentality to brutalize a man they didn't know under the mistaken impression they were some sort of heroes, they didn't compare notes, and not one of them realized their suffering was due to the punishment they'd inflicted on Snape. Still, for the ten weeks it lasted, it was fitting reward for their deeds.

It wasn't enough for Harry, though. He was blazingly angry, not just at the idiots who'd hurt his Snape, but at himself for not being there and the Ministry for not making it crystal clear that Snape was a Good Guy, and even Snape himself for being so damned independent outside the bedroom. The first time Snape opened his eyes and glared up at Harry, he'd told the snarky bastard so.

That earned him a softening of the glare, for no reason he could figure. "I love you, too, Potter," Snape whispered. Harry was startled to find his knees give, and he sat on the edge of the bed before he made a complete prat of himself and fell over.

"Too close," he whispered back.

The muscles in Snape's throat worked as if he was about to scream, or throw up. Harry was wondering whether to grab a bowl when the strangled words inched from Snape's clenched jaws. "I'm sorry."

"Ooh," Harry's eyes narrowed. "That hurt, I can tell."

The glare ratcheted up several notches. As always since Snape had de-aged and Harry'd started tying him to and fucking him through the mattress on a regular basis, it turned him on. Leaning forward, careful of the newly healed lips and jaw, he kissed Snape soundly. Snape returned it with fervor and no little impatience at the unexpected tenderness. A cleared throat behind them didn't penetrate the fog of lust deepening around them.

Pomfrey popping Harry over the head with a thankfully-clean bedpan brought them right out of it.

"Save that for later, boys," she warned them, eyes over-bright, cheeks flushed, a suspiciously sly grin on her round face. "For now, Severus needs his sleep, and don't you have a House playing Quidditch to cheer, Harry?"

Before he could protest that Snape's health was more important than any Quidditch match, thus shocking his beloved into fatal cardiac arrest, Pomfrey assured him, "Severus will be fine. If you let him sleep. Sleep now, snog later."

Harry was still trying to get the echo of those words coming out of Prissy Poppy's mouth, and the helpless chuckles coming from Snape, out of his mind, when he found himself sitting next to Hagrid cheering on Gryffindor. He didn't think much beyond the moment, the problem of protecting Severus worrying at the back of his mind, for the next day, until Snape was pronounced well and sent off to teach his classes.

Magical medicine was a wonderful thing.

But it wasn't enough. Harry spent every meal sitting so close to Snape their thighs rubbed under the table. While it reassured him, it left them both more than a little wild-eyed and wanting by the end of the day. After dinner, and the inevitable detentions they'd each been forced to give attention-seeking students who wanted to moon over them (neither had ever had such clean classrooms in their lives, with all the students they had hanging about wanting to do for them ... or to them), Harry cornered Snape in his bedroom.

"Mine," he growled, and pounced on Snape before Snape could so much as open his mouth. Then something odd happened that froze Harry in his tracks. Instead of melting at the first sign of aggression, as was his wont, Snape ... flinched.

Harry's hands trembled. He stared down into Snape's startled eyes for the space of a heartbeat, then with a soft touch he hadn't shown since the first time they'd made love, given their personal predilections for rather more intense expressions of affection, he slid to his knees in front of Snape and worked his way through robe, trousers and shorts to the half-hard prick buried beneath all the material.

Closing his eyes, wrapping his hands around Snape's hips to hold him steady, Harry licked all around the shaft, dipping his head to nuzzle and nip very lightly at the testicles rolling in their sac. Sucking one into his mouth, he held it there, running his tongue over and under it, until Snape whimpered softly. Then he reluctantly let it go, running his cheek along the length of the prick, now fully enlarged.

Back to the head, he spent long moments playing with the foreskin, sliding his tongue along the slit in the glans and poking the blunt end into the tiny hole until Snape's body shook under his hands. He pushed his tongue as far as it would go between foreskin and cockhead, until the flesh was the color of cinnamon, dripping with a combination of Harry's saliva and Snape's pre-ejaculate. The whimpers had long turned to incoherent pleas by the time Harry swallowed Snape down to the curls, nose rooting through them as he twisted his mouth on the prick jumping against his tongue.

A questing hand left a hip and shifted the swollen balls aside, moving behind them to rub firmly, yet still with that disconcerting gentleness, then slide still further back to circle the small hole flinching against his fingertip. Snape was muttering a litany of nonsense, words like love and please and hurt me and now and God and Harry and more, when Harry slid his thumb in Snape's arse and twisted it, the motion mimicking the movement of Snape's prick down his throat. That was it. Snape arched, bumping Harry's chin hard, and came, all his energy seeming to stream out of him with his come.

Pulling his hand away from Snape's arse, Harry caught the collapsing body for the second time in three days, albeit for a much more enjoyable reason this time. Dazed dark eyes sparkled at him, and he grinned. Snape leaned forward and licked the skin beside Harry's mouth, lapping up a spill, no doubt, from the way he went at it. Like a cat grooming a kitten. Or cleaning a cream bowl. When he was satisfied Harry was clean, Snape leaned back against the wall and stared at him.

"I sincerely hope that is *not* an indication of the way our sex lives will continue. Not that I didn't enjoy it, but it was ..."

"Tame?" Harry supplied.

"Best soporific I've ever had." With that, the bastard actually fell asleep on him.

Harry couldn't help laughing softly as he gathered Snape up in his arms and carried him to bed. Undressing him didn't wake him up, so Harry stripped him to the skin and tucked him under the blankets before stripping himself. Worn out, he curled himself around Snape, smiling again as Snape's arms wrapped around him and held him close, even sound asleep. Still, his dreams were plagued with misgivings, and he awoke abruptly a few hours later, in the early hours of the morning.

"Mine," he whispered again, staring down at the smooth pale cheeks, the thin mouth relaxed in sleep, the ridiculously long black eyelashes shielding the fierce brown eyes. He knew he couldn't always be there to protect Snape, not in person. But he was the single most powerful wizard to come along in countless generations, as proven by the way he'd handled Voldemort and his minions, and he'd be damned if he was going to stand idly by while anyone laid a hand on what was his.

As usual, instinct came to the fore, as his subconscious mind handed him the answer to the puzzle it had been working over since Snape had reappeared, beaten and bloodied. Disentangling himself from Snape's clutching arms, he rolled Snape over onto his belly and began to run his hands over the soft skin, long muscles and fine bones from Snape's skull under his silky hair, down his spine, over his ribs, to the slight mounds of his ass. Snape stirred but didn't wake. Harry parted the cheeks and nuzzled there, licking and biting from the top of the crease to the lump of Snape's balls between the parted thighs.

That provoked a sleepy noise, but Snape was still more than half-asleep. Harry muttered a summoning spell, and the pure aloe gel he'd liberated from Pomfrey's stock to use on Snape's lingering aches flew to his hand. A moment later, his prick glistening, he set the pot of gel aside, stroked his sticky hand down into Snape's arsehole, then pushed his prick in with one stroke, all the way to the balls.

*That* woke him up.

Happily, it also made him buck backward, nearly up onto his knees, at the perfect angle for Harry to pull out a tiny bit and ram back in, raking the head of his prick over Snape's prostate. From nearly asleep to utterly fucked in the space of a heartbeat, Snape roared, "Potter!"

"Yes?" Harry asked as innocently as he could, given that he was now pistoning his prick in and out of Snape's arse. Before Snape could come up with a nasty comment, something he could do even when he *was* asleep, Harry made a lightning move, darting his arm around Snape's waist and catching his wakening prick and hanging balls in his fist. He squeezed.

Snape whined. "More like it," he gasped out, and Harry grinned.

It was a fast ride from there, Harry fucking Snape as hard and as deeply as possible, using Snape's captured prick and balls as a handle to move him up and down. Snape's fists clenched into the pillow and his head fell forward, keening cries coming from his throat as he let himself be used, Harry's fingers clenching and unclenching around him. From the contractions of the arse around his prick, Harry knew Snape was in heaven. When the prick bound in his fist spasmed and spat, and the vise around his own prick tightened and jerked in response, he let himself go.

Hand slimy with come, he slid it down to hold the still-spasming balls, crushing the last of Snape's orgasm from him and enjoying the moans of "Fuck yes, Harry, god, just like that" as he did. When Snape had given all he could, Harry closed his fingers around the emptied sac and squeezed, riding out the involuntary movements that shook Snape's body at the manhandling of the sensitized flesh, before finally pushing in hard. A couple good hard pumps and he was close, but he didn't come in Snape.

Instead, he drew his hand away from Snape's balls, used the other in the middle of Snape's back to push him flat, then aimed his prick so that when he came it splattered across Snape's back. He brought his hands together around his prick and aimed it lower so the second splash landed at the top of Snape's arsecheeks, pooling in the two dimples at the base of his spine. The third jolt washed across the cheeks themselves. The last he aimed up again, splattering from between Snape's shoulder blades up to the nape of his neck, exposed by the hair parted and falling over his shoulders.

"Stay there," Harry ordered breathlessly. Snape stopped the tiny movements; he'd begun to turn over but relaxed again at Harry's words.

Straddling Snape's thighs, Harry whispered a second summoning spell, and his wand flew to his hand. Touching the tip of it to his own prick, he felt the frisson of power as it pierced the last drops of semen welling from his slit. One long drop fell then, a single string of come connecting Harry's body with Snape's, the wand intersecting the strand at the beginning.

An emerald and crimson sparkle began where the wood touched the fluid. Harry felt it warming him, then the touch began to burn. Slowly, he moved the wand down from his body to Snape's, breaking the string and taking it with him. It clung to the wand, making the tip glow. Vaguely aware he was chanting, Harry paid it no attention as he began to draw symbols with his semen on Snape's skin. Symbols of power. Of ownership.

Of protection.

Long glyphs scrolled along Snape's spine, forming a raised pattern on the soft skin before sparkling, then subsiding through the skin into the flesh beneath. Harry knew from the residual burn, like that of the finest acid, that it must burn. Snape began to moan again, soft, panting sounds, and his hips began to move.

"Still," he commanded, and Snape shivered convulsively once before lying completely still. The moans turned into cries, muffled in the pillow. "Let me hear you," Harry told him, and Snape did. Harry took the sounds, the pained ecstasy, and wove it into the wards he wrote on Snape's skin, making it a truly shared creation. He felt himself harden as he worked. The connection between himself and Snape was stronger than it had ever been, and it aroused him deeply.

More symbols, along his shoulders, over the muscles tensed there as Snape fought to remain still through the etching eating delicately into his skin and his own reawakening arousal. Then down, following the lines of his ribs, further down, across his sides, along his flanks, the tops of his thighs. The most intricate of the glyphs were reserved for the last, as Harry etched his love and ownership, his bone-deep protection, into the softest skin, covering Snape's arse with symbol within symbol, circling inward. At the last, the tip of the wand slid into the pinkened hole, and Snape screamed.

"I love you," Harry whispered as he slowly fucked Snape with his wand, pushing the magic deep, infusing the man with it, feeling the last of the semen seep into Snape's body as if it was coming from his prick, not his wand. With no other touch at all, Snape came, his arsehole clenching around Harry's wand, as if to pull an orgasm from it, or to absorb it completely. Harry watched, licking his lips, then moved so that his wand lay back between his own thighs, shifting aside his balls, handle riding the crease of his arse. Then he placed the head of his prick next to his wand where it sat buried in Snape's body.

Pushing steadily, moaning as Snape's hole clenched around him, pressing his prick into his wand and tightening like a fist around them both, Harry carefully thrust his full length in Snape, then lay there, feeling the burn of the magic flowing from his wand equally into his prick and Snape's gut. It was immeasurable pleasure bound to the knife-edge of agony, and he was nearly lost in it.

Snape was mewling now, body shaking uncontrollably as he kept coming, unable to stop. Harry didn't need to thrust; he came without moving, the fresh infusion of come causing the wand to vibrate strongly, pulling cries from both he and Snape. Barely aware, moving still on instinct, Harry reached behind himself and gently pulled the wand away, drawing it up between his own arsecheeks and over his hole, sighing at the last sting of sensation as the magic bled away.

He lay there for some time, tracing the thin gold glyphs carved into Snape's back with his lips, before his softened prick finally slipped from Snape's body. Only then did he begin to tremble. Snape moved beneath him, shifting and turning, until he could wrap his arms around Harry's body and pull him into an embrace.

"Yes," he whispered. Harry buried his face against the side of Snape's neck and bit, sucking until he could feel the heat of the blood beneath the skin. Snape hummed approvingly in his ear. "It will be all right."

Harry knew it would. He'd made damned sure of it. If anyone ever tried to hurt Severus Snape again, it would rebound hard enough if they didn't actually die in the attempt they'd bloody well wish they had. Leaving the truth unsaid, he teased breathlessly, "Better?"

A soundless laugh brushed his hair. "Much," Snape informed him. "That's one use of a wand I'm certain has never been taught at Hogwarts." The comment held a question. Harry licked the welt he'd raised on Snape's throat.

"I guess some things aren't taught. Some things just come from the heart. Instinct."

If Snape had a comeback to that, Harry didn't know. He was already asleep. He didn't dream.

END