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The famous Gryffindor trio had numerous respectable reasons to dislike coming to Senior Potions.
For Ron, his reasons were consistent over the years – Snape was git; always had been, always would be, regardless of how much he’d done for the Order and the inevitable defeat of Voldemort.
Hermione disliked the fact that, no matter how much she strained and struggled with her hand in the air, Snape refused to let her answer any questions, thus admitting her intellect and perhaps, just maybe, gaining a few points for her house.
Harry’s reason was very similar to Ron, but had different feelings attached to it. It was about the man.
Snape.
And here he was, entering the dungeon in his usual hurried manner, robes swirling and snapping behind him, a sneer planted on his face and his gimlet eyes sweeping the room as he addressed the class.
“Snape,” Harry muttered through clenched teeth.
Ron looked at him confused, as if to say “Who else?” Hermione nudged him and ‘shussed’ him quickly. Harry paid no attention to the two, he saw the Potions Master’s mouth moving, saw his wand sweep to board where a list of instructions and ingredients appeared. While the other students began to set up their individual cauldrons, Harry sat and stared at Snape with a filthy look on his face.
“Mister Potter,” Snape said smoothly, “are you waiting for further instructions? Do you feel you warrant…special attention?”
“No sir,” Harry ground out and began to set up his equipment noisily.
“What’s gotten in to you?” Ron asked in a sotto voice.
“Nothing. He’s just a bastard.”
Ron snorted. “And that’s news to you?”
The students quietly and carefully began preparing their ingredients and compiling their potions. Harry did the same, although with only half a mind on the job in front of him. The rest of his mind focussed on the man standing at the front of the room with a sadistic smirk on his face.
“Buttons,” Harry said, frustrated.
Hermione looked at him strangely but continued to work.
For that is what occupied Harry’s attention.
Buttons.
A long row of buttons.
Buttons that rode Snape’s body as far as the eye could see.
Snape was wearing his usual long black robe, but today it was done up with a set of large, shiny, silver buttons. They trailed from the base of his throat to below his knees.
It had started out as a very simple thought process. The boys in Harry’s dorm had been up one night and, titillated by butterbeer, had wondered aloud what Snape looked like under his robes. Seamus had thought Snape dressed like that because his body was horribly disfigured. Dean reckoned Snape was really a women and the excessive number of buttons helped keep everything down. Neville didn’t believe that Snape was human, so his clothes were just a glamour he put on. Ron had squirmed in his seat and changed the subject.
Harry had wondered.
Until one glorious night, after a roaring argument that usually signalled the end of his private Defence lessons, he had found out. It was a shame that Harry couldn’t tell his roommates what was really under Snape’s robes.
Flesh. White. Firm. And lots of it.
Harry shook his head and returned to the present. There were those hateful things again.
Buttons.
Buttons that Harry wanted to touch.
Buttons that Harry wanted to lick.
Buttons that Harry wanted to rip off so he could get to the prize underneath.
Snape looked at Harry until he was sure he had his complete attention, and then one slender hand moved up his body until it reached the base of his throat. A finger gently stroked the cold metal. Anyone else observing Snape would have assumed he was in deep thought.
Harry knew better. Harry knew he was being teased.
With a small movement, the button popped out of its hold and parted to reveal a glimpse of white. Harry dropped his ladle.
Snape smirked and began to make his rounds. Harry watched him from the corner of his eye as Snape moved amongst the students, his fingers stroking the next button on his robe.
“Buttons. Bastard. Bastard buttons,” Harry swore under his breath as he shakily continued working.
“Is there a problem Mister Potter?” Snape enquired. Harry’s eyes slowly rose up the rigid body, his attention jumping from one silver circle up to the next until he reached the Potions Masters face.
“No sir,” Harry said red-faced.
“I do believe I’ve never seen a potion of that particular colour before,” Snape drawled, moving closer to the cauldron. His robes swung against it and Harry heard the metallic ping of buttons striking his cauldron. Harry swallowed thickly and sent a death-glare to Snape.
“Rather a pathetic effort, wouldn’t you say, Potter?” Snape said softly, his fingers now caressing a button located at his midriff.
“You’d know more about being pathetic than I would sir,” Harry spat out.
Snape’s eyes gleamed. “Ten points from Gryffindor, and you will stay back after class to clean your colleagues cauldrons for them. So nice of Potter to volunteer, isn’t it?” he asked, addressing the laughing Slytherins. Hermione grimaced and Ron muttered under his breath.
One hour later and Harry’s frustration had hit its peak.
“Bottle up your samples and put them on my desk. Leave your equipment as is, since Potter has so kindly agreed to take care of them for you. You are dismissed.” The happy Slytherins and downcast Gryffindors left the class quickly.
Harry stood silently fuming in front of Snape’s desk as the man casually made notes on a pile of parchment. After standing there for what he believed to be a ridiculous amount of time, he cleared his throat.
“Ah Potter. What are you waiting for? There are cauldrons to be cleaned and equipment to be put away. It won’t do it itself.”
“Bastard,” Harry said, low and angry.
Snape’s eyebrows rose. “What an extraordinary thing to say Mister Potter.”
Harry’s lip curled. “If you’re going to start ‘Mister Potter-ing” me, I suggest you lock this room up, before either of us says or does something they regret.”
Without moving his eyes from Harry’s intense stare, Snape picked up his wand and muttered incantations until the door to the dungeon had slammed shut, the curtains had closed and the thickness of a Silencing charm lay heavy in the air.
“What…?” Snape’s words were cut off as Harry threw himself at the man.
“Bastard. Git. Prick.” Harry muttered as his mouth latched itself onto Snape’s neck.
“Harry…” Snape struggled as the rabid Gryffindor squirmed onto his lap.
“Oh, now it’s Harry!” Harry exclaimed as his fingers began to eagerly undo the silver buttons that had been mocking him all lesson. “You knew what you were doing to me all along.”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” Snape said smarmily, grabbing Harry’s arse and pulling him firmly until their erections touched.
“Ahh,” Harry moaned, fingers threading themselves in Snape’s hair as he raised the face to his. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know why you did it,” his hips ground into Snape’s crotch.
“You know why you did it,” his hands pressed into Snape’s stomach as he struggled to undo the final silver button.
“And you know what this means.” His shout of success was quickly cut off as he pushed the robes aside, to be met with a vision of buttons.
More buttons.
This time, a row of tiny black buttons that held Snape’s waistcoat close to his body.
“Buttons,” Harry sighed as he harshly kissed Snape. Their tongues swirled eagerly in each other’s mouths as Harry tried to remove the next barrier. Harry broke the kiss off exasperated. Snape chuckled.
Harry’s face lit up with a sly grin. “Oh, you like this do you? Think you’re clever? Or funny?”
“Really,” Snape said, amusement in his voice. “If I had any idea that the sight of buttons caused such a strange reaction in you, I would have paid more attention to what I was wearing this morning.”
Harry’s sly grin became one of infuriation. “That’s the last time I tell you anything!” His strong hands pushed their way into the small gaps of the waistcoat and, with a sudden movement, ripped the material apart. Tiny black buttons flew in the air and landed randomly around them.
“How very dominant of you Mister Potter,” Snape drawled.
Under the waistcoat, Snape was wearing his usual finicky white starched shirt, the buttons translucent and diamond-shaped. Under Snape’s amused eye, Harry undid each one and licked the emerging skin with the concentration of a three-year old eating its first summer ice-cream.
When he reached the prize, Harry gasped. There, holding the top of his pants together, Snape had the largest, shiniest button of all.
It was golden.
It had a picture on it.
It was a Gryffindor.
Within seconds, Snape found his pants resting around his ankles and himself bent over the desk.
“Where the hell is the lube?” Harry moaned as his hot erection pushed between Snape’s cheeks, eager as ever to plunge in.
“I believe I forgot to restock after the last time I let a student perform the act of sodomy upon my person,” Snape replied, then yelped as a cold, sticky finger was pressed into him.
Both men found the next fifteen minutes to be very satisfactory.
“Did you have to take points off?”
“I thought ten measly points would be adequate compensation for what I’m allowing you to do.”
“Allowing me? Does that mean you didn’t want to? Seems selfish of me to jeopardise my House’s chances at the Cup just so I can get a bit of action.”
“Is that what I am – a bit of action? A little bit on the side?”
“On the side, on the top, in the middle, on the floor. I don’t care how anymore.”
“How ignoble of you Potter. What would your friends say if they knew you thought like that?”
“If my friends knew my thoughts, I think they’d be a bit more concerned with the fact that I’ve been wanting to shove my cock up your arse all afternoon.”
Snape shivered. “As eloquent as always, Mister Potter.” A wet kiss smacked against his cheek.
“Serves you right for asking what made me want you in the first place.”