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"Enervate."
He kept his eyes shut.
Hesitantly, "Snape?"
Something big and heavy clobbered him over the head. He jerked and snarled. "Ow!"
"That got his attention." The voice was Mad-Eye Moody's, but Snape was looking into the face of Harry Potter, who was blinking at him with a mixture of concern and irritation.
"D'you think I should try Legilimens now?" Potter was still looking at Snape even though he was addressing Moody.
"We should make sure he's uninjured first." Lupin leaned into view and fixed him with the same moronic stare Potter was wearing. Merlin, if it wasn't a convention of his least favourite people in the world.
"What do we care? It's the mind we need, not the body." This from Moody.
"Are you injured?" asked Potter.
"Yes," Snape replied.
"You are? Where?"
"Down below," he said. Potter began undoing the belt of his robes. "Yes, just a bit further down," he went on. Potter rummaged. "I think it needs to be rubbed a bit…"
Potter's hands froze. Snape let out a gravelly chuckle.
"Why you horrible, disgusting—" Potter blushed furiously. "Mad-Eye, maybe I should just let you handle him."
"It'd be my pleasure, lad," Moody replied. "Except we need you for the important bit."
Potter sighed. "Well, I guess we can assume he's okay." He glared at Snape. As if Snape had not behaved well within the rules of civil combat. "All right, let's have a go." Potter produced a wand. "Legilimens!"
Potter's mind slammed in with far more power than it had the last time Snape had felt it. Been practicing a bit, apparently. Quickly he shored himself up, plugging the tiny chinks through which Potter's flood of thoughts threatened to pour, until the battering force reluctantly receded.
He waited for the reply to come. After a few moments, it did.
A dark, alien mass pushed up through his mind like a fist, his thoughts parting easily for it, cringing away from its withering touch. He squeezed his eyes shut—as though that would help. His forearm throbbed with each pulse of his heart. The mass stopped at the edges of his mind. Then he heard a voice, too soft for him to make out any words—just the hissing sound of the sibilants, cold and malevolent and obscene. It might have been saying, Ssseverusss.
"What's happening?"
He realised he'd been making a bit of noise.
"I think he's in there. Trying to get out. Trying to get at me." Potter sounded far too excited about it. All this time, and the little clod still didn't realise the danger he was in.
"Do you suppose Snape is resisting? Why would he do that?"
"'Cause he's Snape," Moody growled, "and he can't ever make anything easy."
"Snape," said Potter. "Why aren't you letting him through?"
Snape glared up at him. "You try letting a Dark wizard use your mind as a duelling ground, Potter, and tell me what you think."
"Don't you want him to win?"
"No."
"Oh." A pause. "Okay, well, if you don't want him to win, don't you want me to win?"
"Not particularly."
"I'm lost, then. What do you want?"
"I want," Snape growled, sending a few flecks of spit in Potter's direction, "the both of you to get out of my damned head and have it out somewhere else!"
"Well, I'm sorry but that's not one of your choices," Potter replied sourly.
"That's what you think," said Snape, and set his jaw.
An hour later, Potter returned.
"Look, Snape, it's like this: you have to let him through."
"I do not."
"Stop playing dumb. We know all about the deep cover. We know he found out and let us capture you as punishment. We know he performed a spell that lets him use your mind. Now all you have to do so we can beat him is relax your defences."
Stripped and held down while the others watched, burning magic retracing the Mark on his arm, like tearing open the tender fibres of a nearly healed wound, black awful mind forcing its way into his, cold humiliated tears trickling into his hair—
"All I have to do, yes. I imagine you'd feel differently if our positions were reversed."
"Look—if you don't want him to use you this way, then why not just help us?"
"Why not let you use me, you mean."
Potter turned red. "Look, you're going to be used no matter what, so you might as well just get it over with!"
Still a temper that lit up with the slightest touch; still no doubt a lousy Occlumens. Bloody hopeless. "You're boring me, Potter," he muttered, and rolled over—awkwardly, since his hands were tied. Behind him, Potter lingered for another minute, then went away.
The Dark Lord's attack came a few hours later.
He woke suddenly out of a deep sleep, hot and aroused. It was a sourceless, imageless arousal, just a hot weight in his groin, as separate from him as a chill or a headache. He groaned and shifted, hoping for a bit of friction against his clothes, but he knew there would be no relief as long as the Dark Lord was in there, manipulating him. He could only focus and resist.
Minutes crawled by. His clothes were too tight; his skin burned; his cock throbbed. He writhed and pressed his lips shut, but a whine escaped him anyway.
Without opening his eyes, he could tell they'd gathered around him.
"What do you suppose is the matter with him?"
"Don't be thick, Lupin—look at the front of his robes." Moody chuckled. "Bastard must be in agony."
He swallowed a heavy knot of shame. Great Merlin—of all the people in the world, it had to be these three. The edge of the couch dipped: Potter. He was altogether too close, his thigh pressing against Snape's body, his presence warm and breathing and alive. Snape would have preferred slitting his own throat to this. If only the embarrassment could kill his erection as well. he squirmed, and another tiny moan escaped against his will.
"D'you suppose it's Voldemort doing this?" Potter asked.
"Almost certainly," Lupin said. "It's brilliant, actually—get him aroused so he's too distracted to Occlude."
Through a haze of need and shame, Snape decided he could have lived without hearing Remus Lupin use the word 'aroused.'
"You know," said Potter, "as much as I hate to admit it, perhaps Voldemort has the right idea. Merlin—I can't believe I'm about to do this…" A warm hand came to rest near Snape's crotch.
"Potter, stop—no!" He shuddered and arched, the words already meaningless. He wanted to die. Instead, he thrust, searching for Potter's hand. God, why was this happening to him, why did it have to be Potter…
The boy gave him a hesitant rub through his clothes and Snape groaned in frustrated relief. "This does feel a bit immoral," Potter said to Lupin uneasily. "I'd feel better if his hands weren't tied."
"Mm," Lupin agreed, in the bland tone of someone discovering something mildly interesting in a book. "I never imagined that kinky bondage scenes would figure into the fight against You-Know-Who."
"Urgghh…" Moody turned away. "I can't stomach this, lads. I'll be in the kitchen."
If he got through this, he was going to suffocate Moody with his own severed testicles. Potter's hand pressed harder and he arched and groaned again. He longed to sink into the cushions of the couch as Potter and Lupin gazed down with analytic detachment. Squeezing his eyes shut to block out their scrutiny only made it worse.
As though it were happening very far away, he became aware of Potter pulling out a wand. A voice in his mind hissed gently, Let go. He gasped and jerked his hips as Potter's wand tip approached his face and the voice continued to whisper, soft and menacing, Let go, let go.
Then, thank heaven, he was coming in a blissful flood, oh yes, pure relief bubbling up and flowing down. His eyes rolled back and his fists clenched as he cried and thrust against Potter's hard hot hand.
"Legilimens!" shouted Potter.
Breathlessly, Snape heaved up his shields just as two powerful minds crashed against both sides.
Once they'd receded, he cleared his head to find himself sweating and panting, crotch and armpits clammy. Everything above his neck felt pummelled; everything below it tingled with satisfaction. From head to toe, he felt utterly drained.
"Damn," Potter said peevishly overhead. "If I'd been just a hair quicker..."
Snape managed a wan, mocking smile.
He knew there would be other attacks, and this time, they would be more creative. He wished he had a better imagination for these things so he could guess what form they might take. Potter, unimaginative lout that he was, would probably just try rubbing him off again. But the Dark Lord would have something far subtler up his sleeve.
They let him use his hands to eat. He sat sullenly at the table and ate deliberately slowly, glaring at them from under his brow.
"Tea?" offered Potter.
"Much obliged," Snape sneered.
Potter poured him a cup and pushed it toward him.
"You're mad to want him to get through," said Snape to the teacup.
"I can beat him," said Harry from across the table. "I know I can."
"He's luring you into a trap. He knows he can't survive for long inside your mind, so he's trying to entice you into mine to annihilate you there."
"That's what he thinks is going to happen. I've become stronger than he realises."
"He can probably hear this, you know."
Potter laughed sharply. "He won't take it seriously. He's too arrogant for that."
"You could be right." Snape took another sip. "He has good reason to be."
Potter sat in glum silence. After a while, he asked, "If he's so strong, then why isn't your mind in shreds by now?"
"Two reasons," said Snape. It seemed rather silly to be giving Potter a lesson, but nothing he planned on saying wasn't common sense. "One: he needs it. Two: I'm good at what I do."
Moody snorted.
Several minutes and several tiny sips of tea later, Potter asked, in a voice that suggested he'd been stewing over his question, "Do you really think he'll annihilate me?"
Snape laughed. "Potter, you are the only person I know who is stupid enough to ask advice of his enemy." He paused. "But yes, I do. I am certain of it."
Evidently Potter didn't have any smart rejoinders for the unadorned truth.
Snape was still nursing the tea by the time they had done the cleaning up.
"Let's go, Snape," sighed Moody, "none of us has all night."
"You appear to," Snape replied, taking another minuscule sip. "I haven't seen you do anything around here except sit about or assault me sexually." He directed a pointed glare at Potter.
Potter rolled his eyes. "Why can't you just give in and let Voldemort through?" he grumbled. "You'd be free of the both of us for good if you just let us—"
"How many times must I tell you?" Snape hissed, gut lurching as the awful presence stirred to life in his mind. "Don't say his name!"
"Oh," Potter perked up, "will that help? Voldemort, Voldemort, VOLDEMORT!"
Snape lunged across the table just as three wands whipped toward him. Potter was singing at the top of his lungs. "Come on out, Voldie old chap! We're all waiting for you, Voldikins, it's just crusty old Snape who's being a right—"
Snape fell forward onto the table with a cry as something with the weight of a concrete block smashed against the backs of his eyeballs.
"Legilimens!" cried Potter, going from mad glee to battle grimness in a second.
Snape batted away the glancing blow of Potter's mind. The Dark Lord, swelling like a balloon inside his skull, was another matter.
"Force his head up!" Potter yelled. "I need eye contact!" Arms wrapped around his head and hands held his face still. Lupin said a spell and Snape was suddenly unable to close his eyes. "Legilimens!" Potter shouted again, and it was as though two wrecking balls had collided exactly at the point where his head was. He screamed, eyes flooding with tears as his lids struggled against Lupin's spell, as he fought the pressure with every last pissing scrap of stubbornness in his body. Snarling, teeth bared, foam dripping down his chin, he forced them both away.
Potter sagged against a chair, glaring at Snape with all the venom Snape felt. "Tie him up and put him back to bed," Potter snapped. Moody and Lupin complied.
He discovered minutes later, as the madman and the werewolf were reaffixing his bonds on the couch, that he had been supremely stupid to drink the tea.
"It won't work…" he shouted as their faces rapidly receded. He was dreadfully afraid it had only come out as a whisper.
The heavy fluid of potion-induced sleep clogged his head as he swam up. The couch and the sitting room formed around him, dim and indistinct. He seemed to be…naked from the waist down, from the feel of the air, his robes rucked up under his arms. A few fuzzy shapes leaned over him inquisitively, and a warm slippery hand was working with uncertain tugs and squeezes on his prick.
"…ink it's working?..."
"…know. He's breathing like…"
He felt the way he had when he was seven years old and sick, and the doctor and his parents had gathered around him and taken off his pyjamas and looked and stared, and he'd been so ashamed he couldn't speak. He tried to sink back into the sheltering darkness, but he could still feel them above him, looking, talking softly, touching. If he pretended they weren't real, he could almost enjoy it—warm pressure on his cock, the feeling of gazes touching his nudity…because that was what he'd secretly wanted, wasn't it? To be stripped and helpless. The enfolding haze of the potion made accepting it easier. A long, deep shudder went through him, and he writhed a little to feel more of that hand, more of the chilly air on his naked skin…
And then he remembered. He was supposed to be resisting this. But there seemed to be no choice—he longed for there to be no choice, so that he could simply surrender to pleasure, and come into that slick tightness pulling him off.
No. He opened his eyes. A blurry shape sharpened into Potter, who was peering down as though Snape were a fascinating insect. He jerked back when Snape looked at him, and only then did it dawn on Snape whose hand was between his legs, whose eyes had been on his body.
A word choked in his throat. Perhaps it was 'stop.' He couldn't move; Potter's fatuous gaze pinned him down. Shutting his eyes didn't get rid of Potter, it simply replaced the real Potter with a memory as clear as the real thing—Potter's gloating face as he defied Snape without fear of punishment, Potter's narrowed eyes as he shouted the words "pathetic" and "coward" and set his childish jaw with stubborn hatred. The hand on his cock sped up, and his closed eyes stung…he could not let himself be humiliated at the hands of this child, the worst of all the hateful children he'd ever known…
Then a new image took the place of the memory: Potter's eyes again, but dark and heavy-lidded this time, Potter's parted lips releasing little huffs of quickened breath, Potter's face intense and hungry. This wasn't from his own imagination; he was certain of that. It was coming from somewhere else. His groin throbbed with a sudden stab of new arousal, and he knew it hadn't come from him either. In the back of his head, the Dark Lord's awful presence stirred. They were working together now, Potter and the Dark Lord, hijacking his body and his mind, and they were winning.
Somewhere to the left, Lupin said the cursed spell that peeled his eyes open, and there was Potter's unwelcome face again, with its childish scrutiny stripping him. He tried to look away but couldn't; it was growing difficult to breathe; he struggled against the restrictive spells even as his hips snapped harder, forcing his aching cock through the boy's hot hand.
Potter's eyes widened. "Legilimens," he said.
His shields didn't have a chance. Foreign images he didn't recognize surfaced in quick succession now—Potter's face flushed with arousal, Potter's body, Potter's hands and Potter's mouth doing unspeakable things to him. He wished he could shut his eyes against them, like he could to block out a horrible sight, but his shields were in shreds; perverse little fantasies poured in unimpeded and his body responded. The boy's sticky fingers were in his mind too, and the Dark Lord was moving up through the depths to meet Potter, eager and bloodthirsty—but the only thought Snape had left was that, oh God, yes, he wanted this. He was lost, he was falling, the deepest fissures inside him opening up for Potter and Dark Lord alike, and he didn't care. He cried out.
"Oh fuck—" He arched. "Oh God—Harry!"
Potter jerked violently out as though he'd been pulled. With a cry, Snape came, empty and cold now, spilling joylessly over the hand that had suddenly gone slack.
For a few moments, Snape's ragged breath was the only sound in the room.
"What—what happened?" came Lupin's bewildered voice.
"I don't know." Potter sounded dazed and small. "I was in and then I…couldn't do it."
"Could you sense him in there? Did he force you back?"
"I…really don't know, Remus." Potter's weight disappeared, leaving Snape suddenly chilly. "I think I'm going to go lie down for a while."
"Of course, Harry. Get some rest. We're in no hurry here."
With that, everyone left, leaving Snape forgotten where he lay.
The post-battle analysis was grim. He'd won, but it had been a meaningless victory he'd managed only through luck. In actuality, he'd been defeated, and only Potter's inexplicable retreat had saved him.
It was easy to guess what had driven Potter off. He'd seen the boy's disgust at his rather ribald joke on the first day he'd arrived. He'd seen the same disgust when Potter had touched him deliberately. Potter had to have seen those obscene images the Dark Lord had supplied, had to have felt Snape's intense arousal, this time focused on the boy himself…
Suddenly Snape had the answer. It was so devastatingly obvious—Potter was a young straight man with the defensive aversion to homosexual contact typical of his kind. By playing the violated victim and treating Potter's advances as the acts of war they were, he'd inadvertently made it easy on the boy. But when Potter had seen desire and not just the automatic arousal that any hand on a cock would have produced, it had horrified him. How would Potter respond if his manipulative caresses were welcomed from now on? Would he even be able to continue if it meant facing that in addition to the Dark Lord?
Part of him hated this new idea. What an indignity it had been to come shouting Potter's name, to have his mind as well as his body sexually commandeered by that cursed boy. And how much greater would his shame be as he used his own repulsiveness to Potter as a weapon? He knew he was not beautiful by any standards on Earth or in heaven, and he'd long since made his peace with this fact—but that was before he'd had to parade himself in front of the obnoxious child with the very intention of inspiring disgust.
He forced himself to remember that it would be to his advantage. It did not have to be humiliating if it put him back in control of the situation. In this particular instance, the boy's distaste for him gave him power. As perhaps it always had.
Moody, no doubt offended by the sight of Snape's naked flesh adorning the parlour, had done him the kindness of a spell to make him clean and decent. Snape fumed. The Byzantine extravagance of Moody's impending death increased with each passing day.
Potter emerged from his solitary sulk just in time for supper, looking defensively cheerful. Snape refused to allow the lot of them the victory of his visible shame, so he chose to meet them squarely in the eye whenever they looked his way. He could not allow shame to get in the way of his new offensive.
He considered refusing food, but his plan made that unnecessary; if his mind became a poisonous hell for Potter, he wouldn’t need to keep him out. There was only one problem, and that was his potential difficulty in treating Potter with anything other than open hatred. During their silent meal, Potter glanced at him uneasily several times, and he had to struggle to soften his gaze. It was stretching him to his limit, and he hadn't even begun.
"I suppose we oughtn't talk about what's happening on the outside," Moody said, mouth full. "Not with him listening."
"What's to talk about?" Lupin shrugged. "The fighting continues. You-Know-Who is moving in. He's dividing himself between two fronts: out there, and in here."
"I wonder which one will break first." Moody sounded reflective, as though it were all the same to him.
"It'll be both if you don't cease this foolishness," Snape muttered.
"I dare say," Moody said with a horrible smile, "you've a few cracks showing in you now."
Snape's smile was equally horrible. "You have no idea."
Potter didn't say a word. Snape spent the rest of the meal throwing thoughtful looks his way. Nothing too obvious. As he ate his burned pork chop and drank his tea, he allowed his gaze to wander casually over Potter's face, and occasionally the rest of him. He made sure to keep it there long enough for Potter to notice. Each time, Potter squirmed and looked away.
By the time Lupin had begun cleaning up, Potter was visibly anxious. He darted from the kitchen as soon as his plate was removed, and a moment later there was the sound of a slamming door. The other two exchanged looks. Snape didn't bother hiding his smile.
The next morning passed with still no sign of Potter. Snape was getting jumpy from the Dark Lord's restless movements inside his head. Snape could tell the war was not going well; the Dark Lord's attention seemed divided, troubled, lacking its usual cold confidence. Snape decided not to report his findings to his captors.
"If it were up to me, we'd just torture you," said Moody with relish from his chair across the room.
"You are torturing me," Snape replied. "Or do you consider unwanted sexual advances perfectly acceptable behaviour?"
"Well! It's hardly torture if it's just as bad for the torturers, is it?" Moody laughed. "You should thank us—I'll bet you haven't got this much in years."
Murder. Snape was going to murder this man, and it was going to be a long and leisurely affair.
"But you listen to me, Snape," said Moody, getting up with difficulty. "If the boy's kind and gentle methods don't work, we'll use mine, and it'll be a far sight from the friendly favours we've been doing you so far."
Snape's patience chose that moment to give out. "Have you all gone mad?!" He leapt up, and Moody paused in the doorway. "If Potter succeeds in breaking through my shields, the Dark Lord will destroy him." He ground his teeth. "If I try, I suppose I can understand the ignorant bravado of a child, but for you and the others—adults—teachers—to go along with this ridiculous plan? Are you all completely daft?!"
Moody chuckled. "Watch yourself, Severus. You sound almost like you care."
Snape dropped back into his chair, and smouldered.
Around four o'clock, Potter stalked downstairs. Snape gathered his courage and brightened, confident that his creaky smile was a thing of horror. "Ah, Potter! So glad you have decided to withhold your presence no longer."
"Remus, Mad-Eye, can you leave me and Snape alone, please? I have a few things to say to him."
No doubt pleased by any movement on the front, the two men sprinted out. "Shout for us if you need us, lad," Moody called as he went.
Snape continued to smile as Potter turned to face him. Despite the difficulty, he was getting the hang of it. He just moved his facial muscles and tried to forget Potter was Potter.
"I know what you're trying to do," Potter said, "and I just want you to know it won't work."
Snape's smile stretched wider. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Potter. Really, I'd have thought you'd be pleased that I no longer intend to…resist." He winked.
Potter jerked back in startled horror. Snape tried not to laugh. He'd been afraid the wink would be laying it on too thick, but apparently nothing was too thick for Potter. Snape was beginning to warm to his game. "The Dark Lord and I keep wondering when you're going to try again," he said breezily. "I think he's getting impatient—you ought to strike while the iron's hot, so to speak." He arranged his face into what he hoped was a suggestive smirk.
"That's it!" Potter balled his fists. "Legilimens!"
Snape tumbled back onto the couch. He'd expected a bit more repartee, but this was agreeable as well, so holding Potter easily in the outermost layers of his mind, he flung a single image Potter's way.
Himself, naked on his back, Potter's pretty young body looming above, thrusting inside him, pumping furiously as he panted and growled and called Snape one dirty name after another…
Potter's mind vanished. He was panting and shaking, just like he had in Snape's fantasy, bright red from collar to scalp.
"Face it, Potter," Snape chuckled nastily, "you don't have the stomach for this kind of warfare."
Potter just stared and blushed and sweated. He really was an attractive boy, when you got down to it. Now that Snape was back in control, he could appreciate it.
Potter blinked stupidly for a while longer, chaos churning behind wide eyes, then tore from the room.
Great Merlin. It was almost too easy to be any fun.
Snape hadn't been lying; the Dark Lord was getting impatient. Snape had an almost constant headache now, as the Dark Lord paced ceaselessly up and down in the back of his mind, his anxiety infecting Snape's own emotions. Snape did his best to shut it out and focus on his campaign. During supper, Potter didn't look at him once. He was clearly aware that Snape was looking at him, since several times he held out his hand and asked for the salt while keeping his eyes fixed on his plate. Snape amused himself by holding the saltcellar just shy of his grasp and watching him grope around for it. Lupin and Moody observed the scene uneasily.
After he'd finished, Potter shoved back his chair and placed both hands resolutely on the table. "Remus, Mad-Eye," he pronounced, "put Snape in my bedroom, please."
Moody and Lupin again exchanged nervous looks.
"I know what I'm doing," Potter reassured them. "I'll be up in a few minutes. Once I get there, I'd like you to leave me alone unless I call."
Reluctantly, they dragged Snape from his chair.
Potter was an utter moron, but Snape had learned early in life not to underestimate his enemy. If only through luck, the boy occasionally got something right, and his raw power was capable of hitting the mark quite on its own. Now he appeared to have some sort of idea, and ideas in the hands of stupid people were always dangerous.
Waiting for Potter in the bedroom, Snape wondered for the first time whether the Dark Lord would now change his strategy as well. How would he choose to collude with Potter this time? Snape bounced impatiently on the edge of Potter's mattress, fingers drumming on his thighs. He was tired, his head hurt, and pretty soon he wasn't going to be able even to feign sexual interest in anybody. How long did the boy need to gird himself for battle?
The awful voice in his mind said, He loathes you.
"I know," Snape replied softly.
A long, uncertain moment passed. Then the voice said, You want him.
Snape smirked. "I suppose so," he said. "Thanks to you."
I had nothing to do with it, the voice whispered.
Snape stilled himself, and tried not to think.
Fifteen minutes later, Potter burst into the room. Why he was in a hurry after all that time, Snape couldn't say.
"All right, then." Potter pointed his wand, and the bindings on Snape's wrists vanished. "Here's how it's going to be: take off your clothes."
Snape made his face smile. "I thought you'd never ask." He worked unhurriedly at the fastenings of his robes, giving Potter plenty of time to ponder what he was getting himself into. Potter just followed Snape's hands, with neither the horrified stare of earlier that day nor the detached scrutiny of previous days—he simply watched, anxious and intense, as Snape worked his way down.
He knew what Potter was seeing—skinny raw-boned frame, pale fishbelly flesh, messy tangle of hair around a dark cock almost grotesque in its mismatched awkwardness. An altogether frightening sight—for any normal boy. But Potter did have a streak of the perverse. He did things merely because he was told not to. Snape thought again about Potter's blush and bewilderment that afternoon. He'd assumed it was disgust. He needed it to be disgust. But perhaps he'd…miscalculated. Potter didn't look horrified now. Nervous, a little belligerent, but not repulsed.
Oh, bugger. This could ruin everything.
Potter stared a bit longer. That seemed to be all he could do lately. Then he said, hand on his chin, "I don't think you really want me. I think you're bluffing."
Snape cursed Potter silently. He didn't like being edged into the defensive. With typical disregard for his best interests, Potter was trying to alter the rules, and as usual, it was Snape's job to take him down a notch. Out loud, he said, "You don't think so? Why don't you come and see?"
Potter stayed still.
Snape sat on the bed and leaned back invitingly, then took his cock in his hand.
At first, Potter looked on the verge of flight—but he made no move to leave. Snape stroked himself and gave a low moan, never taking his eyes away from Potter's. "I'm imagining this is your hand, you know," he said softly, and Potter's face tensed. "Now I'm imagining it's your mouth. You really have a very pretty mouth, Potter…I used to stare at it as you sulked and pouted in my classroom…"
Potter bared his teeth. "You sick, fucking—" Then he caught himself. "You're lying," he hissed.
Snape thrust through his hand and smiled faintly. "Does it look to you like I'm lying?" He leaned back onto his elbows. "Come here, Potter, and let me show you exactly what I've been imagining about you…"
There was no rational reason for Potter to remain standing there. By all rights, he should have been fleeing in horror. But Potter had never had the good sense to fear things he ought to. As their whole current predicament attested to.
No doubt aware that Snape had just thought about him, the Dark Lord stirred.
Potter watched Snape's cock slide through his fist for another moment, then made a sudden move forward. "Lie down," he snapped, and didn't wait for Snape to comply before pointing his wand and knocking Snape flat on his back. He came to stand between Snape's knees at the foot of the bed and looked down. "I think I rather like you like this," he said. "Harder to scare little schoolchildren from that position, isn't it?"
Snape looked up. The boy's flushed face was lit up with petulant fury. Snape's hand was still on his cock; the sudden change in altitude had broken his rhythm, but he was still hard and ready. It was becoming less and less of a chore to pretend to want Potter, who lost his cool so easily at Snape's slightest provocation—and it seemed to be only Snape who had that special power, didn't it? Potter's anger was all for him, and it was…exciting.
The Dark Lord whispered, You disgust him. Snape ignored him. He didn't disgust Potter at all, he knew now—he riled and upset and confused him, which was far better. Now Potter wanted a fight, and so Snape showed his belly. "I think I rather like you like this, too, Potter," he crooned. "Perhaps you could show me what you intend to do about it."
"You're full of it," Potter snapped. "You hate me. I'm your enemy, remember?"
"I don't have to like you to want you," Snape replied, dropping his voice to a purr. "How dreadfully innocent you are…"
All at once, he was seeing something that was not the view in front of him. It was Potter on the night Snape had killed the Headmaster, screaming with all the hatred and the desire to hurt his young body could contain. Snape's insides lurched unpleasantly with that memory; he recalled his fury at the injustice of an ignorant child condemning him, and he remembered a different, more personal sort of pain. Potter had hurt him. And the only thing that made it better was knowing he had hurt Potter too.
His hand on his cock faltered and he suddenly wanted to look away from Potter's eyes, which were focused intently on his, full of anger, but not the sort that came from hatred. Now Potter was tearing his trousers open. Snape knew Potter's stubborn nerve had no limits, but this was ridiculous. Another memory replaced his view of Potter overhead—and then another. Potter in the classroom, being an insolent brat. Potter defending his abhorrent godfather, shouting "You're pathetic!" Potter's smug face as the Headmaster took his side again, and the faces of the onlookers who all thought Snape a fool.
It had all happened, hadn't it? There was a reason this situation was the most awful imaginable. Snape wanted to kick Potter away; how could he possibly want this little beast? But Potter was not letting him up. He was rubbing his own cock now, his pretty rosy young cock, and Snape's mouth watered at the sight of it despite himself. It seemed Potter merely had to get angry to get excited, and Snape had the magic touch for that. His memories of Potter's anger seemed insignificant compared to the vivid heat in Potter's eyes now, which were full of an equal eagerness to fight or fuck—whichever got Snape underneath him.
Potter's breath had quickened. His muscular throat bobbed, and his damp lips were parted around audible little huffs. His cock was hard—not just the obligatory erection some vigorous rubbing could produce, but needy and leaking and hard. Potter let go of his cock and seized Snape roughly behind the knee. As he struggled to lift the dead weight of Snape's leg, Snape assisted him despite his better judgment. What was he doing? Some ways back, he had completely lost control. When Potter got to the part where some knowledge was required, Snape said breathlessly, "Spit," and Potter did. It was rough and it hurt; Potter had clearly never done this before. Snape couldn't imagine it felt much better to him with all that friction. But neither of them stopped.
The unpleasant memories had stopped. That could only mean the Dark Lord was changing tactics. Snape tried not to think about it as he hooked his heels behind Potter's arse and jerked him forward. There was no longer any pretence of a fight. They were both doomed, anyway. The Dark Lord was going to destroy them and they'd be too deep inside each other to care. Potter thrust hard, bending Snape's knees, shoving him backward. Snape groaned and worked his own cock and tried to remember why he wasn't stopping.
Let go, the cold voice whispered. He opened his eyes against his will and met Potter's gaze, unfocused and fogged with arousal. His cock throbbed anew. This was bad; the Dark Lord would get right through to Potter. He knew this, and yet… Potter moaned and fell forward so that Snape could smell his skin, the sweet warmth of his hair. Give in, the voice said. Want. Take. He did.
"Oh, God…" Potter had squeezed his eyes shut, thank heaven, his hips thrusting jerkily. Snape's mouth was suddenly engaged in a sloppy kiss. Potter was kissing him. He responded unthinkingly, hungry for something to suck on. He was letting Potter have it all, wasn't he? He'd completely thrown the game, and Potter hadn't even tried. Look at him, said the voice, and he could no longer be sure it was the Dark Lord's and not his own. Snape looked. Potter's face was amazing—naked and stunned, like he couldn't believe his own body. For a moment Snape could feel nothing but awe. He'd forgotten such innocent wonder could exist.
And then Potter looked straight into his eyes. Not challengingly, just... "Let me in," he pleaded. Let him in, the voice said, and Snape knew he mustn't; he recalled something terrible would happen if he did; but the choice was being taken away from him, and Potter was inside.
It didn't feel like an invasion this time. It felt intimate, filling, like what Potter was doing to his body. Somewhere outside his mind, they were kissing again, and Potter was thrusting and Snape was spreading himself open and there didn't seem to be any reason not to.
Something dark rushed up from the deep places in his mind, cutting easily through his sluggish thoughts. He froze, panicking. "Potter, get out—"
"Ignore him," Harry panted tenderly. "He can't hurt us…"
And as nonsensical as Snape knew those words were, he believed them—in that moment, he believed them helplessly, madly, and everything felt bright and indestructible as he reached out to pull Potter further inside, closer to that centre where all was well and pleasure didn't fade but grew stronger, sweeter with every gentle, killing thrust—
And he was crying out, and coming, and he knew nothing and felt nothing except the warm weight of Potter's body and Potter's mind.
When awareness returned, he lay awash in the dwindling buzz of pleasure until something occurred to him and he sat up. Potter toppled over from where he'd collapsed on Snape's chest.
"Bloody hell. What happened?" Snape demanded. "The Dark Lord—"
"Don't know." Potter yawned. "He just went away."
Snape stared incredulously. His headache had gone away, and for the first time in days, his mind was quiet. The Dark Lord had withdrawn.
Still, he said, "Don't be ridiculous. You were both inside, at the same moment, surely—" He froze. "Potter, open your eyes. Are you sure…are you sure he's not in your mind now…?"
"He's not. I think I'd know. Look, Snape, don't you think we'd be vegetables by now if he'd done what he was trying to do?" Potter yawned again and closed his eyes and didn't open them.
Snape sat awake for another hour, staring in disbelief at Potter's innocent oblivion. How easy it all was for this boy. How things just fell into place for him, how luck simply parted the obstructions of the world and let him waltz heedlessly through. Snape was only the latest victim—he'd arrived with every intention of serving himself alone, and somehow he'd ended up on Potter's side, along with the other fools pressed into the service of aiding the boy's charmed life. He'd fallen on his back and let Potter fuck him, long after any tactical reason for it was gone. Yet somehow it had made sense at the time. In Potter's world, everything was so simple.
And that was at least part of the attraction, wasn't it?
In the morning when Snape woke, there was still no trace of the Dark Lord in any corner of his thoughts. He was starting to worry about what that might mean. When Lupin came in to rouse them, he glanced uneasily between Potter's naked, sleepy mess and Snape's tidy calm, perhaps hoping to convince himself the boy's state could be explained some other way. Finally he gave up and said, "Breakfast is in ten."
Potter nearly forgot to bind Snape's wrists. "Like it makes any difference now," he said.
"On the contrary," Snape replied coldly. "Do you believe we are allies now? You've a lot to learn about sex, and at the top of the list is that a single night means nothing. I am still your enemy—especially as you've not yet got what you wanted out of me."
Potter sighed and shrugged. Snape seriously doubted whether he even remembered what he wanted.
Breakfast was conducted in silence and with much eye-contact-avoidance all around. Moody was nowhere to be seen, a blessing Snape chose not to question. Halfway through the meal, however, that blessing was rescinded. The door banged open and Moody burst in, only to stop dead after a few steps. His swivelled his head toward each of them in turn, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. A newspaper dangled at his side.
"Well?" Lupin stood up. "What is it?"
Slowly, Moody lifted the newspaper and let it unfurl. The enormous headline declared:
'YOU-KNOW-WHO DROPS DEAD'
A smaller heading beneath it read, 'Massive brain aneurysm determined as cause of Dark wizard's demise'.
Total silence fell.
Snape's mind whirled in futile circles. No. It just wasn't possible. No one could have that kind of luck.
And yet, if anybody could…
Just as Snape was about to go mad with it, the silence was broken by a soft laugh. Then a louder laugh. Everyone turned to look at Potter, who was now snorting, his face offering a half-hearted apology. "I just—it's so—"
"Potter!" Snape shouted. "Desist, you hopeless twit, and tell us what's so sodding funny!" As if he didn't already have a good idea.
"It's just that"—Harry tittered again—"Snape, we killed Voldemort with—with sex!"
Snape flushed. Why were they all staring at him now? "I think most of those present will wish to join me in pretending you didn't say that."
"I know I will," said the still-gobsmacked Moody with an exaggerated shudder.
Whatever the cause, it was true: the Dark Lord was no more. A firecall to Minerva confirmed it, and for two more hours, Moody and Lupin fielded updates on the collapse of the Dark Lord's army, which had begun surrendering almost immediately. Or fleeing the country. Either way, things were coming to a rapid conclusion.
"Just like it was the first time," Moody crowed. "Useless without their leader—mindless puppets, all of 'em."
"To listen to you, one would think you'd had something to do with it," Snape muttered from his corner, where he was watching the comings and goings with increasing boredom. It rather annoyed him how blithely they assumed he was simply one of them now. He'd expected more of Moody, at least, who hadn't even mentioned throwing him in Azkaban yet—which was just as well, since Snape had every intention of murdering him.
Shortly thereafter, Snape got up and made quietly for the exit.
Potter stopped him in the kitchen. "You can't go!" he cried. "We need you when we explain to everybody what happened!"
"You know, Potter," Snape said, "the evidence that our actions had anything to do with the Dark Lord's death is purely circumstantial. And given the nature of those actions, I don't necessarily think it's wise to broadcast—"
"Oh, come on, Snape. Don't you want to be a hero?"
"Not for doing that, I don't!" He turned toward the door. "The last thing I need is Wizarding Britain discussing the intimate details of my private life. And don't think it would be any easier for you! No—if I had any role to play in this…victory…I am happy for it to be lost to obscurity."
"But don't you just want to…I dunno, stick around?"
"Good heavens, are you joking? Are you under the impression that I've had an enjoyable stay?" Snape laughed. "The more distance I can put between here and myself, the better. And if by some absurd chance you have sprouted tender feelings toward me," he added nastily, "you can best employ them by not telling Moody I've gone, so that I can get a nice head start." And with that, he left.
Potter evidently gave him more than just a head start, because no Aurors disturbed him, and a week later he received an Owl at his hideout informing him that he'd been exonerated. He suspected he had Potter's testimony to thank in part, since Potter could easily have confirmed the truth of his motives and loyalties while digging uninvited through his mind. It enraged him—especially since he couldn’t truly be enraged by something that had more or less saved his life.
Remarkably, Potter also respected his wishes regarding his role in the Dark Lord's death. The official story was that Potter had destroyed the Dark Lord in a Legilimency duel—no mention of Snape at all. Thank Merlin. And yet here again he felt the frustration of an injustice he couldn't properly be angry about. The same dismal history was repeating itself: Snape suffered the unpleasantness and Potter took the credit. Just as it always went. As a last indignity, his fury turned to tired resignation; it simply wasn't worth it, as long as their shared history remained in the past.
Potter, irritatingly, thought otherwise. Snape received an Owl two weeks later:
Snape, it said, I rather enjoyed that. And I get the feeling you did too. Would you be opposed to doing it again some time? Harry
Instinctively, Snape looked around for signs of the practical joke. Then he looked at the note again. He wrote back:
Potter,
Don't get to thinking too highly of yourself. Now that it is over, I can confess that I was, indeed, bluffing.
Snape
If he'd thought about it, he'd have realised his words were sure to land Potter on his doorstep in no time flat, since discouragement was the boy's greatest incentive. And sure enough, he appeared almost immediately. There'd be no getting rid of him now, Snape reckoned, on the verge of despair. There was no end to it. Once again, Potter had won, without even trying.