Chapter Text
It hits him like a hex from behind, quick as Jelly-Legs, baffling as Confundus. The tingle begins deep in the base of his spine and spreads until he is suffused with prickly warmth from hairline to fingertips. He shifts uncomfortably in his robes, but it does no good. This is a heat that wants friction, and it comes on so suddenly that Snape turns around and scans the faces behind him, looking for a tell-tale snicker, a shifty glance, half- convinced that he has been jinxed.
Which he hasn’t. He knows the truth of it, knows that Gwyndolyn Marchbanks stooped not five feet in front of him to retrieve her dropped quill and… this. This is how he finds himself. Flushed and sweaty and wanting.
It feels like treachery, this desire, and he struggles to replace the unbidden image of Gwyndolyn’s full lower lip disappearing beneath the head of his cock, of taking her pert arse into his hands and splitting her like a peach, plunging headlong into the sweet, wet flesh of her… with a memory of batty old Minerva McGonagall on the evening he’d tried to break into Gryffindor Tower.
But somehow, even the remembrance of that severe black bun and the unbridled indignation in the McGonagall’s voice makes things worse, not better, and after a few more uncomfortable steps, Snape admits defeat and slips into the loo outside the Charms corridor, almost falling into the stall, locking it with one hand while he frantically lifts his robes with the other.
The pull and squeeze of his own hand is familiar—nothing like the delicious other he craves—but it does the job well enough. Snape’s face is a twisted scowl of concentration as he pumps single-mindedly, violently, into his fist. The collateral pain is intended to be his punishment, but instead, it only serves to make the pleasure sweeter, more complex.
He reaches for the purity of Lily’s face in his mind—Lily as she was in the Quidditch stands the weekend before, her face turned up to the sun—and the tension in him snaps, releasing a ribbon of hot shame into his palm.
It is a betrayal of her; he knows this. As is every morning he wakes cold and sticky behind the curtains of his four-poster, every daydream that breaks the monotony of History of Magic. She deserves better.
“Evanesco,” he whispers, like an apology, as he tightens his hand into a fist. He opens it to find only his own skin, but he knows that nothing has been erased. Not really.