
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12727.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Kink, Bloodplay, BDSM, Chan, Sex_Magic, Magic
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-03-01 Words: 7681
****** Fucking Exams ******
by Greenie_(orphan_account)
Summary
     All seventh-years require lessons in sex magic. Harry's teacher, much
     to his horror, is Snape. | "The book has a high, breathy voice as
     though it's just on the edge of coming - and Harry supposes that if
     his pages had chapters headed 'When Punishments Aren't Punishments'
     he might be in a perpetual state of orgasm, too."
Notes
     Written for Switchknife for Novaculae, based around her story_of_the
     same_title. Betaed by Hazyjane. Thanks also to Anna and Isis for
     their readover and contributions.
Snape's voice is as cold as it has ever been.
“Today we shall begin a new lesson on control. Strip.”
Harry obeys immediately because he knows the consequences if he doesn't; the
tips of his ears heating as he follows Snape back into that sparse bedroom
where there's furniture and colour but no feeling, no emotion.
Snape tells him to lie down on the bed, but makes no move to remove those over-
buttoned black robes. This is new: Harry is taken by surprise when Snape whips
out his wand and cries “Legilimens!”
Snape enters his mind almost immediately. He flicks though Dudley hits him in
the Cedric's books spilling out his hand clutching a fluttering Snitch as the
Dementors closed in and he heard his mother singing Christmas carols in the
Great Hall and pumpkin juice and flying keys and Hagrid and spiders and Ron
after Quidditch and Hermione in the library — as though he is looking for a
particular set of memories.
He finds them soon enough. Hermione in the library researching Polyjuice
Potions steal ingredients from Snape's sneer, Snape's hands running over
Harry's bleeding back, the rod in his hands still dripping, and Snape reaming
Harry, his tongue creating a vaguely ticklish sensation and two dark heads
clashed violently together and they pull back so Harry can see it's his
godfather and Harry screaming, writhing with his cock in his hand as he
imagines it is Snape's, and Snape's tongue on his own, velvety like porridge as
they chatted peacefully over coffee, early morning sunlight streaming in
through the windows of the Burrow and-
 
He pulls out. That is a little more personal than necessary.
 
Harry stares at him, the taste of the now-obsolete counter-curse lingering on
the tip of his tongue. He wishes Snape hadn't seen any of those things, those
private pieces of himself that scream “you like it” accusingly at him every
morning — but especially that last one. This is much more a romantic fancy than
one of his obscene daydreams. “I-“
“You know the rules of this room, Mr Potter,” says Snape. “Do not speak until
spoken to. Ten points from Gryffindor.”
Harry wonders if he can get away with 'replying' to that, however decides it
would be best not to risk it. Snape has an ugly look on his face, and his
thoughts seem to be far away from here.
Perhaps Snape is thinking about a recurring vision Potter seems to have. He
would not be surprised to see himself the star of Harry's wanking fantasies,
however the presence of Black, the godfather, would more than disturb him — it
would sicken him to his stomach. The image of Harry groaning as he palmed an
eager, erect cock; of him spelling Severus's name into his pillow with his
tongue; of him keening lightly and licking precome from his fingers, all as he
imagined Snape and Black... well.
How much of those thoughts had trickled in from Snape's mind, and how much was
imagination? Harry recoils when Snape turns a dark gaze upon him. Not since the
beginning of these lessons has he felt so defiant and vulnerable: he knows the
bastard of a Potions Master longs to hurt him, like he would kick a wounded
puppy. Harry waits to be taken over a knee and spanked until he bruises.
“Potter,” he hears instead. “That will be all for today.”
 
Blink.
 
“I said, that will be all. Put your clothes back on.”
“That was the lesson, sir?” asks Harry, incredulity clear in his tone.
“Do not ask questions,” replies Snape automatically.
Harry looks at him, and Snape seems to understand his confusion. “There is
always some madness in love, but there is reason in madness,” he quotes, as
though that vindicates his actions appropriately. “Get out of my sight.”
Harry stands, still naked, and glowers at Snape, who matches his gaze with an
equal measure of righteous fury — a technique which usually throws Harry off.
Not, however, on this occasion.
“I don't have to do this, you know,” sneers Harry, drawing himself up to his
full height (which is still under Snape's chin) and tilting his head defiantly.
Snape frowns.
“May I remind you that you do have to do this, Mr Potter; in fact, you need
these lessons not only for your own protection, but also to pass the imminent
exams.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “I have to learn, but not from you.”
“Then from whom?” Snape 'tut tut tut's condescendingly. “Mr Potter, you are not
running an ordinary curriculum. The magic we are practicing is a sacred and
forbidden art. Although I do know two other wizards who have mastered it; the
Dark Lord and our very own Albus Dumbledore. Would you prefer to ask their
help?”
Harry thinks for a moment that he will say yes, just in a wild act of anger and
frustration, to get a rise out of the old bastard... but instead he deflates,
sinking in on himself. “Fuck you, Snape,” he mumbles, barely audible — but
Snape hears.
“That will be ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter. I am afraid I must be
going. I shall make it another twenty if I don't see you at the stroke of
midnight tomorrow evening. Dismissed.”
Harry nods, clenching his fists and jaw tight, not wanting to explode right
now. If he has to learn control, then he's going to sodding well show he's got
the basics down. He stomps out, shoes echoing sharply on the slate.
 
                                       &
 
Midnight rolls around and Harry lolls in the archway of the library,
entertaining thoughts of refusing to go, of heading back to bed and rolling up
his invisibility cloak and having a nice long wank before drifting back to
sleep.
But he knows he will only think of Snape, so he descends the stairs to the
dungeons once again. Snape meets him at the door.
“Mr Potter,” he says. “How good of you to turn up. I'm pleased to see that you
may be curbing your addiction to defiance.”
“I'm not addicted to anything,” Harry shoots back.
“Oh? Not the crowds at Quidditch, screaming your name? Not the feel of being a
hero as a Hall filled with students applauds you? Not the feeling of the
Headmaster's hand on your shoulder as he commends you for breaking the rules
and coming out unscathed?”
Harry shakes his head. “You never understand me.”
“I understand you better than you think. You string yourself up, lynch yourself
in front of the cheering crowd. And you think you're a martyr for it.” He shook
his head, in sadness, in amusement. “But you're just another whore.”
 
Then he's on the couch and ohgod Snape's fingers playing with his balls and
ohfuck Snape's hair brushing his stomach and ohyes Snape's lips around his
cock. Harry almost laughs because Snape can't sneer now, but the humour in that
is abruptly strangled by another moan, mixed with garbled obscenities. He's
tightening his fingers around Snape's shoulders and he's coming, he's coming,
he's—
“If I hadn't expected as much, I would say you were a disappointment, Mr
Potter,” says Snape, and now that he can sneer he does so, down the nose and
straight into Harry's cock which — embarrassingly enough — is already demanding
more attention.
When Harry doesn't reply, Snape backhands him.
“Control, Potter!” he shouts as Harry clutches a bleeding nose, the pain
putting paid to any glimmer of a new erection. “You must learn to control your
desires as much as you must learn to control your anger, your fear; these other
emotions that can be used against you by anyone with a penchant for mind
control.”
Harry stares up at him. “I can't-“
“Never say you can't, Potter,” hisses Snape, his entire stance taking an abrupt
about-face from the spitting maniac he had been mere moments before. His face
is pressed right up close to Harry and he flicks out a tongue to catch the red
droplets that are raining from between his fingers. “Because you can. People
have died to make sure you can. Sirius Black has died.”
 
There is a silence, and Harry can barely suppress the feelings of hate. “You
bastard,” he mutters. “You bastard! How dare you refer to his death as though
it was just another lesson to turn me from the path of juvenile fucking
delinquent? How dare you say his name as though you can make it mean
something?”
He glowers at Snape with unrepentant eyes, and Snape just shakes his head.
Harry's given up stanching the blood, and it dribbles over his chest in an
indecipherable scrawl.
 
“You think you can provoke me,” says Snape.
 
Harry doesn't reply.
 
“You think you can break me,” says Snape.
 
Harry doesn't reply.
 
“You think you can hurt me,” says Snape, and there is a mad glint in his eye:
not of anger or fear or anything decipherable but as though he isn't here, as
though he is standing over a Muggleborn and watching his friends rain Cruciatus
down upon her; waiting to be the next to cry Crucio and plunge himself into her
writhing body.
He looks like he's going to fucking kill (fuck and kill?) Harry, who begins to
back away.
“I-”
The single syllable shatters the silence. Snape turns and strides away,
shutting the door softly behind him. Harry is left in these dismal quarters
with no instructions and it hits home that he's here as a student, not as a
lover, when he doesn't know what to do.
 
The most obvious option seems to be to go after his Potions Master.
 
The congealing blood pitter-patters on the stone as he leaves.
 
                                       &
 
Snape doesn't apologise when next they meet, just ties him to the bed with
Slytherin scarves and decorates him with slim silver chains. “This, Potter, may
seem like your typical bondage scenario: however a learned wizard can use the
pattern of chains to form an almost unbreakable bond. Any student worth his
salt will never let his master bind him in this way.”
He says all this in a matter-of-fact tone, as though Harry is sitting in front
of him in a classroom, and not lying naked and spread-eagled on the bed.
“Quick, Potter,” he says, “Recite the three main ingredients used in sex
magic.”
“Blood, silver and s-semen, sir.”
“Exactly,” says Snape forcefully, ignoring Harry's embarrassment. “And already
we have the presence of silver, with the other two ingredients easily
attainable. Do you know what this pattern symbolises?”
Harry looks at the chain; it runs from his ankles to his groin, where it splits
into three; to his neck, and his spread wrists. “Er... no, sir?”
“Ten points from Gryffindor,” says Snape. “You are bound using the alchemic
symbol for 'silver.' He traced it over Harry's chest, goosebumps trailing in
the wake of his long fingers. “This in itself makes the spell potent enough to
cause fatality. However, not binding. What does the binding, Potter?”
“My blood?” says Harry, more a question than an answer.
“Indeed. And once bound, the effects of the spell depend upon the use of the
ingredients.” He flicks his wand and the chains vanish. “You will find more
about the alchemic symbols and their uses on page three hundred of the
textbook. I expect you to be able to bind someone for three different purposes
by the next time we meet.”
Harry groans inwardly at how much time he'll have to sacrifice from his other
subjects to get this done, and tries not to think what Hermione will say.
 
(“You're falling behind in Charms, Potions... even Defence Against the Dark
Arts! Harry, is there something wrong?”
“No, Hermione, it's-“
“Look, you can tell us. Who knows, we might even be able to help!”
“It's not Voldemort, Hermione,” he says heavily, but she nods her head.
“Then what isit? Professor Snape's Occlumency lessons?” Harry had told them
he'd been assigned to McGonagall, like every other boy. He didn't want
Hermione, let alone Ron, to find out what he'd been doing with Snape in the
dead of the night, even if itwasa prescribed class.
“Yeah,” he said. “Something like that. I'm just really... tired all the time.”
Ron winked. “Minnie getting too much for you, Harry?”
Hermione blushed. “Really, Ron.”
“Isn't it obvious? The boy's absolutely worn out; can't concentrate; just
wants-“
“Can we drop this please?” Harry asked waspishly. Every student was embarrassed
about what they had to do. Even the former students didn't like talking about
the 'fucking exams'. Even bookish Hermione wasn't as enthusiastic about this
part of their education. So they changed the subject.)
 
Harry pulls his robes back on, barely bothering to do up all the buttons, but
Snape is inspecting him from the high-backed chair and he suddenly has an urge
to look something other than a slovenly teenager, to present himself in a
manner more befitting the adult he mightn't survive to be.
Instead he slings his tie around his shoulders, stuffs his socks in his pocket,
and pads out.
 
                                       &
 
“Sex magick” says the book boldly, every time Harry opens it, and he can
practically hear the Crowleyan 'k'. “A chaotic and unstructured look at the
influences a wizard's passions may inflict upon the every-day and sometimes
uncommon life of-“
Harry turns the page. He can practically recite the spiel by heart, now. The
book has a high, breathy voice as though it's just on the edge of coming — and
Harry supposes that if his pages had chapters headed “when punishments aren't
punishments” he might be in a perpetual state of orgasm, too.
The lessons are always erratic, not like Potions where everything is a building
block and you need to understand the properties of base solutions before you
can even dream of moving on to the advanced stuff. Snape tries to be
methodical, and assigns assignments and designs lesson plans continuously, but
even the textbook seems to switch from BDSM to lubricating spells to
asphyxiation, and Harry can see it's an attempt to reign in chaos and line it
up all neatly.
Control seems to be the key to the entire puzzle, and it is also the only
thread holding the lessons together of late. One day Snape might take him
backwards over the desk just because he feels like it, the next he'll give him
the Kama Sutra and leave him alone in the bedroom to read. The point of the
lesson only seems apparent when he stalks back in while Harry's having a subtle
masturbatory session; he looks at the precome splattered on Harry's fingers and
rolls his eyes.
“Disappointing,” he intones solemnly, and goes back to his desk.
 
“Not up to standard,” he says later when Harry's trembling beneath his fingers,
white-hot come shooting onto his chest.
 
“You're a failure Potter,” he shouts as Harry comes before he's even three
quarters of the way in Snape, the blush on his cheeks matching the one on his
cock.
 
Harry doesn't know what to do. “I'm a teenage boy,” he says. Snape ignores him.
“I can't help-“
“You can help it and you will help it because I am not sullying myself with
your adolescent body for nothing.”
“Fine then,” shrieks Harry, hurt and angry with himself for hurting and angry
with Snape for hurting him and just one big broiling pot of teenage angst.
“Fuck you! As though I need to be here anyway...”
“And we come back to this again.” Snape is scornful of his eruptions. “Can't
even control your temper, much less your prick. I should fail you now. Why
waste the examiner's time when I can give you a T and be done with it?”
Time shudders to a halt for Harry. “No. You wouldn't. You couldn't.”
“I could,” says Snape. “Of course, I would have to continue tutoring you. As
the Headmaster has most likely explained, your progress through this course is
necessary; however I can ensure that none of this counts towards your
N.E.W.T.s”
Harry thinks of the course requirements. “But- I need this,” he says. “I
need...”
“Me?” Snape finishes for him, the hint of a smirk curving his cruel lips.
“No, you bastard, the marks! I need the marks to become an Auror!”
“Just like your father,” spits Snape. “Wanting to play the good guy. Aurors
kill innocent people too, Potter.”
“I'm going to be an Auror,” yells Harry. “You can't take that away from me. I'm
going to be an Auror and I'm going to kill her. Because some people,” he thinks
of a hand disappearing behind the veil, and his blood boils. “Some people could
never be innocent.”
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not
become a monster,” quotes Snape, his face as impassive and immovable as the
frozen surface of the Great Lake. Harry longs to search for hidden depths.
“I never understand you,” he cries, and perhaps in a less impassioned moment
Snape would have responded with something like tenderness, but Harry flings it
at him as an accusation. As though it is Snape's fault for not being open for
all the world to read and tear apart.
“I understand you all too well, Potter,” whispers Snape. “Leave.”
 
Harry does.
 
                                       &
 
Snape holds up one hand when Harry turns up the next night, scuffing his feet
against the slate. “Don't apologise, Potter, I don't think I could stand it.”
Harry's neck just bows further. “I wasn't planning on it,” he says in a low and
venomous voice.
“Why am I not surprised?” Snape seems to ask he empty air. He goes over to the
cupboard in the corner and inwardly, Harry is whimpering because it deserves
capital letters: The Cupboard In The Corner; it always contains instruments of
immense pain... and immense pleasure.
Snape takes out the whip. It's not a proper leather whip; more a lithe willow
switch, but it's been charmed to have just as much flexibility as rubber. It
has a silver grip — of course, everything in this room is bloody silver, as
though if they include enough magical theory it'll stop being a mere parody of
a lesson.
Harry wordlessly drops his trousers and goes to lean over the desk. There are
essays on it. Ron's, he can see, from yesterday's Potions class — the essay
he'd never really had time to do. He's spent five years doing his homework in
his bed after dark, and now even that time has been taken away from him for the
Greater Good.
 
He's so busy being bitter about his status as Saviour of The Wizarding World
that he isn't expecting the first stroke.
 
“Oh, fuck,” he yells, and loses ten points from Gryffindor.
 
The second stroke is just as even handed as the first: hard, but not hard
enough to break the skin. It creates a neat stripe along the crest of his
buttocks which he can feel even if he can't see. This one, however, he bites
his tongue for and takes it as penance. It doesn't hurt so much when he
justifies it.
That one was for calling out after the first one, he tells himself.
This one is for not handing in my Potions assignment.
This one is for leaving one shoelace undone (he can see it if he tilts his head
an awkward angle).
This one is for not brushing my hair this morning (or ever, really).
This one is for copying the last three inches of Hermione's History of Magic
essay.
This one is for thinking about boys in the shower this morning.
This one is for forgetting Sirius is dead.
This one is for being five minutes late to Charms.
This one is for telling lies.
This one is for telling lies.
This one is for telling lies.
(Once he runs out of excuses, he usually just pretends it's Umbridge. She needs
no excuses, after all.)
 
Fifty strokes later, he has progressed from wincing, to sobbing, to heartfelt
screaming each time Snape brings down the whip to crack it across his buttocks,
which feel like a thousand ants have decided to sting their way through it.
He knows that if Snape wanted to, he could make it feel good. He's done it
before; just the right mixture of caresses and rubbing mixed in with the sharp
sting and Harry would wiggle and spurt against his hand, the blood throbbing in
his temples and his fingertips.
But he doesn't, and Harry's secretly grateful. At least when he's in pain,
Harry can hate Snape.
 
                                       &
 
Weeks pass by in a blur of “I'm coming, I'm coming” and almost-saying-Severus-
instead-of-sir.
 
Then it is time for exams. Everyone's studying, scurrying from classroom to
classroom, but Harry's dangling from the ceiling in the dungeons. Snape's
teaching him Japanese rope bondage, and they slither around him like snakes.
Harry wishes he could talk to them, tell them to loosen just a little; all the
blood is rushing to his cock without any stimulus other than the way in which
he's being held.
“I hope my friends aren't wondering where I am,” he says aloud. No-one
responds, and that's a nice feeling, so he continues to mutter to himself.
“After all, Snape's hardly going to take me out of class time for Occlumency,
is he? And they're in Transfiguration, so McGonagall can't be doing anything —
not that Ron even knows what rope bondage is. I've seen their textbooks;
they're a lot slimmer, and quite a bit more chaste. More insert Tab A into Slot
B sort of stuff. Hermione's been practicing with him, I reckon. It kind of
makes me sad — not the fact that they're together, but the fact that they
haven't told me yet. Then again, it's not like I've exactly told them about
Snape...”
“But what is there to tell?”
Harry would have jumped at any other time, but as it is he's strung so tight he
can't scratch his nose. “Sir?” he says, keeping the stammer from his voice. “I
didn't know you were still here.”
“There are a lot of things you don't know, Potter,” Snape snaps. “Are you
feeling suitably fuckable yet?”
Harry blushes, but doesn't ask to get down.
 
“You will have two examinations, Potter. One will be at the same time as the
other students, where you demonstrate to beautiful young examiners your
understanding of — how did you put it again? Ah yes — 'Tab A into Slot B.'” His
lips twich as though he's trying not to laugh. “Your second examination will
take place with me, in this dungeon, at midnight tomorrow evening. You must
pass both in order to quality for your N.E.W.T.s.”
He holds his face very close to Harry's, and Harry (despite being upside-down)
is reminded of Uncle Vernon's intimidation tactics. He wonders idly what it
would be like if Snape wasn't a horrible, greasy, sadistic wanker. Perhaps they
could take tea together, laughing over Hermione and Ron, Snape swearing that if
he had to teach another Weasley, he'd quit...
With an abrupt start, Harry realises Snape is still watching him, an almost
curious look upon his face. “'Love is a state where man sees things decidedly
as they are not'. Is that who you think I am, Potter? Who you think I have the
capacity to be?”
Having no freedom of movement, Harry makes sure to choose his words wisely.
“I'm not in love with you, if that's what you mean. It's just a daydream of
mine, sir.”
“Daydreams are weakness!” snaps Snape. Harry wonders if that's hurt flickering
in the steadiness of his hands. “Haven't I taught you anything about control!?
If I can see that, others can also. And they will not be as merciful as me in
using it against you, do I make myself clear?”
“Yessir,” responds Harry numbly, and Snape severs his bonds with a flick of his
wand and watches him crash to the ground.
“Now that you are back in reality, Potter, I will remind you again. Midnight,
tomorrow evening. Be there or work for the Knight Bus.”
 
“It shouldn't be a question of our grades.” Harry's voice isn't scornful, or
angry, or whining... it's just blank. “It's not fair to ask people to- people
to-“
“Everyone has to,” Snape says matter-of-factly. “I had to, when I was your age.
Your father had to. The bastard godfather you idolise had to. Everyone does,
and we're wizards, we're strong, we get used to it.”
Tears prick the corners of Harry's eyes, but he will not let Snape see him cry.
“But not with you,” he says. “Why with you? Why does everyone else? And I? And
we-” he gestures helplessly.
“Midnight tomorrow, Potter,” is all Snape says, and Harry barely has time to
gather his clothes around him and rub his chafe marks before he's booted into
empty corridors.
 
                                       &
 
Harry arrives already panting and half-hard — not due to any stray encounter in
the hallway, but purely because he is running late, and the thought of what
Snape might do to him for the indiscretion bypasses his brain and goes straight
to his groin.
But Snape's voice is sweet as honey as Harry neatly arranges his clothes on the
straight-backed chair.
 
“I have spent quite a few hours brewing this potion,” he says, holding up a
glass vial filled with viscous translucent liquid. “It is to be the core of
today's work, which shall be a test on the nature of and your mastery of
control.”
Harry nods, not trusting himself, or Snape's seeming good mood, to speak.
“I have prepared a small portion for your study. By tomorrow night, you shall
be able to tell me its ingredients, its properties, and hopefully its name. I
am going to assume your honesty and — as much as it pains me - trust that you
will not ask Granger's advice.”
Harry blushed as he imagined it.
 
(“Hermione, what does this do?”
She looked at it, and her cheeks coloured slightly. “I-“ she said, and at first
Harry thought she didn't know. But then he realised she was just hesitant about
telling him.
“Don't worry,” he said reassuringly, “I know it's probably Dark Magic. Snape
gave it to me.”
He regretted the slip as soon as her eyes widened. “Snapegave it to you? Harry,
this isn't Dark magic, it's Sex magic... and much more advanced than anything
Ron and I have done...”)
 
“Mr Potter?”
Harry starts and looks up at Snape, feeling like a deer trapped in headlights.
That was the giveaway; for all his kind noises, Snape is play-acting, because
he didn't say 'Harry', he said 'Potter' in that same annoyed, nasal way of his.
“Y-yes?”
“I shall assume you were not listening and reiterate myself. Your testing time
is exactly one day. By nine pm tomorrow evening, you will come to me and tell
me what this is.”
“Sounds more like Potions to me.”
Snape drops the saccharine sweetness. “Blood and silver and semen, Potter. Nine
o'clock this evening isn't twenty-four hours away. Just because the research
revolves around a potion, doesn't mean the practical will.”
Harry gapes at him a little, and Snape rolls his eyes. “Why are you still here?
Every minute is one less thing you've found out. Now go!”
 
                                       &
 
Scrolls and scrolls land before Snape. Some bounce off the desk and onto the
uncarpeted floor. “That was all I could find,” Harry says wearily, the time it
took evident in the dark shadows under his eyes.
“Barely good enough, Mr Potter,” says Snape. “Now, quickly, what did you
discover the potion to be called?”
“It's a Tangerus Exchange potion,” sayes Harry.
“And what does it do?”
“That... well, I'm not quite sure, at first I thought you switched bodies, kind
of like a Polyjuice potion, but it said you exchanged... skin... I don't know,
it was badly translated.”
Snape nods. He doesn't seem angry. “As it happens, there are no books you could
acquire legally that could tell you exactly what it does do. I am surprised you
found the ingredients-” his obsidian eyes snap up to meet Harry's. “You did
research the necessary ingredients?”
Harry waves a hand at the scrolls. “It's all in there,” he says. He may not be
amazing at Potions, but every year seems to involve going through the library
so he has become good at finding things out — even without Hermione's help.
“How did you get my. Um.”
“Your semen, Potter? It's not as if you don't leave enough of it lying around.
I'm surprised; most teenage boys learn good cleaning charms almost as soon as
they learn how to masturbate.” Snape's tone is clinical; Harry blushes anyway.
“I didn't think I'd have to-“
“Clean up after yourself? Of course not. Why should the Great Harry Potter
stoop as low as the menial tasks of a House Elf?” Harry opens his mouth to
protest, but Snape cuts him off. “Enough of this talk. The examination is in
progress, Potter. You are going to demonstrate your knowledge of the body-
compass and the five key alchemical signs.”
Snape unstoppers the bottle, and pours some of it (it looks like that liquid
soap Aunt Petunia used to have in the guest bathroom) onto Harry's quickly
cupped hands. Then he begins to neatly, efficiently, remove his clothes.
 
Harry realises what Snape wants him to do when he prostrates himself on the
table. It feels strange; it isn't the first time he has been the one clothed
and Snape helpless before him, but it is the first time there haven't been
instructions barked in his ear, or muffled commands issued around moans. For
once he is in control, and he's not sure he likes it.
He starts at the shoulders, and the shock of the cold and the unusual feeling
(not quite liquid, and definitely not oily, more like silk or satin being
trailed over the skin) causes Snape to gasp aloud. He continues downwards,
making sure to make the massage completely impersonal, or as much as it can be
— and indeed, this is not for Snape's gratification, but for a demonstration of
his own knowledge.
The patterns he strokes along the skin are ancient and magical.
 
“Sir,” he says. “Turn over.”
Snape does so, but Harry is still at his feet, sliding smooth fingers between
each long toe. He runs his fingers down the arches, and Snape practically pulls
away from him.
“Ticklish, hm?”
“Watch your mouth Potter,” grunts Snape, his voice hoarse. Harry is reassured
because Snape is still in control, even while Harry's fingers are dancing up
his legs towards his half-mast cock.
He doesn't linger there for long, however, just moves up and out, little fish-
scale patterns traced around the nipples, signs of lust and fertility from the
navel to the neck. When Snape's body is completely coated, he rises from the
table — still as ugly and hairy as ever, but with a sheen more oily than his
usual skin tone. Harry would like to be able to compare him to a Greek god, but
it is only his demeanour that reflects power — with his sunken chest and
crooked teeth, Snape is not a pretty man.
Harry doesn't mind. He's had months to get used to it, after all.
 
He guesses correctly what comes next, and is down to his underwear practically
before Snape has to say anything. Snape is a master masseuse, though Harry's
mind does not linger on how or with whom he learned, just the fabulous
sensations running from every pore of his body all the way to his prick.
“Please,” he says, when Snape has turned him over and his rubbing his buttocks
in big, slow circles. “Please, I want you inside me.”
“There will be time enough for that, Mr Potter,” Snape says, and runs tiny
spider-fingers down the back of Harry's thighs, brushing over the sparse hairs
that grow there and pinching his way up and down the calves.
 
Harry's a little too dazed to get up himself; he feels like that time Lockhart
spelled all his bones away, except all over his body (except, perhaps, his
cock). “I-“ he says, and the rest sounds vaguely like “Mnmnnmm.” Snape snorts
and grabs him roughly by the forearm, tugging him to his feet.
“If you wish to pass your practical, Potter, you had best be awake for it,” he
snaps, and Harry allows himself to be led over to the couch, its stiff fabric
rusting against the smooth feel of his body. Harry had shaved half his leg
once, on a dare from Seamus, and Hermione had put moisturiser on the red lumps
that had formed afterwards. That was what his skin felt like; hot and cold and
itchy and smooth and oily. It was crawling all over him, the potion — dipping
in and out of his flesh as effortlessly as a needle through cloth.
“I think it has had time for the effect to register,” says Snape, as clinical
as ever. “Sit on the rug.” Harry sits on the rug and it rubs against his bare
arse tantalisingly. The fire is not lit — this is not, after all, a romance
novel — but he's getting more aroused every second Snape's eyes rest hungrily
on him.
 
“You will come when I tell you,” says Snape, “And not before. This is a lesson
in control. Remember that Potter, and keep your wits about you.” And then he
touches himself, long fingers wrapping around his long cock — and Harry is
startled as the pleasure shoots through his own and it begins to stir. He
throws his head back and moans as somehow Snape begins to find all of Harry's
sensitive places, on his own cock — and abuse them mercilessly.
Then Snape pulls back — just for a moment, but it is a mistake, for it allows
Harry to regain his senses. His jumbled mind pieces together the meaning behind
these sensations, and his hands jump to his own, now straining, cock, running a
thumb over the head and watching the other man's shudder.
It's strange — he's finding more pleasure in watching Snape's reaction as his
head rolls back and his muscles clench, than he is from his own hand. Likewise,
the Potions Master is leering at the sight of Harry fondling himself.
Snape leans over then, pushing the pleasure aside and kissing Harry on the lips
— and it is the strangest experience, like feeling the ghost of his own lips as
an echo. Then Snape reaches for his cock again and they begin to send each
other into spasms of ecstasy.
But the best and worst is still yet to come. Still rubbing himself, Snape
pushes a whimpering Harry onto his back and leans down to take the erection,
still wrapped tightly in Harry's hand, into his own mouth. He gasps, and almost
bites down, and then just as suddenly doesn't, and Harry is groaning and
speaking incoherently, pushing his hips up and his cock into Snape's warm, wet
mouth. It only takes a few minutes of this, and Harry begins to feel himself
tightening; he reaches down to tangle his fingers in greasy black hair-
 
But Snape draws back, wiping his mouth off with an already sticky hand. “Now,
now, Mr Potter, I haven't wasted my time teaching you control for nothing. Have
patience. You only get to take the exam again... if you pass.”
“Then go slower... please...” whispers Harry piteously. Snape rolls his eyes
and acquiesces, returning to a gentle, slow hand rhythm that only serves to
drive Harry wild. He watches — and feels it — as Snape traces every ridge of
his cock, first with one finger, then the next; as he runs a thumb over the
vein underneath, and then up to gather precome from the swollen, dark red tip.
Harry bites his lip, hard enough to taste blood and start that smouldering in
beetle-black eyes. Snape always likes it when he bleeds, even if he won't admit
it. He begins to shake, watching Professor Snape do that to himself — do it to
him. His own hand quivers around his cock, which pulses of its own accord,
throbbing like a live thing in his hand.
 
“You will come when I tell you, and not before,” says Severus, repeating his
words of earlier, emphasising them. His gaze bores into Harry's, keeping him
still, keeping him stable.
Taking a deep breath, Harry attempts to fill his mind with images — of
McGonagall, of Hagrid, of Arithmancy and History of Magic. Snape watches his
mind drift away and, with a vicious smirk, squeezes his own cock — eliciting a
small gasp from him, and a strangled scream from Harry.
Harry cannot stop himself crying out, but he does stop himself coming — if only
by sheer force of will. Severus nods, clearly pleased, and begins to set up a
more rhythmic pace. Harry does likewise, moving his hand in time to Snape's —
they stroke themselves until Harry is sure everything, even their ragged
breathing and quickened pulse — is beating in time to those rapid strokes. He
whimpers again, sure he is about to fail this test (if it can be called that
anymore.)
 
Fortunately, it is that moment that Snape, his face slightly flushed, begins to
gasp audibly, and his hand squeezes harder than before. “Now, Potter,” he
growls, his voice sensuous, husky and utterly depraved. “You idiot boy, now!”
 
Harry explodes into his own hand, orgasm spreading outwards from his cock and
up through his belly, down his thighs and calves and right to the tips of his
toes, which curl and clench and scrape on the cold stone floor. This is
different to when he was beneath the red-and-gold Gryffindor sheets, biting
back curses and names — this is different to in the cupboard, when spiders
scrabble over the cheeks of his arse and he licks the come off his hands
because it is the only salt he will get for another six hours. He wants to
whisper obscenities — “oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck” — but the first spike of it
stabs through his lungs and he can't breathe, not even to cry out the names
running rampant through his head, not even to scream or kiss or- or—
 
Harry pulls a breath and screams himself hoarse; he doesn't just see stars, he
sees constellations; galaxies; the entire fucking universe.
 
As the feeling subsides, as the wave breaks and washes away, Harry collapses
limply onto his Potions Master and, too tired to even think about what he is
doing, snuggles him close. The spell appears to be gone. Snape grimaces, but
resigns himself to lying awake on the floor, keeping himself warm with a large
blanket of sleeping teenager, and pondering why he isn't protesting. Some
tortuous minutes later, he, too drifts off.
 
                                       &
 
“I'm going to fail and it's all your fault.”
 
Snape doesn't look up from his marking quickly enough, and Harry sends the
papers flying across the floor with a sweep of his arm. “It was a woman. A
fucking woman.”
“A fucking woman for the fucking exams, Potter?”
Harry doesn't laugh, just glares at him. “I'm going to fail. I've been learning
all this shit about blood, semen and silver and all she wanted to know was what
the g-spot was. I've never touched a g-spot in my life!”
“Surely you've had a little practical experimentation on the side,” says Snape,
with growing amusement.
“I don't swing that way, sir as you may well have realised by now. And any
instruction I might have received on a purely academic basis was sodding routed
when you went and pulled me from McGonagall's class!” His hands were balling
into fists. “I've spent an entire year at your beck and bloody call and when it
comes to the exam you've been all but useless!”
“You should have asked for a male examiner,” Snape says blandly.
“How was I to know I could get one, eh? Nobody else asked for one, because
nobody else needed one, because nobody else was SHAGGING THEIR STUPID SODDING
POTIONS PROFESSOR.”
“Ten &mdashl no, twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter.”
“STOP CALLING ME POTTER.”
“Why? It's your name, isn't it? Would you prefer I called you 'the Boy Who
Lived'?”
“Fuck you Snape,” says Harry, and he can feel hot, shameful tears running in
big drops down his cheeks. “Not even my friends know what's going on. How come
they all have normal teachers and I- I get dumped with you?”
“As someone who is occasionally referred to as 'the last bastion of the
Wizarding World' I would hope even you could see the answer to that.”
“Cut the crap about advanced sex magic, you bastard,” Harry yells. “I've tried
so damn hard for you and it means nothing — not marks, not achievement, not-
not anything.” He tries not to look directly at Snape.
“And this anything, Mr Potter. That wouldn't have anything to do with the
fantasies, the — what did you term them? — daydreams, would they?”
“Piss off piss off piss OFF!” shrieks Harry, not caring that he's shown
weakness, lost control, and is acting like a child.
“Unfortunately, Potter, you are the one in my office.”
It is the name that gets him: like a whiplash, like a bucket of cold water or a
sharp slap to the face.
“I hate you,” he tells Snape coldly, looking him in the eyes, and then turning
to leave.
“Midnight tomorrow,” Snape says — it isn't quite a call after him, but Harry
hears. “This isn't finished yet, Potter.”
 
                                       &
 
Harry forgets to learn from his mistakes.
 
There is a pensieve on the desk, and he can't see Snape. Is it a test, or an
answer?
 
                                       &
 
The Headmaster shakes his head sadly. “I am afraid it is not possible,
Severus.”
“It is possible if you say it is possible,” hisses Snape, and only someone who
knows him very well could hear the desperation tinging his voice. Albus
Dumbledore knows him very well. Harry Potter, the small figure lolling
invisible on the edge of the desk, knows him very well.
“He will not consent.” Snape glares, but the Headmaster's face remains
impassive. “I know you feel it is not his decision, however I have always
thought that a modicum of freedom in this issue helps along the adolescent
enormously—“
Snape cuts him off. “His godfather is dead, Albus. His only living relatives
are Muggles. I am the only one who can do this; through the ties he has to me;
the ties of life and death that he is yet to fully repay.”
“The sins of the father do not carry through to the son,” says Dumbledore. A
shadow of pain sweeps across Severus's face.
“Sometimes,” he mutters, “They have to.”
“Severus, when I allowed you to take this job, I trusted you. Would I have done
so if I believed that?” The light catches on Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles,
and he smiles disarmingly — but Severus's sullen scowl will not be removed.
“Of course, that is not why you refuse me.” His tone is sardonic.
“I refuse you because I know that Harry would refuse you; as he would refuse
me; as he would refuse any of those people he blames for all wrongs issued
him.”
“Then who do you suggest?” asks Severus.
“There are quite a few options,” says Dumbledore, running a long finger down
the list on his desk. “Through his father's side, Harry is distantly related to
quite a few people we are familiar with. The Weasleys, for instance.”
Snape waves his hand dismissively. “They are too distant. He is to be the
saviour of the wizarding world, Albus; he needs more than just vague traces of
blood. He needs strong ties— we must provide him with them, for his own good.”
Slowly the weight of the world seems to settle onto the Headmaster's shoulders.
“I can not allow you to force him into anything he doesn't want.”
“There will be no force necessary,” Snape says, and Harry flinches back from
the look that passes between both men.
“To think, the irony of your demand... if he knew.”
“You will not tell him, Albus. Not this.”
“I have kept many secrets from him, Severus,” sighs Dumbledore. “I can keep one
more.”
 
                                       &
 
Harry starts back, and the stone is cold against his bare feet and the fire is
warm against his bare skin and he is here, in Snape's room, because Snape wants
him to be — because Snape needs him to be.
 
There are tiny silver threads dangling from the edge of his glasses and he
licks them off; they taste like blood and silver and semen.
 
Snape is standing in the doorway, watching him. Harry expects him to rant about
pranks and control and privacy. “You have your last exams, today, you're going
home tomorrow,” he says, in a voice that is filled with liquor and desperation
and desire. “I had hoped.”
“You hoped wrong,” Harry sneers, angry because Snape's meant to be older and
responsible and trustworthy and yet he can't tell the difference between
fantasy and reality.
 
Harry imagines mornings together where Snape isn't a bastard, and they go for
long walks together with a big gold dog - but Snape is a bastard. His limbs are
too long and his flesh is too cold: he's just a greasy old pervert who pretends
to be disciplinary so he can get to Harry's tight little arse.
“If I fail, I'm owling Dumbledore,” he says.
“You will not fail,” says Snape in the tone of a man who has taken care of
things. “Harry-“
“Don't call me that,” snaps Harry. “Don't call me anything.” He wants to
crumble and break, shatter into a thousand pieces like Sirius's mirror did when
he threw it against the wall — but if there is one thing he has learned
throughout all this, it is control.
“Goodbye, Professor Snape,” he says in the most even tone he can muster.
Before Snape can reply, Harry has left the dungeon for the last time, walking
out into the sunshine to find his friends.
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