
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/520098.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Argus_Filch/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Argus_Filch, Severus_Snape, Peter_Pettigrew
  Additional Tags:
      Smut, Established_Relationship, POV_Outsider, Voyeurism
  Collections:
      Crossgenerational_Slash, Kink_Bingo_2012_(Round_Five)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-24 Words: 4341
****** Intruder ******
by Delphi
Summary
     Peter Pettigrew breaks into Filch's rooms to retrieve James's
     confiscated Invisibility Cloak and ends up seeing something he
     shouldn't.
Filch's bedroom wasn't what he had expected.

Peter flattened himself against the floor and sucked in his stomach as he
wiggled his back half under the door. It was a tight squeeze, but with a twist
and a scrabble, he popped out on the other side. He shook himself vigorously
and straightened his whiskers, and then he transformed.

The room shrank around him as he shot up onto two feet. He absently scratched
the spot where his tail no longer was and then peered about with interest.

operation: cloak recovery – phase three

James and Sirius had already sneaked in to rummage through Filch's office while
the caretaker was mopping the third floor that morning, and Remus had managed
to steal into Filch's workroom during the Quidditch match, but James's
Invisibility Cloak—left behind on a mad dash out of the dungeons last
night—still hadn't been found. That only left Filch's bedroom, which was
secured with no fewer than three stout locks and accessible only to those with
keys. Or those able to make themselves small enough to squeeze under the door.

Now, however, Peter was wondering if he'd got the wrong room.

There were no chains or bullwhips hanging from the walls. There were no
complicated contraptions that could have either been table saws or implements
of torture, and there was no all-pervasive smell of sawdust and cleaning
potions. It was only a normal bedroom, furnished with a large bed, a desk, a
night table, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. A small bathroom lay off to
one side, and a window overlooking a courtyard to the other.

He hurried over to the chest of drawers. Filch was supposed to be shut in his
workroom with a pile of repairs for the foreseeable future, but that was no
reason to dally. He peeked into each drawer, working his way down from the top.

socks, vests, spare bedding, nothing

The bottom drawer proved more promising. It had to be yanked open, stuffed to
the brim as it was with sweets and one-knut dreadfuls.

come on...

Something glimmered in the back of the drawer.

yes!

He snatched up the cloak and threw it over his shoulder. He nearly closed the
drawer, but then he paused, hesitating for a moment before giving in to the
temptation to dig through the rest of the treasure. Four packets of sweets
quickly found their way into his pocket, as well as a comic book and a
dreadful, and he was flipping hot-cheeked through a stack of photographs
featuring ladies in their bathing costumes when a terrible sound brought his
head up sharply.

A key slid into a lock.

!

The photographs fell from his numb fingers back onto the pile, and he hurriedly
pushed the drawer shut as quietly as he could. His gaze darted to the window—

can't get it open and shut quickly enough

—and then to the sheltering shadows under the bed.

can't transform with the cloak

The second lock was turning.

wardrobe!

He launched himself inside the cavernous wardrobe and shut the doors swiftly
behind him just as the third lock clicked open.

shh...shh...shh...

He held himself very still, pressed in between a crush of hanging shirts and
trousers. In the narrow space between the wardrobe doors, he could only see the
bed and the wall beyond it. The door creaked as it opened, and footsteps
entered the room. Then the door shut, and the three deadbolts were turned
again. He heard the sound of shoes being taken off.

A shadow entered his line of sight, resolving into a figure.

But it wasn't Filch.

Snape!

Peter blinked in startled surprise. Severus Snape was walking casually into the
room, in his stocking feet, carrying his book bag over his shoulder. For a
baffling moment, Peter was once again certain that he must have tried the wrong
door, but then he saw the smug little smile on Snape's lips and realised that
the other boy must have broken in for the exact same reason.

don't look in the wardrobe don't look in the wardrobe

He fumbled with the cloak, trying to draw it around himself silently. The cool
shadow draped over him, and his fingers worriedly sought out any gaps. Snape
couldn't be appealed to as a fellow student and probably couldn't even be
bribed—not if it meant getting a Marauder in trouble. Worse still, James and
Sirius would probably never speak to him again if he got himself caught.

Snape didn't seem to be in any hurry to search for what he'd come for. Instead,
curiously, he opened up his book bag and took out a slim book, which he tossed
onto Filch's bed. Then he dropped the bag onto the floor and wandered out of
Peter's line of sight again.

Sounds followed.

A door shutting. Water running. A toilet flushing. Water running again.

should've run

It was too late now. Snape had returned, climbing onto the bed and settling in
against the mounded pillows, book in hand.

wait

what?

One aching minute passed, and then two, and then what must have been five.
Peter's hand grew sweaty where it was braced against the inside of the
wardrobe, and his legs were starting to ache, but he didn't dare fidget in case
the sound betrayed him. His mind turned in fruitless circles, trying to puzzle
out what Snape was playing at.

Then: another key in a lock.

Peter straightened abruptly, sending a hanger swaying. He froze, his heartbeat
pounding. Snape glanced up, but he was looking towards the door. A wave of
nausea rolled through Peter's stomach, followed by a very small thrill of
excitement. He didn't want to be caught, but the thought of watching Snape get
caught was delicious.

The second lock, the third—the door swung open. Heavier footsteps this time,
and then Filch stepped into view. For a moment, his expression was its usual
dour droop, but then his face lit up with the sort of joyful grin that Peter
knew meant trouble.

Snape, however, didn't seem to be pissing himself. In fact, he turned his
attention back to his book and thoughtfully turned a page as if Filch wasn't
even there.

Filch picked up the stout chair from in front of the desk—

can't hit a student with a chair even if it is Snape!

—and moved it out of sight. There was a soft scuffing, and Peter realised he
knew that sound: a chair being wedged under a doorknob.

Filch returned, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the peg. Then he sat
down at the edge of the bed, not six inches away from Snape, and took off his
boots. It was just about the oddest thing Peter had ever seen in his life.

"What are we reading?" Filch asked. His voice was unexpectedly soft, the way it
was when he talked to his cat.

Snape turned another page and pushed a lock of his limp hair behind his ear. "A
bestiary of venomous beasts."

Filch twisted to peek at the cover. "Studying?"

"Recreational reading," Snape said.

It sounded too normal—so normal it was freakish. For several seconds, Peter's
mind was completely, stupidly blank. His thoughts spun without finding footing,
and then the thought hit him: They...were related?

The idea seemed bizarre on the surface, but as Peter poked and prodded it, he
realised it made perfect sense. The two of them were so queer and unpleasant
that they had to be kin. He smiled despite himself, delighted with the scandal
of it. Filch must secretly be Snape's uncle, or some other close relation, and
that was why Snape got all that special treatment. That was why he was here,
lounging in Filch's private rooms as if they were his own. James was going to
love this!

but

That perfect explanation faltered when Filch put his hand on Snape's leg—well
above his knee.

"Up for something, then?" Filch asked. His voice was still soft, but lower now.

"Mm," Snape hummed in consideration and shallowly shrugged. "Maybe. If you suck
me off first."

ha!

Peter's hand flew up to cover his mouth, and his throat clenched around a
hysterical giggle in expectation of the blow-up. Sirius had ended up with a
thick ear when he'd told Filch to kiss his arse.

But Filch didn't so much as throw a swat.

"Brat," he grumbled. His hand moved slowly down Snape's leg. Then it
disappeared up Snape's robes.

Peter felt his eyes grow as wide as Galleons. His mouth moved in a silent
stutter behind his hand as he stared in astonishment at what came next.

pale skinny legs grey pants coming down

Snape was still reading—or pretending to read—as his pants were tossed aside
and his robes were hiked up. Peter swallowed hard, his mouth running dry as his
gaze flickered down from the faint pink blush on Snape's sallow cheeks. He
caught a glimpse of Snape's prick before it was wrapped up in Filch's large
hand.

He felt a tense twist in his stomach and closed his eyes. To his horror, he was
getting a stiffie. Snape's pants were off, and Filch was touching him between
his legs, and Peter didn't want to open his eyes again, but he couldn't help
but peek...

Filch was moving down on the bed, his arm curled around Snape's back and his
mouth open. The noise that followed was quiet, but seemed shockingly loud in
its strangeness.

wet

Peter knew the insult, the words you threw around with your mates. Suck my
cock—go to hell. She sucks cock—she's a slag. He's a cocksucker—he's a weirdo.
All he could really see was Filch's greying head moving slowly up and down, but
the unnerving sounds smacked softly in his ears, mingling with his own panicky
breathing.

Snape's oversized nose stayed buried in his book until Filch sort of shifted,
doing something noisy with his mouth that made Snape's hands shake.

"Ah!" Snape cried. The book was set aside. One of his hands curled around the
collar of Filch's shirt, and the other pulled at the bed covers.

Peter breathed out shakily. Snape's face looked different than he'd ever seen
it: eyes shut, brows knitting together, mouth parted.

wet red mouth

He had to brace his other hand against the side of the wardrobe to keep from
doubling over, his stomach wound up tight and his prick suddenly so hard it
hurt.

Snape gasped and twisted, pushing at Filch's shoulder like he was trying to get
away and then pulling with the next breath, groaning like he was in pain. Filch
hummed low, and his head stilled, and there was a hungry, slurping sound that
made Peter's knees quake.

Filch's head stayed down for several long moments and then rose. Snape's prick,
half-hard and softening, was glistening with spit. He had to be a ridiculously
late bloomer, Snape, because you couldn't—

you can't just

—no one would—

swallow it

—spunk in someone's mouth.

can you?

Filch's mouth pressed to Snape's neck as he began undressing him. Buttons
parted quickly under his fingers, and he got Snape's vest off in one swift
motion, like he had done this before, like he'd done this a hundred times
before. The sight of other boys naked was nothing new to Peter, whose life had
been one embarrassing shared bathroom and lax dormitory after another for the
better part of five years. The fact that this was an enemy only meant that he
was supposed to find it funny. But he found himself shifting uncomfortably when
he saw Snape stripped from head to toe, his gawky limbs and sickly pale skin
completely on display.

Snape rubbed at the front of Filch's trousers. The size of the obvious bulge
there made Peter gulp nervously, his face flushing hot in frightened excitement
as Filch unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. It occurred to him that if he
were caught out now, it wouldn't be detention, or even a beating. He would
almost certainly be murdered.

He pulled the cloak tighter around himself and leaned carefully forward, trying
to get a better view.

broad shoulders soft stomach hairy chest hairy arms

The dark trail of hair led down to the waistband of Filch's trousers. Snape
unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his placket. Peter was expecting a glimpse of
linen, but there was only bare skin.

big thick holy hell

He couldn't take it any more. His hand crept down, brushing over his stiffie
through the sweltering layers of his clothing. The contact made him shake, and
he bit down hard on his bottom lip as he watched Snape play with Filch's prick,
stroking it until it was even thicker and longer—so long that it nearly took
both of Snape's hands, one above the other.

Peter swallowed down a tortured squeak as he squeezed himself. This was miles
worse than waiting for the other boys to fall asleep at night before he could
wank, worse even than getting hard at his desk in the middle of class. It
ached, every breath making his pants rub against him like burlap.

Filch took off his trousers and abruptly stood up, his big prick jutting
straight out in front of him. Peter tensed, but Filch only went as far as the
bedside table, where he drew a tube of something out of the drawer.

Snape rolled over onto his stomach and lazily slithered back until he was bent
over the side of the bed. They were both facing the wardrobe now, and Peter
quivered, torn between retreating into the darkness and craning his neck to try
to see what was happening.

what is he—?

Filch had squeezed whatever was in the tube onto his fingers, and he was doing
something behind Snape's back. Peter could hear the baffling sound of something
slick on bare skin. Then more of the stuff from the tube went onto Filch's
fingers, and then the motion of his hand and arm was different—twisting—and
Snape was breathing out hard, his hands planted on the bed and his head hanging
down.

At a nudge from Filch, Snape lowered himself onto his elbows. That ought to
have been funny, Snape's bum stuck in the air like that, but now Peter could
see Filch rubbing the shiny stuff from the tube all over his prick, and any
vibration of laughter died in his stomach.

Filch got even closer to Snape, obviously rubbing against him—

rubbing against his hole

—and then Snape's face went funny again, and after an instant of dull
incomprehension, Peter realised it wasn't just rubbing.

"Unh!" Snape cried out, low and broken-voiced.

Peter came.

His whole body suddenly contracted, and his eyes stung with humiliated tears as
he spurted helplessly in his pants like a thirdie. His breath came out in
stupefied panting, and he was certain he must have been heard, but there was no
pause or clamour from outside the wardrobe. Peter clamped his mouth shut,
holding his breath, and trembled where he stood.

Filch was rocking his hips back and forth slowly. Snape wiggled, moving like he
was trying to crawl away, but only got as far as putting one knee up on the
bed.

"Mm," Filch kept humming, over and over again with each forward thrust.

Snape's reply was nothing but breathy sounds at first, which soon became a soft
"ah" in counterpoint.

"Mm."

"Ah."

"Mm."

"Ah!"

Peter, still wet with his own mess and barely softened, started to get stiff
again as Filch moved more firmly. There was a slick, squelchy noise as he
thrust.

buggered buggery fucking

Filch grabbed onto Snape's shoulders. His hands were red and raw-boned against
Snape's pale skin—big, next to the narrowness of Snape's arms—and Peter stared
at the contrast, trying to wrap his brain around the evidence that they were
two people, that Snape didn't just wank but had sex, got buggered, let the
caretaker fuck him in the arse.

"That's it, pet," Filch murmured, a tight and urgent note in his voice as he
pushed into Snape's hole again and again. "Take it..."

Snape buried his face against the bed and made a desperate sound, as though he
were going to start crying, and it wasn't until an identical noise tried to eke
from Peter's throat that he realized it was somehow a good sound.

Filch changed his rhythm, drawing back like he was pulling out of him, or
nearly so, and then pushing in again.

"Fuck!" Snape shouted, the word barely muffled for all that it was directed at
the duvet.

Filch did it again, looking down, as if he were watching his prick disappear
into Snape's arse. Peter tried to picture it, and couldn't, but the mere effort
made him tingle with sweat all over.

Snape cried out again, wordless this time, as he was rocked forward by the
force of the thrust.

has to hurt doesn't it?

The thought should have put him off, but it didn't; it only made him harder. He
rubbed at himself through his robes, his pants damp against his overheating
prick. Filch was moving steadily, with a little hitch at the end of each
stroke, like he was trying to stuff himself inside as far as he could.

"Oh God," Snape breathed, huddling over, his face hidden in his folded arms.

Filch's hands slipped from Snape's shoulders to his hips, pulling at him to get
him closer and moving so roughly that it seemed he could plausibly break Snape
right in half.

Peter fumbled with three buttons on his robes and got his hand into his pants.
He touched himself with painful restraint, rubbing against the flat of his palm
and then stroking only as hard as he dared, trying to stay silent beneath the
growing sounds of two bodies vigorously smacking together.

Snape reared up suddenly, his hands on the bed. He was hard again, his prick
straining up and bouncing with every thrust.

"Ah—ah—ah!" Snape stuttered, groping for himself and nearly falling forward as
Filch slammed into him. "I need—"

red cheeks hair falling in his eyes

Filch got his hand on Snape's prick and pumped it hard, making Snape brace
himself and give a long moan. Peter gave in to his desperation, caution
abandoned as his flurry of strokes matched Filch's.

"There's my dirty little tart," Filch crooned, hips driving hard. "Such a nasty
little boy... Always up for it, ain't you?

"Shut up," Snape retorted, but his voice went up on the last word, and his
mouth hung open, and he shot hard enough to nearly clear the bed.

"Jesus..." Filch murmured, sounding almost admiring, and then his hands were
back on Snape's shoulders, nearly around his neck, and he was almost lifting
Snape off his feet with the snap of every thrust.

Peter gasped, shutting his eyes tightly—poised on the edge and then driven over
by the furious sounds that followed. Filch was grunting with effort, the low
noises running together into a growl. Snape was panting and making little
whinges in the back of his throat.

Snape's mouth open lips wet

He felt himself wind up for it.

does he ever suck Filch's prick oh god would it even fit?

The noises grew to a violent peak as Peter came all over his fingers and nearly
choked on his tongue to keep from giving himself away. His legs shook and then
locked. He swayed.

"Oh," Snape kept saying softly. "Oh..."

Filch breathed out heavily.

The mattress sighed. The bedclothes shifted.

By the time Peter could bring himself to look again, Snape was sprawled on his
stomach in the middle of the bed. Filch was sitting beside him, rubbing his
back briskly. As Peter watched, Filch's hand drifted down. His fingers rubbed
over Snape's hole, and then two of them pushed inside.

"Mf," Snape mumbled. His eyes were shut, and his head was pillowed in his arms.

Filch bent down and rubbed his cheek against Snape's shoulder before kissing
the back of his neck. Peter grew aware of the heat lingering in his face and
his pulse still hammering in his ears.

"Got to get back to work," Filch said eventually.

"Fine," Snape said without opening his eyes.

they do this all the time

The realisation was a small one in the scheme of things, and rather belated,
but it sat heavily in his mind nonetheless. How long had they been doing it?
Did they do it every day? The thought of Snape sitting in class, hunched over
at his desk, secretly sore and slick under his robes, made Peter feel sort of
ill with pleasure.

Filch withdrew his fingers and patted Snape on the bottom. Then he stood up and
walked over to the bathroom. Peter heard the sound of running water for several
minutes. Snape lay where he was, seemingly dozing, his shoulders red where
Filch had gripped them.

"Lock up after yourself, all right?" Filch said when he reappeared. He put on
his boots and coat and then left Peter's line of sight. The door opened and
shut a few moments later.

Snape rolled over in his wake and lay staring up at the ceiling for a while.
Peter felt a little zing of annoyance at how little self-consciousness Snape
seemed to display, naked and buggered and at home in his own skin. It was as if
he didn't even know he was ugly.

does it matter when he's the one having sex?

Snape got up and padded lazily towards the bathroom, his gait oddly loose.
Jealousy turned Peter's mouth sour, and it was an inability to stay here a
moment longer as much as pluck that moved him to slip out of the wardrobe the
moment he heard the thunk of the bathroom door. He dashed across the bedroom
and out into the corridor, where he eased the door shut behind him and
proceeded with all due haste to Gryffindor Tower.

Outside the entrance to the common room, he took off the Invisibility Cloak and
wadded it up between his still-sweaty hands. Then he dashed up the stairs to
the fifth-year boys' dormitory and hurtled himself inside to safety.

"Took you long enough!" Sirius cried when he saw him.

"We were about to come looking for you," Remus said.

"Did you get it?" James asked, frowning worriedly.

Peter was too out of breath from his run to answer. He unfolded the cloak and
handed it over, nodding mutely.

"Good old Peter," James said, flashing a grin as he shook out the cloak and
inspected it.

"There weren't any problems, were there?" Remus asked.

Excitement swelled in Peter's chest, and he nearly fidgeted in pleasure at
James's praise and Remus's concern. This was big. They would be buying him
butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks for ages. He finally had something on
Snape, something they could smack the snivelling git down with the next time he
tried any of his tricks with them. More than that, he realised with slowly
unfurling glee, they could make Filch do anything they wanted. All they'd have
to do was threaten to tell Dumbledore what he'd been doing, and they could have
free rein of the castle.

He tried out the words in his head:

Snape's a dirty little tart. He's so up for it, he let Filch bugger him.

Then he opened his mouth. "Sn—"

Sirius suddenly wrinkled his nose. "Merlin's teat—how come you're so sweaty?
And why do you stink of mothballs?"

fucking bastard

His excitement was abruptly extinguished. The flush that had receded returned
with a vengeance, spreading hot to his ears. A clear, cold certainty seized
him: they would know. Somehow, they would know he had liked it. Liked watching.
They would know that he had come in his pants, and he would never live it down.
They would know that even Snape could get someone to touch him, and they would
look at Peter in comparison...

Sirius would think it was hilarious, and James would think it was disgusting,
and Remus would feel sorry for him. And there he would be, Peter the pervert,
who was still thinking about Snape's wet, red mouth.

"I—" he said, and then he broke off, shrugging. "I got stuck in a wardrobe
while Filch took a nap."

It was the first time he had ever lied to his friends.

James chuckled indulgently. "Only you, Peter."

The others laughed too, and even though James hadn't said it cruelly, it stung
nonetheless.

"I'm going to go have a bath," he said abruptly. He did smell of mothballs, and
he was sweaty, and he needed to change his pants.

He took three of the packets of sweets out of his pocket and set them on the
mantel, where they were promptly ignored. The others were already gathering
around James's desk, planning their next bout of midnight marauding now that
they had the cloak back. He stepped inside the bathroom and then hesitated,
watching through the doorway as James and Sirius bent their heads together,
drawing plans on the map, and as Remus reached delicately over and brushed a
bit of lint off Sirius's shoulder. No one looked back at him.

It was fine, he told himself as he shut the door. He was just a good liar, that
was all. They would bring him up to speed when he was out of the bath.

He avoided his own gaze in the mirror as he undressed, pulling a face as he
peeled off his soiled pants. The cold, drying mess of spunk inside made him
feel ill. He shoved the pants into the pocket of his robes, planning to sneak
them into the laundry later. Through the door, he heard a burst of laughter. He
thought he heard his name.

Frowning, he wrenched the tap on and blocked out the sound with a torrent of
water.

everything is fine
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