
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7891477.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J.K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Drama
  Collections:
      Ink_Stained_Fingers
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-22 Words: 3047
****** Moving in His Sleep ******
by Spiderine [archived by ISF_Archivist]
Summary
     A stray finds a home for the night.
Notes
     This story was originally archived at Ink_Stained_Fingers, which was
     created in 2002 as a home for Harry Potter slash fiction. To preserve
     the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an
     Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. We e-mailed all authors
     about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached
     everyone. If you are (or know) this author or artist, please contact
     me using the e-mail address at the Ink_Stained_Fingers_collection
     profile.
     Author's notes: Disclaimer: Everything recognizable from the Harry
     Potter series, including but not limited to the characters, belongs
     to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros. and a whole lot of
     other people who are not me. My imagination, however, is mine to do
     with as I please. No copyright infringement or disrespect is
     intended; passion is its own reward.
     Pairing: HP/SS. Vague spoilers for Goblet of Fire.
     WARNING: This story is rated NC-17. It contains descriptions of
     sexual activity between an adult male and an underage adolescent boy.
     Take a deep breath and repeat after me: "This is fiction. Fiction is
     fantasy. Fantasy is *not reality*." The author of this story in no
     way condones such actions in reality any more than the author of a
     horror story condones gore and violence.
     Notes: Culpa Nikolaiae est.
Moving in His Sleep




  Sleeping with a boy in one's bed is like sleeping with a pile of puppies.
  Snufflings and snugglings, wrigglings and cuddlings... and the sheer amount
  of space one small body can take up - dear Merlin! Every move or shift
  results in an elbow to the face, hot breath on the back of one's neck.
  There's no hope for actual sleep and far too much time to think, far too much
  opportunity to hear the mutterings and moans of a boy's restless dreams.
  Nothing as operatic as an heroic prophetic vision, oh no! Only the stifled
  cries of quotidian nightmares as a sleeping young brain leaks a lifetime of
  pain and loss. If this happened again he would be severely tempted to drug
  the boy.
  If it happened again? Dear Merlin and Morgana, what was he thinking!
  Snape was no monster, despite the ludicrous tales shared by the students. He
  was resigned to being the resident bogeyman to children too young and
  sheltered to have encountered true evil. And to one who had encountered true
  evil, repeatedly, and who would do so again and again until one or the other
  was defeated. There was no fear in that one, stupid, reckless boy...
  =============================================================================
  *"Is this some kind of prank, you insufferable brat? I warn you not to toy
  with me."*
  *"It's no prank. I'm serious. Yes or no?" Looking up at him, chin thrust
  forward pugnaciously. His glasses were filthy.*
  *"You're being absurd as well as sordid. Even if I were...inclined... to
  accept your gracious offer, such behavior is strictly prohibited. But I
  suppose you are aware of that, and simply assume as always that the rules do
  not apply to you."*
  The thin body practically quivered with rash determination, barely held in
  check. "I reckon they don't. I think there's a rule somewhere that you're not
  supposed to grow up half starved and locked in a cupboard. There must be a
  rule against having to see one of your classmates die horribly and dragging
  his body back so his parents can blame you for it. I hope there's a rule
  against people trying to kill you every time you turn around! I guess if
  those rules don't apply to me, maybe this one shouldn't either."
  *"Potter, you are a disgusting excuse for a child."*
  A slow, tiny shake of the head. "I'm not a child. Not really. Not anymore."
  Calm appraisal from eyes that flashed too green, too familiar, so similar to
  eyes long dead it made his soul ache. "But you already know that, don't you?"
  =============================================================================
  Snape was a solitary man, and well satisfied in his solitude. He was aware of
  the rumors circulating about him, but brushed them off as beneath notice. It
  was true that he would have liked to spread his academic wings a bit and take
  on the Defense Against Dark Arts classes. It was incomprehensible to him that
  any wizard of intellect and ambition would not be drawn to the vast
  interdisciplinary scope of that curriculum. No other discipline offered such
  a chance to integrate all the various fields of study that made up the
  Magical Arts and Sciences.
  Unfortunately, however, it was not to be. He had a role to play in the Epic
  Struggle Between Darkness and Light (it was impossible to think of it without
  the cynical addition of capital letters and sweeping music). Any
  effectiveness he might have as a presumed Death Eater and servant of the Dark
  Lord would be sorely compromised were he to become a professor of Defense
  against the very forces he was supposed to serve. He reminded himself of this
  fact every autumn when he was introduced to the latest feeble entrant in the
  doomed parade of Hogwarts Defense professors. The irony of his desire to join
  that parade was not lost on him.
  Nonetheless, with Potions he was content. Potions was the most exacting of
  the magical sciences; it was based on precision, research and diligence.
  Certainly that was the reason it was so enthusiastically loathed by the
  students. At the basic level they studied, there was little room for "self-
  expression", "creativity" and the other dubious virtues touted by modern
  magical pedagogues. And for good reason - until a student understood the
  precise nature and interreactive potential of every ingredient, "creativity"
  could get the entire class quite messily killed. Higher levels of the
  science, though, provided near-infinite possibilities for self-expression; it
  was a damn shame that so few of his students pursued the field that far.
  Transfiguration, despite its blatant flashiness, was an art; he respected
  Minerva immensely for her understated mastery of the form. Charms was merely
  an arts-and-crafts class, the equivalent of magical basket-weaving. And
  Divination? Pure pathetic floundering, beneath contempt. No, if one were
  forced to confine oneself to a single magical discipline, one could do far
  worse than the meditative meticulousness of Potions.
  =============================================================================
  *"But in Merlin's name, boy - why? With every friend and admirer and
  protector in England at your feet, why in Merlin's name do you come to me?"*
  *"Because you won't tell. And you won't use it against me." A small, foxy
  smile stole onto his face, reminding Snape that this boy had seen far too
  much ever to be presumed innocent. "And because you won't say no."*
  Snape drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose. "You're so
  sure of that, are you?"
  The smile bloomed into a grin. "Oh, yes. Or you would have said no already."
  Truly, what a loss to Slytherin this boy was.
  =============================================================================
  Snape was not a "nice" man, but he was far from an evil man. He was also far
  from stupid. The appeal of smooth, pale skin, barely formed muscle, bodies
  growing into coltish adolescence - oh yes, he was not unaware of the
  temptations inherent in supervising a hormonal hothouse such as Hogwarts. He
  was also privy to the studied licentiousness of the Death Eaters and had trod
  a fine line between what was expected from a servant of the Dark Lord and the
  dictates of his own carefully preserved morality.
  The Malfoy boy had been placed at his disposal, but despite repeated urgings
  from both father and son he had yet to make use of that reprehensible
  "privilege". He had couched his refusals in the most tactful manner,
  stressing the discretion required by his position of trust at Hogwarts,
  feigning regret so successfully that the boy repeatedly had to be sent
  packing from his quarters after sneaking in and splaying himself
  provocatively on the bed. Each dismissal was accompanied by a sweet and a
  reluctant caress, since it was sure to be reported back to Malfoy pere. He
  also knew his refusals confused the boy, who was far from unsullied and quite
  cognizant of his own supposed charms. Since the boy thought himself
  irresistible, he could only believe that Snape's desires were ignited by
  passions far more esoteric than those provided by mere mortals; as a result,
  the rumors floating around Slytherin house regarding the Potions master's
  preferences were ingenious and inventive. Snape wished to no avail that all
  that imagination and verve could have been applied to his students' homework.
  Snape sighed and shifted in his bed, thinking that perhaps he would have to
  drug himself as well as the boy if either of them were to sleep soundly
  tonight. Beside him, Potter thrashed in his sleep and sank a bony knee into
  his side, making him grunt loudly. At the sound the boy sprang up to a
  sitting position, breathing hard, myopic eyes wide and staring, not quite
  awake.
  Snape sighed and touched his shoulder. Said, not unkindly, "Potter. Harry.
  It's all right. Go back to sleep."
  The boy's head whipped around to face him; the eyes focused; unbelievably,
  the boy reached out to him. "No. Come on!"
  "Harry," Snape said deliberately. "This isn't necessary." But the boy
  squirmed into his arms and rubbed a beardless cheek against his chest. Of its
  own accord Snape's hand found itself stroking through the thick dark hair.
  Merlin and Morgana, what did he ever do to deserve this torment? And was he
  referring to himself or to the boy? "It's all right," he repeated inanely,
  automatically petting.
  Potter looked up at him, the hero's legendary scar peeking out through the
  boy's unruly fringe of hair. "Is it really?" he asked knowingly. "Are you
  going to spend another hour lecturing me about adolescent biology and the
  history of pedagogy and Muggle theories of morality and child-rearing?"
  Snape shook his head. "No," he whispered, a promise to himself as much as to
  the boy.
  Snape was accustomed to the gloom of his quarters. There were no windows in
  his dungeon; damp drafts whistled forlornly through narrow air shafts,
  causing flickers in the torches and candles. Snape was comfortable with this.
 It was better for his potions and ingredients, he reasoned; nearly everything
  he worked with flourished when stored in a cool dark place. He supposed that
  was true for himself as well. He had never paused to consider what effect
  this might have on students and visitors. They knew very well what to expect
  when they came to his quarters, he told himself. And no student was ever
  improved by cosseting.
  He reached out the hand not occupied with petting the boy to grasp his wand
  on his night stand. "Circumlumos ater," he whispered, and the room was
  suffused with a dim, warm glow.
  Blinking owlishly in the sudden shadowless light, the boy reached up and
  gently brushed Snape's lank hair back from his face. "Come on then," he
  softly urged. "It's all right."
  The green eyes searched his - what the boy saw there, Snape did not know, but
  he felt a brief flush of shame and rage that Harry Potter of all people would
  think it was necessary to reassure him. There were no shadows in those green
  eyes, no haunted corners, no tears. Only the same honest regard Snape saw
  every day, the same stalwart frankness that was just short of defiance, a
  refusal to look away that Snape always found almost but not quite
  infuriating. Come on then, those eyes said, bring it on, whatever it is. I
  can do it, fix it, fight it, save it. Whatever it is, I'll live through it.
  And that was the crux, was it not? This was, after all, The Boy Who Lived.
  For the first time it occurred to Snape that the verb might not be in the
  preterite tense but the imperfect. Or perhaps the progressive. The Boy Who
  Kept Living. Possibly it was even a continuously active verb. The Boy Who
  Stubbornly Refused To Die. The Boy Who Just Might Outlive Them All.
  Snape shuddered, and told himself that the shudder was caused by the boy's
  skin skating over his chest to catch on a nipple. It was not a shudder of
  premonition, caused by ghosts walking over his grave. Certainly not.
  Premonitions were in the sphere of divination, and divination was beneath
  contempt.
  =============================================================================
  Potter looked up at him and said softly, "You can kiss me if you like." And
  the insolent boy did not wait for permission before surging up to catch
  Snape's mouth in his soft, full lips. His tongue flicked inside quick as a
  dream. Snape gasped, the gasp accompanied by a yearning in no way related to
  the coupling of bodies. A yearning for something unnamable, something that
  broke deep within him and made him know with a dreadful certainty that he
  would deny nothing to this stubborn, audacious boy.
  =============================================================================
  Snape did not believe in Hell, save as a Muggle legend. He had seen the fiery
  pits of the Dark Lord's domain, the demonic glee of Dementors, the protracted
  torture of the innocent. That was hell enough for any man, surely. And yet,
  in that moment, Snape knew as surely as he knew the properties of wolfsbane
  that he was going to Hell. And knew just as surely that Potter, no matter
  what occurred between them this night or any other, was not.
  "Obscuros," he said, returning the room to darkness, and felt a kind of sick
  relief.
  Carefully he slipped from Potter's clutching arms and bent over the boy, who
  lay back on his bed looking up at him with eyes so wide, dark and guileless
  that Snape could easily see them through the gloom. He ran one hand over the
  smooth cheek and down the neck - gently, so gently - along the prominent
  collarbone and back up the front of the throat to rest his fingers softly on
  the full mouth.
  Potter's tongue flicked against Snape's fingertips. Snape's mind flashed to
  other beds, other lovers, to whom he would easily have given orders and made
  imperious demands. He had opened many a compliant mouth and commanded,
  "Suck," and seen his fingers made wet and ready for other intrusions. But he
  could not, would not do that here. He was already hard and aching, yet
  unwilling to immerse himself in his own physical pleasure. Hesitant to
  instruct the boy to abet his own corruption, even if the brat had instigated
  it. The boy had approached him in the first place after all, come to him for
  some form of simple pleasure and comfort -
  Yes, of course, Snape thought. Be a scientist, not a maudlin fool; return to
  first principles. Pleasure the boy, and let them both sleep.
  With a renewed resolve, he brushed the hair from Potter's forehead and bent
  to claim his mouth in a determined kiss, tasting pumpkin juice and chocolate.
  The boy opened his lips, moaned softly and squirmed beneath him, seating
  Snape at his narrow hips and thrusting instinctively. Snape flinched and
  grunted when the searching bluntness nearly caught him in the testicles, but
  Potter seemed oblivious, eyes now squeezed shut, rubbing against him in
  typically single-minded concentration. The height difference between them was
  forcing his back into an excruciating curve in order to continue the kiss; on
  the other hand, to relax his weight would be to crush Potter's body beneath
  him. He tore his mouth away and arched his back, wresting a tiny whimper from
  the boy, before collapsing to one side and rolling to his back, levering the
  boy up and over him.
  Potter's eyes flew open and he breathed, "Oh," as though just realizing where
  he was, but then wriggled to reposition himself comfortably atop Snape's body
  and returned to his agitated grinding. Snape spread his legs and settled the
  smaller body against him, cradling the boy against his chest with one arm,
  and reached between their bodies to grasp both their sweaty cocks with his
  other hand. Once again, Potter breathed, "oh," and then more distinctly, "oh,
  yes," panting into Snape's chest as his thrusting grew more frenzied and
  rhythmic.
  The boy's hot breath ghosting over Snape's nipple, the sweaty skin smooth
  against him, the eager friction of the boy's cock against his own and the
  soft way their balls bumped together let Snape finally begin to lose himself
  in his own body's sensations and ride toward his peak. He bent his head and
  nuzzled the boy's hair, kissing gently, softly groaning as he pumped their
  cocks. Slowly, he felt the sweet tension and heat boil up through his body
  from his groin.
  But then of course Potter, the little horror, went ahead without him,
  shuddering, bucking and breathing "ahhhh" in the near-silent climax of a boy
  whose habitual private pleasure was found behind bed curtains in a shared
  dormitory. Snape snarled and cursed the mindless selfishness of pubescent
  pricks everywhere as the gluey warmth spurted between them, and then opened
  his eyes to see Potter's flushed face staring back at him in rapt attendance.
  The boy's damp hair dangled into his eyes and his mouth was slightly open,
  panting in a silent "o" as he watched in apparent wonder. Snape turned his
  head away with a growl and attributed the sudden heat in his face to his
  frustrated arousal.
  Potter wiggled atop him, slipping his sticky penis from Snape's grip, making
  Snape turn back to glare at him as the boy's small warm hand joined his own
  around his engorged shaft.
  "Like this?" the boy whispered, stroking.
  The question was tentative, but the stroke was not. The hand was small and
  soft, but strong. The boy regarded him openly and would not look away - would
  never look away. Would never, damn them both, let him look away. Their
  fingers entwined together and brushed each other as they moved, and Snape
  came convulsively, shocked at himself, burying a moan under bitten lips.
  The boy did not look away. He just grinned impudently and said, "Good, huh?"
  then wriggled back down against his chest, snuggling and settling, evidently
  intending to spend the remainder of the night.
  Snape lay beneath him at a loss. He felt he should dismiss the boy, but could
  not bring himself to do so. Yet it felt absurd to lie there, somewhat
  ridiculously stunned, covered with the cooling, tacky puddle of their
  combined mess.
  Well, yes. At least there was something to be done about that. He fumbled
  with his clean hand, searching for the wand on his night stand. The boy never
  stirred, already fast asleep with the ease of sated adolescence.
  A quick muttered "abstergeo" and their bodies were clean. He dropped the wand
  and sighed. As if in response, the boy sighed as well - a satisfied "mmmm..."
  - and cuddled further into the curve of Snape's arms with his hands tucked
  under his chin. Like some kind of stray puppy who had cozened a home for the
  night and was milking every brief moment of warmth.
  Damn the boy. Damn them both.
  Snape's dungeons would never know the light of day. But Snape knew the
  movement of every shadow and the shifting whisper of every passing draft. He
  knew exactly how long the boy could safely rest before the first grey lick of
  dawn sent him stealing back to Gryffindor tower.
  There was no hope of sleep tonight. Snape watched the passing shadows and
  cradled his small stray moment of warmth. Soon the sun would rise, whether or
  not it ever reached his rooms. Soon it would be dawn.
  But not yet.
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