He'll go to him tonight.
He gets up halfway through dinner, his hand clamped to his left arm. His eyes meet mine as he walks out of the Great Hall. The glare he throws my way warns me not to argue with him about going. He knows how much I despise that he must jump whenever my barmy lord serpentine and his band of not-so-merry fellows seek him. He knows I worry that they will learn about us, that they will use our relationship to destroy us both. And even though he doesn't tell me, he worries too.
But he is still our only link to Voldemort.
And so I watch as he leaves, fully aware that I am being watched in return. I turn my head to see Dumbledore's concerned gaze upon me. I smile wanly at my old headmaster, then shove back my chair and excuse myself from the staff table. If any of the other professors question my abrupt departure just moments after Severus's, they refrain from mentioning it. To me at least. I'm sure the staff lounge will be buzzing about it a few hours from now. For all his flighty demeanor, Flitwick has a sharp eye...an eye which is currently following my progress to the door.
As are the students. I see quite a few heads turn in my direction. There are some questioning looks on puzzled faces as they watch their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor storm out after a man rumored once to be a Death Eater.
Blast them all. Let them say whatever they'd like. I'm tired of this charade. I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of pretending that the most important person in my world might not get himself killed tonight with a misplaced word or a misinterpreted glance.
I catch up with Severus as he pauses to give the password to his chambers. He frowns at me and opens his mouth to deliver what surely will be a scathing remark. But before he can get more than "Really, Potter..." out, I cup his face with both of my hands and kiss him, my tongue slipping easily into his mouth. He moans and slides an arm around me. A quick twist and we're inside his quarters with my back pressed up against the door as our mouths move hungrily against each other. His need for this kiss, for this touch, is as great as mine. It's a game we play each time he is called. The gift of one kiss, one last expression of everything we are both too afraid to say aloud. One kiss, given and received freely--just in case this is the night he doesn't return.
His teeth tug on my bottom lip, pulling, sucking, coaxing me. I tangle my fingers in his oily hair, loving the feel of the slick strands slipping across my skin.
He smells tangy-sweet. Of potions and elixirs and smoke and incense and bits and pieces of things best left unmentioned.
He whispers words I can't make out, but their meaning is clear as his breath catches and gasps into my mouth.
He tastes of mint and of scotch and of the soft yeasty rolls from dinner.
He is muscle and sinew; his body, hidden beneath his flowing robes, is slender, strong, and supple. I remember the first glimpse I had of him without the swirling black academic gown he wears throughout the term. Second year. Dueling Club. He'd removed his robe in order to move freely along the piste. His black jacket and trousers clung to him, accenting his lithe frame. Strong shoulders. Narrow waist. Slender hips. And his arse.... Even though another five years passed before I understood, he took my breath away that night. That is until he persuaded Draco to toss that sodding snake my way, I correct myself, leaning deeper into his kiss. Bloody bastard.
I never want this moment to end.
My fingers skim over his chest, his stomach. They brush across the bulge in his trousers. He bites my lip and moans again. He presses his erection once into my eager hand, then pulls back.
"Professor Potter," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the curve of my cheek, "one might suggest you exhibit a bit more self-restraint in the school hallways."
I turn my head and press my lips against his hand. "One might."
He strokes my bottom lip with his thumb. "I'll return."
"I know."
"We'll continue this later."
"Yes."
He walks over to a cabinet and pulls out the hood and the cloak that mark his status as a member of the Death Eaters' inner circle. He heads for the door.
"Sev."
He turns, halfway into the corridor, and looks at me. I'm the only person he tolerates using that nickname now. So, even though I know he hates it, I call him that, often, and revel in the fact that he allows it of me.
"Be careful. Please." The last word barely comes out.
He nods. "I will."
A twist of the doorknob and he's gone.
A wave of helplessness swamps me, threatening to pull me into its undertow of depression. I am a Gryffindor. The one thing we lions hate the most is being trapped into inaction. It chafes at us. I push my frustration aside. This is his choice, I remind myself. His decision. We both accepted the dangers that would come our way first when we joined the Order and then once again the night we found ourselves in bed together. I know he feels this same frustration when he thinks of my part in this war. He once told me that the one thing that keeps him tangled up in this ruse is that his actions now will make it easier for me later. A mirthless laugh escapes my lips. Later. When I, erstwhile savior of the wizarding world, once again face down the nemesis whose hatred I did nothing to deserve. So here I am. I wait and I worry as my Slytherin lover uses all of his Machiavellian charm to lay the groundwork for our enemy's destruction.
But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
I curl up on the leather armchair across from the doorway. I do not read. I do not prepare my lessons for the next day. I merely sit, bottle of Ogden's Finest in my hand, and watch, waiting for him to return. Not knowing what he's going through. Not knowing if I can save him. Not knowing any bloody thing at all.
I hate this.
I take a long swig of firewhiskey and stare unblinkingly at the gleaming brass doorknob, willing it to turn.
It doesn't.
A touch on my shoulder rouses me. I look up into his face, my initial relief quickly morphing into shock. Bruises and blood cover one of his cheeks. His robes are torn; his knuckles scraped.
I frown, reaching out with one finger to touch a jagged cut on his cheekbone. "What the bloody fuck happened?"
He winces at my touch. "Just a bit of punishment courtesy my lord's current lapdog."
"Bastard." I don't even try to repress the sheer hatred that blazes through me.
"Don't worry. I gave some in return." He smiles coldly. "Lucius will be sore in the morning."
"Why did he do this?"
"Why not?" Severus runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He sighs. "My information was not..." He pauses for a moment. "...acceptable tonight."
My eyes narrow. Dumbledore has been allowing Severus to play double agent over the past two years in order to keep Voldemort's suspicions at bay. "What made it unacceptable?"
Severus takes my bottle of firewhiskey from me and tips it into his mouth. He makes a face as he swallows. "Really, Potter. It's a wonder your liver still functions. Where on earth do you obtain this swill?"
"Snape." My voice is cold. "Answer the bloody question."
The potions master looms over me suddenly, his hands tight around the chair arms, his face twisted in a snarl that would frighten even a seventh-year. "The bloody answer to the bloody question," he says through gritted teeth, "is that some bloody fool at the bloody Ministry had already leaked the bloody information to bloody Malfoy. Now, Mr. Potter...are you satisfied?"
His eyes are ice-cold. Shuttered. His mouth is tight. He radiates anger and bitterness. He's often like this when he returns. It's getting harder and harder for him to slide out from behind his Death Eater mask.
I reach up and caress his cheek. He closes his eyes as my fingers touch his mouth. He sighs.
"Harry." He opens his eyes again, licks his bottom lip. The iciness is dissipating. He kisses my fingertips. "I need..."
I understand. After two years together, I'm beginning to read his moods, sometimes before he does. I push him back and stand up. Taking his hand, I lead him into his bedroom.
A wave of my wand, a whispered incantation, and we are both naked, our robes puddled at our feet. He slides my glasses from my face and tosses them carelessly on the nightstand. His slender, potion-stained hand cradles my face; his calloused thumb slips across my cheek. I pull him against me, savoring the feel of his skin against mine. He runs a hand down my side, catches my fingers, lifts them back to his mouth and sucks them one by one. His tongue caresses each one the same way it would my cock. I shiver. Sympathetic magic is a powerful force.
He pushes me onto the bed, leaning into me as his lips brush my jaw. He bites me, sliding his open mouth down to my neck. His cock slips against my mine, and we both groan.
"I want..." His mouth traces the curve of my earlobe.
"Yes." I turn my head and capture his lips with mine. I pull his tongue into my mouth, sucking it slowly, fully. My hands slip up and down his back; my fingertips trace along the bony column of his spine. I can feel his muscles flex under the slight pressure of my hands. He presses against me once again, his hips flattening mine. He pulls his mouth away, causing me to protest until his tongue slips around my nipple. I arch my back, aching for his mouth to cover me. His fingers slide over my hipbones; his thumbs gently stroke the shallow indentations. My cock twitches up against him. He chuckles.
"Anxious, Professor Potter?" His voice is silken velvet cords twisting around my arousal.
I push my hips up against his heavy erection. "No more than you, Professor Snape." I raise my head and trace his bottom lip with my tongue. He trembles slightly.
"Harry..."
He slides the head of his cock over my thigh, leaving a damp line across my skin. My own swollen prick jumps in response. I want him. Badly.
He lifts my legs, drapes them over his hips. He reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a slender vial of iridescent liquid. A flick of his wrist, and the stopper's out. He pours a small amount onto his hands. I take the vial from him and replace the cork. Somehow I manage to get it back into the nightstand.
He slides a finger across my entrance. I groan and push against his hand. "Sev. Please. Now."
His finger slips in. Another quickly follows it. I tighten my arse around his digits and look up at him as he strokes the inside of my hole. "Feels good."
"Yes," he breathes. His eyes are black holes of pure desire. He strokes his cock with his free hand, his fingers gliding slowly along the shaft. He circles the small, leaking indentation at the tip. His hand is wet. "You're beautiful." His fingers scissor in my arse, pressing up against the walls of my channel. My body throbs to the rhythm of his touch. "My beautiful, beautiful boy," he whispers, brushing his tongue along my neck.
He pulls his hand away from my arse, only to replace it with his prick. He pushes in slowly, watching my face as he slips through my opening. I smile up at him, relaxing my body to accommodate him more readily. He's halfway into me when I grab his hips and jerk him so that he's bollocks up against me. His eyes widen.
"Bugger." He struggles for control, frowning down at me.
I shoot him a grin. "Isn't that the point?"
He growls and nips my shoulder with his sharp teeth. I laugh. That will leave a mark.
He hates it when I do this, hates it when I show him exactly how his body reacts to mine, hates it when I prove to him exactly how little control he has over himself and over me. Or so he says. I know differently. I've seen the flash of pleasure that crosses his face when I pull him deep within me.
He leans down and kisses me. Hard. His hand slips between us and strokes my cock as he begins to move inside of me. I love the way he takes me in long, slow, easy strokes that build up, bringing me to the edge of sheer pleasure before he throws caution aside and slams into me hard enough to knock the wind from me. His cock pounds against my prostate; my bollocks jerk against his hand. I'm gone, gone, gone. Lost to my lover's touch.
He strokes me, pounds me, molds my body with his until finally, finally, finally, the sheer sweaty beauty of our fucking catapults me over the edge. One last tug of his hand on my cock, one last stroke of his cock in my hole. And I erupt with his name screaming past my lips and a stream of salty-sticky-white-hot fire streaming from my prick.
His eyes caress me, catch me, cajole me. He sees deep into my soul at this moment, and my very being is laid open to this man. And just when I think I can no longer bear to be that exposed, he catches my face, leans in and whispers, "Watch me, Harry. Watch me."
And I watch him as he opens his own soul to me, bares himself to my touch. And when his release comes, I pull him close to me and hold him.
And we sleep.
I can't escape the screaming.
I sit straight up, my heart pounding. For a moment, I'm still there, inside my dream, standing in the shadows as I watch him being tortured. They've found him out. They know everything. Everything. And then the knife comes up. Too fast for me to shout warning. Slicing through the air. Through his skin. His tendons. His throat.
Blood everywhere. Slick. Thick. Splattered across my glasses.
His blood.
His body. Sprawled across the stone floor.
Dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
My fault.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
I bury my face in my hands for a moment and allow myself the childish luxury of rocking back and forth. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh. God.
Finally, my breath calms. My heart settles into a more normal rhythm. I lie back against the pillows. It was so real. Again.
I look over. Severus lies next to me, twisted in the sheets. His steady breathing assures me that my night terror didn't disturb him this time.
I'm used to nightmares. I've had them since childhood. I know how to talk myself down, calm my racing heart, my erratic breathing. But these dreams...
I shudder.
They terrify me.
The only person I've mentioned them to is Hermione. And I've threatened to Obliviate her if she lets one word of them slip to any of the tiny circle who know of my hidden relationship. Ron. Sirius. Remus. Dumbledore. None of them must know. I'm afraid they'll tell Severus. Hermione, of course, immediately consulted a Muggle book on Jungian psychology and determined that my dreams are most likely a manifestation of my darkest fear. Really. I could have told her that without having to look it up.
But still. She doesn't know the half of it. She doesn't know how detailed they are, how frequently they come now. She doesn't know that I wake up with my whole being screaming warnings at my brain. There is something to these dreams. Something that's prodding me, panicking me.
I have to find a way to protect him. A part of me has known that since before the beginning. Back when we were just student and teacher before the Order paired us together and taught us to trust, to connect, and, ultimately, to care.
When I bring it up to him, he brushes it aside. I'm old enough to take care of myself, Potter, he says. It's always Potter when he's keeping me at bay. I've recognized that by now. Those moments when he's closed himself off from me, when he's made a choice that I cannot dissuade him from.
So I let it be. I let him believe that he can protect himself.
And I make plans to do it for him.
|
