Notes: This is a response to Lexin's RPS challenge (Snape discovers fanfiction being written about him). All fanfics, email addresses, websites, screen names, etc., are fictional, and I apologize if they coincide with any real ones. The opinions expressed by characters in no way reflect the opinions of the author, who rather enjoys a steamy PWP now and then. ;)

This story is SLASH, which means it involves TWO MEN having SEX. WITH EACH OTHER. If you don't like this notion, don't read the story. If you read the story anyway, I am not responsible for your offended sensibilities. Feedback is welcome. Flames or dissertations on why homosexuality is wrong are not.

Harry Potter et al belong to JK Rowling, who I, unfortunately, am not.

* * * * *

The Pandora Complex
by Nimori


The door to the potions classroom crashed open and Severus Snape swept in. Whereas a Gryffindor might have charged, a Slytherin swept, or stalked, or stormed, or slunk, or skulked, or, if he felt particularly mellow, merely strode. Snape had taught potions for nearly twenty years -- two decades, same classroom, same curriculum, same incompetence, same sea of terrified and uncomprehending faces, with only the details and the number of Weasleys changing -- and in that time he had mastered the art of terrifying children into the semblance of intelligence.

It stung his professional pride, therefore, that the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw fifth years were not sitting in meek apprehension at their desks, awaiting his entrance, but stood clustered on the Hufflepuff side, hovering over some implement of mayhem on Pandora Brown's desk.

They did scatter as he swept in, but too slowly to suit Snape, and accompanied by giggles. *Giggles*. In his classroom.

"Put away your books and take out a sheet of parchment," he said in a fit of spite. A flick of his wand brought an appropriate list of test questions to the board at the front. "You have thirty minutes."

He expected a chorus of groans; a short test meant they would do a practical unit as well, and with a great deal less time to finish it. The announcement went unprotested, however, the Hufflepuffs red-faced, the Ravenclaws smirking, and an unusual number of them meeting his gaze. In the back, someone snickered.

Snape fixed the offender with an icy stare, knowing damn well the situation was his own fault. If he had not acted like a complete idiot, a complete *Gryffindor*, at the ultimate battle between good and evil, he would not have lost his veneer of suppressed and potentially homicidal rage. He had not thought of the long-term consequences when he screamed his defiance at Voldemort, turned his legendary cutting tongue on his one-time master and put his practiced vitriol to good use, drawing the Dark Lord's rage to himself -- and incidentally away from a certain green-eyed walking disaster. And in front of two dozen aurors and a good percentage of Hogwarts staff and students no less. At the time, he had only thought of the stupid boy, bumbling into situations a fully qualified wizard would run from. The stupid, stupid boy, who then repayed Snape's ill-considered act of selflessness by repeating the story -- loudly -- to anyone who would listen.

Their fear had melted into a sort of warped pride after that. "That's *our* Professor Snape," they said, like he was some kind of twisted school mascot; snarky, yes, but deep down he was good and brave and had saved Harry Potter's life, and *everyone bloody well knew it*.

He realized they were staring at him, and that some time had passed without the order to begin. Darting glances, mostly, and a few outright stares, full of mirth, or speculation, or that damnable admiration. "Accio," he hissed, and whatever had stirred them into this state flew out of Pandora Brown's hand as she attempted to stuff it in her book bag.

He spared a brief glance for the short stack of well-handled muggle paper, too white, too smooth, covered with the tiny, disturbingly uniform text muggles favoured. The words 'Harry Potter' leapt out at him, and he gritted his teeth against yet another pages-long love letter to the saviour of the world. He tossed it into his desk drawer, ignoring Miss Brown's spluttered protest and flaming cheeks -- as if he would read her doubtless overblown rhapsodizing on the appeal of green eyes and hair that had never known a brush. He glared. "Ten points from Hufflepuff, Miss Brown, for bringing rubbish into my classroom. You may begin."

After a moment of slack-jawed shock and muffled snigger or two, they did.

* * * * *

The drawer needed emptying once a week, as it filled quickly, and the contents tended to be more active than things more ordinarily found in drawers. Despite the heavy containment spells, muffled booms shook his desk now and then as confiscated items inside reacted to one another. The drawer had been quiet of late, since the last Weasley -- last, at least, until the next generation arrived to plague him in another eight years -- had departed Hogwarts for the wider wizarding world.

Friday found Snape donning a pair of dragon-hide gloves. He checked the deflection spells around his person, then took a deep breath and eased the drawer open. No explosions, no vapours, no sparks, no odd noises. Good. He carried the drawer to the enchanted bin used for dangerous waste and upended it onto the day's failed potions, sending a flurry of loose paper across the floor.

"Five points from Hufflepuff, Miss Brown, for not writing your love letter on a roll of parchment like everyone else," Snape muttered, and collected the sheets. He waded them up, tossed them in the bin, then sealed it and floated it out to the hall for Filch to collect.

On his way back to an evening of grading second-year essays, Snape spotted a lone sheet lying under a desk. He stooped and retrieved it, deciding it was safe enough to dispose of it in the regular waste bin. He idly scanned the page, noting excessive use of caps and exclamation marks. "Five points for melodrama, and five more for excessive use of the word 'thrust'." His steps slowed. It appeared not to be a letter after all, but a story, unless Miss Brown was recording her dreams in third person. And--

All forward motion stopped as Snape stared, eyes wide, mouth suddenly dry, one foot still in the air.

"Great Merlin's beard. 'Fuck me, *Severus*?'"

He flushed and glanced around to be sure he was still alone. Essays forgotten, he sat at his desk, reading and then re-reading the page, which was apparently from the middle of a story postulating himself and Harry Potter in a sexual relationship.

An explicitly sexual relationship.

A *kinky* sexual relationship, to judge by the liberal use of restraints and nipple clamps.

Snape suddenly recalled the entire class clustered around Brown's desk. Ten points was nowhere near enough. *Fifty* was unthinkably generous. "Two-hundred points from Hufflepuff, Miss Brown," he snarled to the empty room, "and your right arm, and your firstborn child."

Clenching his fist around the sheet, Snape rose and paced furiously, stopped, smoothed the paper over his desk, and read it again. He considered retrieving the rest from the dangerous-waste bin, but that required breaking the seal, and boomslang skin and bubotuber pus had no doubt rendered the sheets unreadable by now.

He forced himself to sit motionless and read the pathetic attempt at literature objectively. The content itself was not as... mocking as he might have expected, had he expected anything like this to be written about him; at least the author presented him in a favourable light, even if he or she had him doing unspeakable things to a bound and 'rampantly erect' Harry Potter. The description of Snape's endowment was particularly flattering. And long. And quite detailed.

He shook away any notions of leniency; flattery had never worked on him, false as it generally was. He could handle this. Direct confrontation was foolish, as it would only encourage the little beasts, but a few well-timed, subtle comments could nicely shift the embarrassment back to his students.

He smoothed the paper again, then folded it and put it away as evidence, noting the small line at the top next to the date and time. For some reason, the tiny 'http//:www' part sent a knife of unease into him.

He shrugged the trepidation off. He could handle this.