Dreams and Potion Brewing
I hereby disclaim all property of the Harry Potter series. The copyright title is for J.K. Rowling and her army alone.
A/N: Now edited to flow well with the story!
Harry Potter was strapped down onto the bed, writhing in tortured pleasure as hands raked across his body. Every discovered hill and valley of the boy's warm flesh was silky under coarse fingertips. Under him, the bedsprings creaked, and another weight came upon it, looming over the boy. Green eyes widened, breathing grew shallow.
God, Potter smelled so good.
His manhood was punishing as he heard the muffled cries of his captive. He was leaking already; they were both slick with tantalizing sweat. White-hot pleasure coursed through his very limbs as he caught sight of Potter struggling, flushed cheeks damp with tears and dew. It was so steamy, flesh on flesh tingling and a maddening craze engulfing him as he spread those long wonderful legs and—
Severus Snape awoke with a start. Taking a furtive glance around his chambers, he sat upright and felt an odd, tingling sensation spindling its way across his body. This feeling left him giddy and winded— a feeling that he utterly detested.
A clammy hand reached onto his forehead. He was sweating; — cold sweat, and was clearly out of breath; he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe evenly. He could not relax— there was still a terrible but delicious fire in him he could not quench. The image in his dream haunted his mind. He closed his eyes and pictured it perfectly.
A jolt traveled down his spine.
Oh how he wanted to fuck Potter out of his wits.
Severus had always wanted Potter— since the first time he laid his eyes on the young, sweet lad in his first year. He brought to mind the wide-eyed Harry looking at him with a mixture of wonder and confusion. Snape had immediately thought of— oh yes— had remembered very clearly, the boy's late father, James. For a moment Snape recoiled, bitter memories consuming what he had thought was his calm resolve… but with another glance at the boy, all testiness vanished. The son's creamy skin and toothy grin told nothing of his father's past sins.
Although, Snape couldn't deny that the boy irked him. He, the Potions Master, had never lusted over a student— a first year at the time, especially— and so his bewildered self pointed unabashedly at a scapegoat: hate. Snape mustered all the loathing he could give only so he could protect himself from this young lad's appeal. Year by year it had become easier for him to dress into his loathsome mask, yet year by year also, Harry's Potter allure grew, until Snape was undoubtedly hooked on his charms.
Countless times Snape had denied his fascination for the boy. The very denial gave him a fuel to abhor Harry even more.
This hate is good, He told himself many, many times, as if it were a mantra dissolving his budding feelings, this is a useful therapy to reduce and eradicate this nonsensical behavior I am assuming.
So Snape began hating the way Harry's hair tousled over to the other side, or how he and his friends snickered behind their cauldrons. Snape then hated everything about him, from Harry's young touch to Harry's black robe to his desk to his flasks and his cauldron. Why, Snape even began hating the way the boy looked at him, not because he was reminded of James, but because he could not control what he himself was feeling. And what was he was feeling?
Lust. Love. Anger. Hate. He could not tell how much of which; it was like a palette of colors whipped together and streaked across him with a long, wide brush. No definite hate. No definite love.
But now as all the years drew to the present, his lust for the Gryffindor became paramount above all other feelings. In his first year, Harry had been tempting enough, but after watching him grow into a stubborn, brash sixth year; all his crazed lust was pent up. Harry was like the young Lolita waiting to be snatched by him, the Humbert Humbert of the melancholic play, the big bad wolf preying on the young virgin. And how it would feel to have Potter under him in bed…
He had to do something about it. He must get the Gryffindor boy. But how? He would certainly have to summon all his Slytherin cunning to be able to slip by Potter's friends, and the teachers, and Dumbledore…
What am I thinking?
Of course I will not do as I please. Of course I have a healthy restraint. And of course all this must simply be a trick of the mind. Potter is my student, unacceptable and impetuous as he may be, he is my pupil and that is that. Severus Snape does not crave the virginal kisses of a mere boy.'
Ah, yes, the demise. Severus had been battling himself for ages. A student, the very spawn of his schoolyard nemesis whom he had hated since time immemorial! What dignity did he have, to lust over a Gryffindor twenty years his junior, the child of that sickening bastard James Potter!
Yet it could not be undone. His body pursued Harry Potter, or rather, the thought of the boy's lithe figure, with utmost obsession. Soon, the horror Snape had for the predicament slowly began to evolve. As a Slytherin, and a Death Eater, Severus Snape had always been rather attracted to perversity, and this dark devil within him stroked lovingly at the thought of fucking Potter, Harry Potter, bane of his existence and Savior of the Wizarding World, a barely-sixteen-year-old male, and a Gryffindor student; James' only son...
This thirst for the taboo caused his lust to bleed deeper, seeping into his veins, coursing through his every being until his very breath ached for a touch of that boy...
Through the years there had been instances when he had been alone with Potter, and he had struggled with himself almost painfully; half of him wanting nothing more than to drag the boy down to a nice, secluded area, tear robes from the lithe young form and take him— hard and rough against the wall. Over his desk. On the floor.
His other half, the one that held what scruples he had left, whatever dignity he felt was necessary for an office in Hogwarts and a place in society-- that meager half would be telling him to shut up.
But he could hardly control himself anymore. In his dreams he had no need to conform, but outside it he was cursed: under all the staff's noses, under the headmaster's wary eyes, amidst the bustle of school-- Snape strained; watching, waiting, coveting...
In the sixth year of resisting, Severus Snape knew he was breaking.
And he couldn't stand it.
"Come on, Potter," Malfoy panted, pushing Harry's naked body down onto the mattress before them. Harry, facing down on the bed, struggled to resist, but instead the friction was turning the Slytherin on.
The blonde groaned deeply when Harry's pert behind rubbed against him. Oh gods! They had just gotten here, and he was already having trouble containing his libido. He cursed himself for being so wholly enraptured, but gave no further heed as he frantically lapped at his fingers, coating them slick with spit. Without warning, he thrust them into Potter, who gave a tight gasp in response.
And then the green-eyed boy sobbed into the pillow as those fierce fingers worked him, and he angled his bottom higher-- perhaps hoping it could provide a smoother intrusion. Malfoy grinned, moving upon the other boy and licking sensually at the crest of the boy's ear, before biting down viciously on his neck. Malfoy couldn't suppress a tight moan: Potter was tight.
"I hope you're ready enough," He was able to ground out minutes later, before retracting his fingers. They made a wet sloshing noise, and Malfoy groaned again, his manhood throbbing in response.
He pulled Harry's legs wider, and positioned himself on the other boy's entrance with the hastiness of someone tethered at the edge of control. But Draco did not like losing his cool like this, so endeavored to still himself as the head of his cock kissed the Gryffindor's entrance, merely to catch his breath before the fun began... then Draco realized that Harry's warm, welcoming body heat was enough to make him come. But no-- he'd been waiting for this for so long: He was going to shove his prick deep into Potter. Hard and fast, here it goes, one stroke—
Malfoy opened his eyes, and then gave a frustrated curse.
He was just on his bed, alone, his erection making a tent out of his bed covers. He thumped his fist on the bed in anger. Not Potter again!
He shut his eyes, trying to think of anyone, anyone else but that stupid prick. But nothing in the world could stop the image of Potter, his body slick against his own, face screwed up in painful ecstasy.
Draco gave a silent curse, wondering madly why this was happening to him, him of all people, Potter's sworn enemy since eleven. Why was it that every time Potter looked at him nowadays, he'd wanted to shove himself into that gorgeous mouth?
His cock throbbed passionately. This was not good.
It had been more than a year since he began resisting this powerful attraction. During the classes they shared together, Draco always had a seat behind Potter, and every single time Potter bent over to fetch a book in his bag, Draco's prick would jump to rapt attention. No matter that they shared classes many times in a day, for it was always the same. For the first few times, he'd been infuriated, but now he was just plain annoyed.
Completely tired of playing games with himself, Draco shot up from the bed and made his way to the bathrooms, grabbing his towel as a second thought. When he arrived, the blonde wasted no time, he slid off his clothes and quickly climbed into the shower stall, furious at himself for having that stupid dream and then demeaning himself more by wanking off to it anyway.
The water from the shower head grew loud immediately; he sighed as steam engulfed him and warm, luxurious water tapped at his tense shoulders. He would have felt quite satisfied with just a shower, but his prick hadn't softened at all, and it throbbed with impatience.
Draco frowned, and then closed his eyes, resigned, and grasped himself.
Showers were the only time Draco Malfoy ever allowed himself to think of Harry Potter, and so called an image of the Gryffindor on all fours. The sight made him hitch an immediate breath. He saw himself in his fantasy, behind Potter, pounding furiously into him with as much strength as he could muster while the boy beneath shook and cried and came. Most of Draco's fantasies involved him doing it rough on the Gryffindor; it was as if anger fueled his lust. Anger and insanity, in his case.
But god, he wanted Potter. He wanted Potter to be his slave. He wanted Potter to beg and scream for mercy. He wanted to tear the Gryffindor's clothes apart, hear the rip echo through the room along with sighs and whimpers, a flash of flesh at each tear. He wanted Potter to stare right at him, bare and defenseless, offering up his body fearfully.
He'd try to fight. Malfoy thought to himself, pumping with his eyes closed and warm water running through his hair and body. He'd fight and I'd find it astoundingly erotic. I'd have him pinned up against me before I have the wonderful satisfaction of sliding in… He'd yell from pain, maybe, and the brutality of it all; maybe he'd like it. Who knows? But I'd want him to struggle, and I'd pound into him some more.
Draco's pace grew frantic as he imagined this scene. At the throws of reverent lust he barely registered that he was panting heavily, and that his condition would have been painfully obvious if someone entered the common bathrooms. But at this point, he didn't give a damn.
Yes, he'd scream, he'd gasp, but I would enjoy this violent thrusting. Harder and harder I'll plunge, and he'd be yelling his lungs out, and I'd—
I'm fucking Potter—
Draco opened his teary eyes as he felt himself releasing everything. A wonderful surge of hormones breathed its way over his loins, his stomach, his whole being. Lean arms felt like lead; he had to bend onto the wall, panting loudly. He could not believe he had thought those things about him. He could not believe he had strained his ears, mentally imagining a certain boy's screams.
But yes, he had to admit it, that was the fucking best wank he'd ever had in his entire life-- and given how many times he'd submitted himself to jerking off, that admission was saying something. The painful truth enameled: for some odd reason, Draco Malfoy really got his rockers of the Gryffindor half-blood.
For a moment Draco allowed himself to mull over the gleaming prospect of actually bedding Potter, and strangely enough, it piqued his interest. Gods, if one wank was this fantastic, how much more for the real thing?
NO. I do NOT want Harry fucking Potter! He swiftly and angrily berated himself as he got out of the shower stall and reached for his towel. His hands were shaking as he gave his yellow-blonde hair a rough dry. I don't fucking want him! I don't! I don't!
Yet he felt empty saying this to himself. Given that he had been reciting it every single time he masturbated to Potter, (which was quite often) he felt that he could not longer lie to himself.
The time of denial was over, Draco realized. He could not, for pride's sake, further blind himself to what was apparently his greatest wish. He was a Slytherin of repute-- he'd seduced every woman and man that had ever induced even a tingle from his cock. So why couldn't he have Potter? What was the difference if his target was a Gryffindor, his nemesis, and incidentally, The-Boy-Who-Lived, who defied The Dark Lord about sixteen years ago? Who cared if it was Saint Harry Fucking Potter?
Draco needed him. Months of ogling in class, fantasizing at nights; months of roaring lust for the boy was enough! Draco was used to getting what he wanted, and when he didn't, his desire increased a hundred fold. He would get Potter on his bed, if it was the last thing he'd do.
"Detention, Potter. And another zero, I should think."
Snape loved the way Potter glared up at him with those expressive green eyes. He watched Potter trembled in anger as he held up his concoction in his hand in a white-knuckled grasp; Snape was entranced with the way those cheeks burned red with rage. How easy it was for him to imagine him flushing and squirming relentlessly on his bed.
"But this is the best potion I've ever done, Professor!" Said Harry, fuming. "Why do I get zero? What did I do wrong?"
Snape offered a tiny, almost invisible smirk. Flies, such as yourself; puny, worthless little pests, live only for the satisfaction of the killer. He saw Potter's eyes widen in astonishment, as if he had caught the thought, but Snape hardly cared. He strode forward until he was a few intimidating meters from the boy, close enough to feel the air between them bristle with delicious tension.
"Wrong cork, Potter." Said Snape quietly, before turning around and stalking towards his desk. Harry stood, his mouth midway from yelling out a curse, but nothing dared to emerge. Wrong cork? There was only one kind of cork! thought the boy furiously.
"Now, class, you will place your vials on my desk before your second task." Said Snape.
Snape heard the taunts and jeers of the Slytherins and knew that Harry would only feel a deep-rooted rage for his ridicule, but this knowledge only delighted the Potions Master. He stalked back to the front of the classroom, making sure his students surmised his ruthless, overruling expression. The laughter died down, and he felt Harry's glare from the side, a deep heated glare that only excited the Slytherin.
Beneath Snape's lecture about the day's lesson, he was toying with the idea of using his most advanced skills in Legilimency to have a glance at Potter's mind, but he had never used Legilimency against a trustworthy student before and didn't know whether Harry would be keen enough to feel him rummaging through his thoughts. He glanced at the boy in question.
Harry was breathing erratically from anger, Snape mused, feeling the urge to pull him down onto the desk and screw him right there. Blood drained from his face at the thought, his pants constricting almost painfully. It was surprising how easily he could be affected. Annoyed, he decided he would invade the boy's privacy.
As Snape turned towards his cauldron to point out the several ways one had to stir, he caught Harry's glare and spoke slowly, as though he were merely mocking Harry by directing his lesson onto him.
"Now, Potter, we all know that you need more attention than the others, seeing as you barely scraped past 'troll' on your grades last year…"
Of course, this was just a ruse; Snape's real intention was to keep eye contact long enough for him to slither into Potter's mind.
His Occlumency shields were scattered; emotions ran as rampant as a raging bull, and Snape did not even have to try hard to see glimpses and sensations from the young boy. Inside, Harry was seeing red. Heat coursed through his body as thoughts pummeled past each other. How could Snape treat him this way? How could Snape act as if nothing at all had happened? They were both part of the Order now, fighting for the same cause, the same side! Harry spent months believing that everything that had happened the previous year had somehow managed to placate his malevolent behavior.
'Obviously, Sirius' death was more like a treat for him,' thought Harry savagely, but at that moment, he gave a wounded cry.
A loud explosion shook the whole room. Snape jerked from his one moment's spelunking. The whole room sprang back like a rubber band snapping into place. Glass shattered, and several people gasped out in surprise. An ominous hiss awoke from the vapors of an ill-mustered concoction. Snape stared for a moment, stunned at the scene before him.
He realized in an instant what had happened: the flask Potter was holding had heated up and shattered right into his face. Scratches and blood marred his tender flesh, and his hands were messy with crimson. The potion, or what was left of it, had come upon Potter, seeping through his clothes and skin like liquid acid. Harry was frantically trying to brush off the offending concoction, but it was too late.
Snape watched in both horror and fascination as Harry's knees gave way. His friends, Granger and Weasley, came to his aid at once as he staggered back. The potion had its effects quite blatantly on the poor raven head; his eyes grew instantly blank and distant.
The Potions room filled with scuffles and shouts as the rest of the potion began traveling down the stone expanse of the floor. Hermione Granger immediately brandished her wand, and swept the room clean with a powerful spell. At that moment Snape stirred from his stupor, irritated at himself for having been so stunned. He straightened swiftly, moving towards the boy and his ludicrous friends, black cloak rustling gracefully behind him.
Weasley had caught the disoriented boy by the shoulders, stumbling down onto the floor with him, even as Granger immediately treated to the glass that was still poking out of Potter's cheeks with a complicated swish of her wand and a muttering of spells.
"I can't believe how much of a firecracker Harry is recently—" the redhead muttered, trying to get comfortable as their fallen friend pinned him down with dead weight.
"Oh Ron, don't be such a hypocrite." huffed the muggleborn, giving a meaningful look. Weasley blushed, but it was missed, for she had knelt down to inspect Harry more thoroughly.
"I don't know what he hit himself with," she said, vocalizing her thoughts as she waved her hand in front of non-responsive green eyes, "it can't be the Rhasis Growth Potion he made, because he heated it up, and the color changed."
"Quite astute of you, Miss Granger," Remarked a deep voice from above her. Hermione lifted her head to the towering figure, her face a cross of worry and annoyance. Snape sneered, "However, I would like to ask that know-it-all brain of yours as to how we are to cure himsince you've erased all evidence of the potion."
Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it again, speechless. Snape's eyes grew wintry, "Both of you will have detention with Filch, and Gryffindor will suffer ten points from the brash way you took charge. Now, move aside."
Neither had the urge to challenge the remark with the way Snape looked at them; they stood aside and let the Potions Master inspect their friend. Snape only took a moment to check Harry's pulse, temperature and breathing, (his hand lingering upon his abdomen) before he leaned back to think. He barely noticed another form coming to stand behind him until he spoke.
"Professor, these two Gryffindor loots should have left things up to you, but perhaps Potter needs to get to the infirmary."
Snape turned, his astonishment well hidden with his cool mask of reserve as he inspected Draco Malfoy, who was sneering haughtily at Ron and Hermione. Upon gaining the Potions Master's attention, the blonde dropped the sneer, and added, "I can bring him there, if you wish."
Everyone on the room began glancing each other, incredulous to this sudden change over the blonde. Draco seemed to relish the attention, for he smirked more brazenly.
"No," Weasley exclaimed, "For all we know you'll push Harry off a window or something!"
"Wonderful assumption, Weasel," snapped the blonde smoothly, ever so cool, "save that there are no windows down at the dungeons."
Snape watched the redhead gape like a guppy for a moment, before falling silent. The boy certainly had no qualms with being insufferably idiotic, but Snape could not just stand there, equally agape. He recollected himself, drawing intimidation from his height as he stood to regard the blonde. Malfoy did not flinch, or change his stance; he seemed only proud and arrogant as always, as if only wanting to prove how much better he was compared to the impetuous Gryffindors.
It was up to the Potions Master to decide, of course. He glanced at Potter, who looked so delectable, all flushed up on the floor, that Snape wanted so much to touch him again. Angered at his own thought, he forced himself to look away. It would do no good if he himself delivered the boy to Pomphrey, for he was not sure he could keep his hands off from molesting a student. Potter's friends would certainly bring him without complaint, but Snape felt quite vindictive, and didn't want to give them the pleasure. Malfoy's suggestion was the most appropriate.
"Ten points to Slytherin for thinking responsively, and yes, take Potter to the infirmary, not more damaged as he is already. Any other asinine objections?"
Snape looked pointedly at Hermione and Ron, who looked as if they had every objection in the world, but deigned to speak. Snape resisted the urge of looking back at the raven head boy on the floor, a full force of longing battling with an urge to preserve his morals. He was a professor, he told himself for an infinite time, he was a respectable professor and there was no way he would demean himself to hounding after James' cocksure son.
The classroom was now so still with the surprising turn of events. Malfoy certainly outdid himself this time, thought Snape.
"As for the rest of you," he spat suddenly, eyes surveying the class like a hawk, "Back to your work."
Harry Potter, meanwhile, could hear everything, but he had quite a problem trying to see clearly. It was as if he was in a distant world, and every sound was going through a tunnel, although every touch of his skin seemed to be magnified beyond measure. His body was sluggish at his command.
His heart skipped a beat as a blonde boy roughly pulled him up. He knew it was Malfoy, and he felt a tingling spark when his hand brushed over the blonde's smooth neck. He was sure Malfoy felt it too, because the Slytherin stiffened before putting his own arm around Harry's waist.
Harry wanted very much to jerk away, but his body told him to lean more heavily on him instead. He did not have control of his legs, and it seemed as if he was swimming on air, hurdling through waves of nothing, with a body latched on next to him. Harry wondered why everything looked so woozy.
They staggered out of the classroom.
He could not remember how far he had gone before he felt the potion taking control of him…
Draco Malfoy hauled the confused Potter out of the dungeon very slowly, partly because the Gryffindor kept leaning left then right, and partly because he wanted to stay in close proximity with the boy. The hard breathing and weight transferring was certainly making him quite uncomfortable in the loins…
Malfoy was confused. He had, of course, orchestrated himself to deliver Potter to the infirmary, if only to test his body's reactions. Half of him was hoping that he only wanted the thought of Potter, but his body's response at the moment seemed to condemn that assumption. His prick was already rock hard under his trousers.
Malfoy pondered as to how in Merlin's name he had gotten to this specific point. It was strange, because he had started off just envying Harry Potter for the undiminished attention. He hated the way people noticed him rather than anyone else. He stifled at the way all the goodie-too-shoes swooned at his stupid head, and despised the way grown adults ooh-ed and ahhed over his stupid scar. It was all so stupid. He was so stupid.
In the middle of their first year, however, something changed inside him so subtly that he hardly noticed it had altered at all. He opened his eyes to what Potter was really like… And he began to notice the aura that emitted off him, the smile that he gave ever so effortlessly. The green eyes that flashed in anger or in happiness, and the way Potter made Malfoy feel the sexual rivulets radiating between them…
It made Draco hate him more. Hate with a passion, hate with a great reckoning force. He burned at every instance Potter would do something better than he, yet he also wanted to claim him all for himself. He wanted to own Potter completely.
And then the dreams: he was always dreaming of the boy on his bed. And in the bathroom. In the Quidditch field. In his common room. In his manor. Haunting him. Everywhere.
Sometimes, he'd thought of wooing The Boy Who Lived, but that was quickly discarded. The truth was, his mind was mostly polluted with thoughts of angry, red sex. To him, their rivalry was the kinkiest thing that could ever have happened, and he dreamt that Potter was his captive in the Slytherin dorms, bound in chains and a slave forever.
Oh yes, he perceived Potter as a sex toy. Each time the Gryffindor walked by, he sniffed in the scent, and felt the radiating sexuality, and watched that wonderful ass. But the moment the boy was out of his sight, Draco would deny ever thinking such ludicrous thoughts. For years his confusing predicament had been driving him crazy. Each night he would think he was a hopeless man, eager to fuck his most hated rival senseless, impossible as it was. And during the day, he would deny the very existence of his desire.
Until last night... Because just last night he had made amends to himself and accepted the fact that he wanted Harry Potter. The line between possible and impossible vanished. Malfoy had pledged to finally take his due— his rival's virginity. He would do anything to have that sweet body under his. He would blackmail him if he could, a blackmail that would be heaven because it would be a first class permit into his pants.
Speaking of which, now seemed a very, very good opportunity to take Potter's pants down…
Down, boy, down, He told his lower half, but to no avail. Everything about Potter made him tingle with arousal. He fought with his more primal urges, telling them that this was a stupid moment to act, for if Snape or the other Gryffindor brats realized he hadn't delivered Potter to the infirmary, they would be after his blood.
They coursed slowly through the dungeon corridors. Their very breathing was echoed by the cold, stone walls. Once they winded about the next corner, Malfoy was aware of every single fiber of his own skin that rubbed against the Gryffindor. Why was it the world seemed to crumble around them as they held each other tightly in the darkness?
Suddenly The Boy Who Lived tripped upon his two graceless feet and tumbled down to the ground. Malfoy tried to catch him, but he was doing such a remarkable job at falling that the blonde had to laugh. Then he went very still.
Potter was now sprawled on the floor, with his legs wide open.
Then the most luscious but most dangerous thought passed him.
I could just take him right here. Right now… Without him resisting…
"Shit," he mumbled, staring at Harry, who was panting up at him, eyes heavy lidded and clearly still in a bedazzled state. He looked oddly mischievous and flushed; his hair seemed to be more tousled than before, and it only made Malfoy's condition worse.
His pants tightened, to a point that he almost couldn't stand properly. And here was Harry, looking sweet and sweaty, spreading his legs invitingly, with his green eyes that seemed to be sensually tempting him… Something inside Malfoy snapped.
With no more restraint left for him to hold, he tore at Harry and gave him a wild, thirsty kiss, wasting no time in groping Harry's rear and thrusting clothed pelvis up at him.
What surprised Malfoy most was that Potter was responding. In fact, Potter was as intense and eager as he was himself. But Malfoy wasted no time in wondering; he tore Potter's cloak and ripped down the buttons of his shirt, trailing hungry kisses down the boy's collar and smelling the sweet whiff of Potter's scent.
He fumbled for the Gryffindor's pants, just as Potter began licking the Slytherin's exposed jaw line, biting at the sensitive skin there. He made his way down Malfoy's collarbone, and each small touch sent a jolt of pleasure right straight to the blonde's groin. Malfoy held the firm ass in his hands, groping and trying to feel his way into the trousers.
But Malfoy stilled when he felt Potter's legs wrap around him, fingers playing with his blonde hair. Flashes of his fantasies rounded up to him so suddenly that Malfoy breathed an obscene cry, imagining wonderfully naughty things as he rocked his clothed erection to the delicious boy, wondering how something so simple like this could be so intense—he could imagined how it would be if he were inside— if he were driving into him!
So hot, with just this! Malfoy thought, wondering how intense sex would be, if this were only a prelude.
Malfoy moaned as Potter settled to licking his ear. His cock was throbbing within his pants, whining for him to get to the point, so to speak, but Malfoy could not move. He was in paradise, having gone blind and deaf even if his eyes were feasting on the boy and his ears were strained to hear each breathless moan. Malfoy wanted nothing more than to shove Potter back in order to strip him properly, but he enjoyed the current snogging so much-- he was at pleasure's mercy.
Growling, the blonde Slytherin grabbed Potter and thrust their lips together, his tongue finding his way in immediately. He plundered Potter's sweet mouth, taking claim upon him so brutally, feasting and owning and oh, Malfoy could feel himself mounting. He crushed the boy against the floor, eliciting a soft cry, but the sound in the corridor made Potter look up. Malfoy growled in frustration as he, too, glanced to his left.
To his great horror, he saw Professor Snape, pale as the sight knocked the wind out of him.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, to the infirmary, now..." Snape said icily, his pale hands clenched so tightly it was shivering. His eyes scathed the scene at its wake with a trembling ferocity that Malfoy dared not contradict. Cursing under his breath and running his fingers through his untidy blonde hair, he wasted no time in adjusting his pants and dragging the luscious Harry Potter to the infirmary, vision and loins still tingling from the encounter.
Jealousy was a path to madness, and Professor Severus Snape was well on it. By all means he wanted to charge into the Slytherin common rooms, drag the blonde by the hair and crush his head onto a nice rough wall, but instead, he took to pacing across the room like a wolf stalking an invisible prey. His thoughts were florid with both anger and retribution. That self-absorbed prat Malfoy! Snape should have never let him handle Potter, should have never agreed to that malicious plan, should have never. Ever. Given Malfoy so much as a hint that he would leave Potter in his care.
And the fact that the scene kept repeating in his head made him want to scream. His face could no longer hold onto an emotionless facade, instead it was a face of pure white fury. Potter looked incredibly delicious, squirming against the floor, debauched and his legs all spread out, but the thought of that blonde pint pinning him down coiled at his gut.
Only ten minutes after the boys had left the classroom, Severus Snape had worked to a conclusion. His brilliant mind had deduced the qualities of whatever Potter had made: heating Rhasis would make it akin to the love draught of Aros, a powerful greek aphrodisiac that would render Potter feverish with lust. Lust!
He had immediately stormed out of the classroom, leaving his bewildered students behind, but he was past the point of caring. He had only one hope: and that was that Potter withheld the effects until he'd gotten to the infirmary.
But his hopes were in vain, for finding the two boys upon the corridor confirmed his suspicion. Snape's cock immediately stiffened at the sight of Potter, panting and gyrating and moaning like that, but to have Draco Malfoy to receive it...!
Snape lashed out at a pile of books, sending them toppling to the floor. His mind exploded with a new set of epithets. That was it. Malfoy clearly wanted the boy, but Snape would not allow that to ever happen. Screw scruples, screw morality, screw the fact that Harry James Evans Potter was his student. He belonged solely to Snape, and he was going to make that crystal clear.
Crystal, crystal clear.