No wizards were harmed in the making of this story.
The characters aren't mine, as you well know, but I so enjoy playing with them.
Violence, Bondage, Profanity, Voyeurism ... no, I don't know what got into me either ;-).
Originally posted for "kink!night" at Severus*Sighs*
"A Lesson Learned"
Red hot pain flares across his buttocks and this time Harry no longer holds back a scream.
"Bastard!" he cries, hating that he is giving the other man the satisfaction of a reaction at all, but he has lost count of the number of lashes and it hurts … oh God, it hurts! … so badly! He can hear a few of his fellow students snicker around him and Harry is quite glad that he can't see their faces clearly. Even if his glasses hadn't long slipped off his nose, those unshed tears would be blurring his vision mercifully, he is sure of it.
Again, the wand comes down on his bare arse with a terrifyingly loud crack, which he matches in volume when he screams "I hate you! I fucking hate you!"
"Language, Potter,' the velvet voice admonishes and for some reason unknown to Harry, he is glad to finally hear it again. Snape's silence throughout all this – whip after whip after whip – was almost more unsettling than the mere fact that his body is currently on display in front of the entire Potions class, who watches in interest while he is receiving the thrashing of his life. His skin is entirely bare, save from those thick, dark leather ropes, which seem to start in thin air (Magic's a bitch sometimes!) but end around both Harry's wrists and ankles – forcing him to stand upright like Jesus on the fucking cross and preventing him from kicking the greasy git wherever he might reach him.
"I hate you,"' Harry declares again, but it comes out a lot more weakly this time. His throat feels as raw as his arse by now, although they probably don't match in colour yet.
"That feeling, I assure you, is quite mutual," Snape murmurs softly from behind him and Harry suppresses the urge to knock his head back against that big, fat nose of his. Snape's robes are a cool and welcomed rustle against his backside, but when the teacher suddenly cups Harry's butt with both his hands, Harry's entire body tenses in protest (No! He's done … spent! He can't possibly endure any more of this pain and why is nobody helping him anyway, why is Dumbledore never there when he needs him?!). But then … oh God, oh good God! … Snape begins to rub his battered buttocks with such surprising gentleness that Harry's knees go weak at once. The blasted ropes hold him up, of course, but even they can't hold back the sob that escapes his sore throat as the healing salve works its way into the welts and bruises underneath Snape's long fingers.
'Thank you, Professor,' Harry whispers.
He doesn't care that his words cause Malfoy and his lackeys to laugh and mock him even more fiercely now. He doesn't care that Ron calls out his name, admonishingly. Harry is fairly certain that none of them has ever been on the receiving end of such a severe beating as this, so they don't know! They may think he's broken now, but they don't know the incredible rush you feel when such an excruciating pain slowly, ever so slowly, seeps out of your body.
Snape's hands, unlike that blasted infrangible wand of his, feel brilliant on his arse and Harry has to fight hard to keep inside a moan; his mouth and his eyes are both clenched shut. Apparently this uses up all his willpower and Harry is mortified to feel his cock twitching with interest, when Snape's strokes become longer and slower. Luckily, Snape is standing behind him, so Harry is quite sure the Potions Master does not see the result of his administrations, but he expects his peers to notice his increasingly hardening cock any moment now. It won't be long and they'll all be laughing and pointing. Ron and Hermione will be so disappointed in him, Harry is certain of it, and Ginny … Ginny is going to have kittens. She'll never let him hear the end of this!
Suddenly, Snape's hands are absent on his bum – and what a loss that is! - and only then does Harry notice that the draughty dungeon, which already served as as a Potions classroom to many generations before him, is now so quiet that one could hear a Doxy fart without even trying.
Harry opens his eyes.
Snape looks back at him through those cold, black eyes of his. Sneering down his large nose and quite in synch with the ticking of the old mantle clock that graces the fireplace of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, he says:
"I'm here to teach you, Potter, not to be a servant to your rampant teenage hormones. I trust you now understand why it is important that you learn the art of Occlumency and protect your mind against unwanted intrusions. Or do you quite insist on being mind-raped by the Dark Lord while a hundred imaginary Death Eaters look on?"
"Or would you, perhaps …," - Mockingly, Snape's harsh gaze travels towards Harry's crotch, although Harry is pretty sure that Snape won't be able to see the tent in his jeans from behind the large oak table between them - "enjoy it?"
"I fucking hate you," Harry says. He is quite proud that he manages to keep his voice steady and even, when he wants nothing more than to tear across the table and rip out the other man's throat, but his words only deepen the smirk on Snape's face.
"That feeling, I assure you, is quite mutual."