Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter despite being blonde and Scottish.
"You're bleeding Potter," he says smirking.
Sighing, I wipe the trail slipping down my face and wonder why people continuously preach about his intelligence when he seems to think he deserves applause for simple observations anyone could make.
Luckily, I have began to reign my temper in much more easily recently and I avoid making any sarcastic comments which would lead to the typical shouting match between us.
Being stuck in such a small place together is hell.
We are both imprisoned here, neither of us can leave.
Ron, Hermione, Remus, Tonks and everyone else, drift in and out but we are trapped.
Him because he was finally discovered as a spy and I because I'm much to valuable to risk doing field work.
So everyone else gets to enjoy the excitement of missions and fighting, even Neville Longbottom is out there duelling with Death Eaters, while I am locked away with Severus Snape.
He is helpful sometimes, he trains me and we duel a lot. It's frustrating but sometimes I do manage to back him into a corner and occasionally I don't toy with the idea of actually causing him real pain. I believe this is an improvement in out developing but fragile relationship.
Sometimes I get so lonely.
Weeks can pass between visits and I have no way of contacting anyone, I could not honestly say whether my best friends are dead. These are the times we both find the hardest, as I am far too distracted to duel properly and he's too emotionally dead to comfort me. Not that he would want to.
Right now, Ron, Hermione and Neville have just left after giving me detailed descriptions of their last death defying stunts. I can feel the familiar hollowness settle over me as I realise they are fighting my battle and I wonder how I am meant to be expected to actually commit this murder when I am not even allowed to look at a Death Eater, except Snape.
I slump in an armchair before the fire, him directly across from me. His leg is balanced on his knee and his foot rhythmically taps a beat on the soft carpet floor. At first his seating habits irritated me but now it's a welcome relief from the silence.
"Another fun visit from the Gryffindor club?" he asks.
"I guess," I mumble.
He looks up at me but his face is blank. Placing his book, open on the floor he walks over to me and stands behind my chair. His two hands settle on my shoulders and he squeezes gently, rubbing them while I tilt my head backwards. He's not smiling, he never is, but his eyes glitter in a way that I assume is warmth. I smile up in reply.
"Do you think this will get easier?"
"I imagine so. They don't want anything bad to happen to you…"
"Nothing bad is happening to Ron and Hermione…"
"I do believe Mr Weasley is exaggerating his role slightly…"
I laughed and his fingers slip down to stroke across my throat, I shiver at the touch and the corners of his mouth lift a little but the line of his lips are still mostly vertical.
Slowly he lowers his head until it is resting on my shoulder and I notice his eyes are closed.
Honestly, I have no way to explain how this development happened. One minute I was screaming at him and the next he had me flush against the wall with his tongue in my mouth and his hands down my pants. Things have gradually grown from blind passion to more affectionate bursts. But they always happen complete at random.
I could be washing dishes, reading or even sleeping and then before I know it his lips are on mine and his hands wandering over me. If I wanted to criticise or mock him for it, I would explain that it should me, the eighteen year old, crawling over him, but I refuse to sacrifice this.
It stops the nights and days dragging into nothingness.
Turning my head, I ghost a few kisses over his cheek and his arms slip down to my waist. I can't imagine this position is too comfortable so I take his hand and lead him around until he's standing directly in front of me.
As always, his face has an odd expression I can't quite read but it's definitely lost whatever malice normally lurked there. Another half smile breaks out but he doesn't say anything. Silence normally works better, both of us much too afraid to break the trance which makes the other so willing.
I pull him down so he is lying limply on me like a blanket and forget about the idea he may be in pain to instead kiss him and tangle my hands in his hair. Still greasy but it smells nice and his skin is soft.
He sighs and stands back up, cracking both his shoulders he scowls at me but it's not serious. I grin like an excited child and he sighs again, louder.
Then he yanks me up forcibly and his shoulder groans, he glares at me as though somehow it's my fault.
We still don't say a word.
The furtherest we normally make it to is the bottom of the stairs, so arriving at the first landing without his hands on me is definitely an unwanted surprise.
Looping my arms around his shoulders, I pull him back against me. He shivers slightly as my hands slid from his covered thighs to under his robe, under his waistcoat, under his shirt and glide over his skin. He's sinfully warm and I can feel the blood rush to my groin so quickly I'm growing dizzy.
Sharply he takes my hands and his grip is much too tight, he throws me his best teacher stare and marches ahead, closing his door over behind him.
I'm not deterred, I never am as we have played this particular game before. In fact, remembering this man is my teacher flares something inside me perhaps it shouldn't.
He's lying on his back, leisurely although he hasn't a care in the world and the position is doing nothing to hide his burgeoning arousal. Words form in my mouth but I swallow them and throw myself on top of him.
He grunts under the weight and sudden impact but I don't give him too long to recover, before sealing my lips over his and grinding into him.
The idea that Harry Potter turns himself into a mute, wanton slut for his greasy Potions Professor never ceases to embarrass and amuse me when I am on my own, but right now I'm not and he is much too intoxicating to think about anything besides that collection of heat under me and those devilish lips.
Although, rubbing against him is wonderful, the absence of his skin on mine is frustrating and stepping back for a second, I throw my clothes off frantically urging him to do the same.
He's pale and almost shimmers in the dim light and I adore the contrast when we lie together, he makes me look more tanned and I make him look pure white.
Back on the bed, his hand is grasped around my erection and pulling roughly, I'm groaning into his neck and whenever I can gather the energy, kissing, licking, biting.
He stops suddenly and lies over me, the top drawer. I smile again but don't say a word. The small pot balanced in his palm has a yellow label over it, handmade by the man himself, I imagine. It does seem oddly fitting that he would make his own lubricant.
I push the pot back towards his body and the half smile appears again, a little more widespread than before.
I love the smell of the gel, its spicy and rich and nothing like the fake fruit or medical smell I am used to. Its like him in gel form.
He coats his fingers liberally and kisses me again, his lips dancing all over my neck as a distraction. Through the silence I can't tell him how much I like this exact moment, the way he breathes on me, the way his finger slowly pushes forward and he patiently absorbs all my reactions to make sure I am in no pain.
Then I lose all concentration on anything but the sensations developing and multiplying in my stomach and I'm groaning and moaning and sighing.
Nothing escapes his lips but they are turned slightly more than before.
I wriggle away from him and roll onto my back, opening my legs. The best, granted not the most subtle, indication I can give without breaking the silence.
His mouth parts and he's staring at me but I don't particularly mind, there is no room for shyness next to the silence.
And then he's inside me.
And the silence stops.
But it's not words.
It's groans, grunts, sighs and almost my name but he never finishes…
There's beads of sweat lying on his forehead and his mouth is open, his eyes glitter wildly and I can tell he's close.
"Ha…" he sighs.
Just a little more and I don't know what I am talking about.
I'm so close it's burning and I know what I need and I think he knows too.
Not even close.
I lean back, snap up and that's it. Without one touch I'm soaring, nothing can touch me except the colours that dance across my eyelids.
The euphoria fades a little and I'm back on this creaky bed in this decrepit house with my old, greasy Pot-…lover.
I want to say something, I own him that much but I can't. The confidence brought by the silence has been killed by demise of the silence.
"Harry?" he says quietly, as though he is testing it, making sure it fits.
"Severus?" I offer.
And I do too.
The bars fade, as do the chains around my ankle and until the morning, I can pretend that this is normal. I can pretend he always uses my name and the silence doesn't exist.
Reviews would be lovely and much appreciated. ^^