So I started this fic three years ago and the thing is now I have no idea where I wanted to take it. Besides the obvious, I mean. I will hopefully still manage to make this into a decent fanfiction.
About the story: We're about 6-7 years after the war. Harry is a DADA professor now. This will be a SNARRY story, including SLASH. So far it seems the story will have SEVEN chapters, out of which I have five already written.
Beta reading on the first three chapter was done by RosesAreForever23. Sexy. Lil. Emo accidentally ended up editing this fic too. I accidentally own her my life for it! Thank you my darlings. All accidentally remaining mistakes are mine!
PS: This story is also available in Czech and Russian language. For the link, please visit my profile!
Chapter One – A Three Hand Problem
It all started with a potion. A potion known to most of the wizards and witches through the centuries; however, only some having the ability of preparing it and even less have the courage to drink it. A potion that needed to be drank willingly, without any force, and causing one single day of complete happiness. Twenty-four hours of existing without fears and inhibitions, making choices never dared to make before, living for the absolute present. A plain potion, bringing the deepest desires to the surface, swallowing the slightest doubts and liberating the soul.
But everyone had to deal with the consequences of that one single happy day… afterward.
Severus woke up with the worst headache he ever had. Hands were squeezing his brain, his whole head, and every heartbeat felt like thousand drums pounding right next to his ears. His eyes were closed but they were still burning with white fire as if he'd been staring into the sun for days. Funny tastes lingered in his dry mouth; he licked his lips just to find a fresh wound on it, still tasting like blood. He wanted to touch it, and tried to move his hand but it felt like it would weighed tons- all his muscles were aching with a burning pain as he shifted lightly.
As time passed slowly his mind started clearing and he realized he wasn't in his own bed, moreover, he wasn't in bed at all. He was lying on the cold, hard floor. His hand slid over his naked chest…
Naked? Why was his chest naked?
He slid his fingers further down to see where else was he naked but then he felt a sudden rush of relief as he touched the soft material of his boxers. What the hell happened here? Where was he at all?
He tried to open his eyes but the sun was just way too bright. He decided to just turn over onto his stomach and have some more rest, maybe the terrible headache would just go away?
He moved and it felt like needles stabbing and jabbing into his muscles but he finally succeeded- he was on his stomach, both his hands under his head, trying to make the uncomfortable ground just a bit pleasant and another one sliding lazily over his bare back, fingernails caressing the length of his spine, running into his hair then slithering on his skin again…
Three hands? Three hands were around his body. He checked, the two under his head was his own, so who the fuck was grabbing his ass now?
He growled loudly as he pushed himself up and away from the boldly exploring fingers under his boxers.
He opened his eyes finally and looked around. For a few seconds he saw only bright white light but then his eyes and mind started working together and he began to actually see.
And then he just wished he were blind again.
"What the fucking hell are you doin', Potter?" He asked the man, lying comfortably next to him, wearing only a wicked grin. And nothing else below.
"Think, Severus." Potter raised an eyebrow and waited patiently, while his hands roamed on his naked chest languidly.
"Severus?" He frowned. "Since when are you calling me Sever-"
"Ah yes, Severus… Please…faster…" An ardent, deep voice broke up to the surface of his memories.
"Your face says it's coming back…" Potter laughed.
"Mmm… yeah…fuck Severus, that's so g-aaahh good…" Another enthusiastic moan sounded in Severus' mind and he looked at the man next to him with terror in his eyes. The voice in his head seemed exactly like the one that was just speaking to him.
"You remember this?" Potter asked and threw something towards him.
His reflexes were still good, being a spy for the half of his life had some benefits, so he was able to catch that something even when his system was shocked from the previously seen fervent images. It was a little, blue bottle with a very old piece of parchment on it. On the yellowing parchment there were two words, written long ago:
And then it hit him. Everything he had done during the last twenty-four hours came back with such a force he fell onto his back while his headache got a million times worse. Suddenly, Potter's face was floating over his.
"I told you not to drink it." Potter whispered, still smiling lightly.
Please let me know what you think. "Every word opens a new gate."