Well, I was supposed to work on some of the many files that I already started- which I did, to a certain degree. But then I watched the seventh Harry Potter movie and couldn't get that one scene out of my head- and this is the result. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Mistress Slytherin

Why do you make me feel so helpless?

Hands slide across me slowly. They don't need to do anything more than that to make me arch into them. They simply slide skilled gentle motions that ease me into insanity. I need you.

Green eyes glance back as pale hands patiently make their way across the gentle contours of his body. Such brilliant green eyes filled with need and want and helplessness and yet the hands continue to move slowly. A parody of a lovers' caress filled with so much hate and disgust that it makes Harry sick to think about it. But he can't deny them, can't deny Severus. The man hates him so much, his eyes tell him that. The way he gazes at him tortures him into an oblivion of pleasure but hates him all the same.





I hate you.

These words are written in glittering black eyes but Harry knows that Severus Snape would never lower himself so far as to actually let them pass his lips. No Severus was always considerate even in his loathing. It was worse than being yelled at, it was worse than being taken by force, and Harry wonders at times if that is why Snape never turns him away. The man breaks him gently with soft caresses and whispered murmuring words coaxing him again and again until he is left crying openly. But Snape was never cruel in his actions, not here.

I'm sorry

I'm sorry

I'm sorry

I'm sorry

These are the words that Harry's mind repeats even as he begs to be touched. The hands have him so well trained that just by gliding across his stomach fingers splayed Harry knows to turn over and spread himself open. He knows that the man will pull away and indeed he does. He gazes at him for a long time. Harry is open, vulnerable and naked, Snape his closed, cold and still completely dressed. But then it's always like this. Harry has tried to reach out to the man. In fact the first time this happened it was he that reached out wanting nothing more than to please Snape, but the man sneered at him and moved away from his touch. He always did. Harry would still at times in his desperate pleasure reach out longing to pleasure the man, to make those glittering black eyes flare with something warmer more passionate. Instead they are filled with disgust and hatred. He is something vile and unworthy of touch yet Snape tortures him with it. Even now the man is simply resting his hand on the swell of his bottom drumming his long tapered fingers patiently over his tailbone. Harry knows that even if he begs the man won't do a thing until he wants to- that doesn't stop him for begging though. No, his body is to well trained for that.

"Please…Please anything -I'm sorry, oh please!" The litany spills from his lips without his mind registering it. It's natural, practiced, and wild all the same. Merlin he wants, he wants. But Snape is as ever unrelenting. Silent. Drumming his fingers methodically in a way that has him arching against the sheets and begging until his throat is sore and his voice is hoarse. "Anything, please, please anything-" He sobs for air as the gentle tapping continues. "So sorry- please just- anything -whatever you want please!" and he knows he means anything too. He knows that he would trade anything in the world to have this man look at him with anything other than loathing.

But it won't happen.

"Quiet." And he is. The order wasn't sharp or demanding. It wasn't anything. Just a word. But Harry's body is so well trained, it was from the start. Snape stops drumming and lets his hand remain where it is, completely still. Tears pour from Harry's eyes then. They always do. Because Snape will never want to touch him. Because he is vile, disgusting and hated. But that won't stop him from coming back, from begging to be touched again. The hand moves away and his back arches for it but he knows it's futile. Fingers gently part him, slide down carefully smearing him with cool lubricant, tracing the hole teasingly until he is biting his arm trying not to scream. One finger is all it takes. Not even the entire finger even. No matter how hard he tries to hold back the moment the cool tip of the man's finger breaches him he clenches around it in a soundless cry and comes- hard. Until he is panting with it but Snape never ends his pleasure there, no he continues the gentle slide past the tense twitching muscles and begins a steady pace of push and pull. But Harry looks back and sees idle interest and- disgust. He shakes now as he always does. Raw with emotion, ashamed of himself for reacting to the gentle ministrations even while his heart is torn in two.

He loves this man.

He needs him.

He will never have him.

One finger has long since turned into two but the motions are so careful and he is so lost in the uproar that he hardly notices. The intensity, the raw emotion ebbing and flowing inside of him caught up in a maelstrom of love and pleasure and desire. How could he leave this man? Three fingers are inside of him now and the third brushes something that has him mewling and keening for more. The fingers twist and turn brushing that spot again and again until brilliant lights flash before his eyes and his body is tightly wound like a spring waiting for command.


And just like that he is, all over the place in thick heady ropes of pleasure that leave him reeling clenching around the fingers that continue to stroke him drawing it out. Because this is the epitome of Severus Snape's cruelty. No one can top this kind of torture.

"Please!" He begs helplessly even as his spent body sags not a drop of energy left in him.

"You've already come twice." Is his answer. What he means, what he isn't saying though Harry hears it clearly is Slut. But Severus Snape would never say such a thing out loud.

"Please, anything." Harry whispers, begs though his worn body protests. A hand settles on the base of his spine and fingers begin to drum.

"Anything?" Snape says raising his eyebrows. There is nothing Harry can do but agree.

"Anything." He begs. Snape lays over him as he always does at this moment. A glorious moment for Harry as the long body slides on top of him weighing him down yet guarding him from an unforgiving world. Cotton and wool caress his fevered skin cool and hot, so warm like the breath that whispers across his neck. If he could he's sure that he would come again. Arms slide across his warm and strong, fingers that drove him mad with pleasure entwine with his own. Mocking. Yet he clings to them tightly. Tears slide down his cheeks as a kiss is pressed to the spot just behind his ear. Gentle. So gentle. Longing is all he knows now. Longing for what he will never have.

"Become the Minister of Magic; lead this world into an age of glory. Cause it to flourish and grow- nurture it. I will send you a sign when I believe that you've achieved this." The words whisper a promise Harry knows he won't fulfill. It's always like this. First it was killing off several of Voldemort's most important, each time he succeeded Snape would welcome him back to his bed. Then it was kill Voldemort himself. Harry was in bliss for two days after that. Then it was to become a world champion duelist, learn to play the piano, learn French, Latin, German, Portuguese, gain a masters in charms, defense against the dark arts, potions, transfiguration. Each time he was teased into oblivion before given a new task. He'd learned to dance, sing, do mathematical equations that left most heads spinning, he'd become a diplomat, then head of the sports department, then he won the Cannons the world champion cup for three years in a row. It never ended, he'd read every book the man assigned him, learned every theory the man could think up but the man always had more.


Tears slipped down his face even as he nodded. Tomorrow he would begin campaigning. He doubted it would take much to get the position, but the task of fixing the ministry- it was nigh impossible. But Harry knew that he could do it. Numerous times he'd thought that he wouldn't be able to do it. How many times had he come back begging for some other task only to be greeted by a stony stare and a raised eyebrow.

You can do it.

Why? How?

Because you will.

And that's all there was to it really. If Snape thought he could do it than he could, and inevitably he would. Fingers brushed his cheek touching the tears before drawing away. "Please!" Harry finds himself begging suddenly. "A kiss?" He whispers when dark eyes catch his. For a moment the man is still and Harry can see clearly in his eyes the loathing and disgust. But a finger tilts his chin up and lips slowly press against his swallowing him. He doesn't even try for a battle, he knows he's already lost; instead he follows the caress wishing he could draw the man into passion. But all too soon he is pulling away and Harry is left breathless and wanting. Wanting what he can never have. Once, a long time ago he'd begged the man for answers. Why? Why? But he knew now, and not by the man himself but rather by Dumbledore who'd left memories behind that weren't meant to be shared. They belonged to Snape had been entrusted to the aged headmaster who'd slyly left them to Harry. Harry who hadn't known that they were Snapes until he was already in them sinking, falling and unable to leave until they were gone.

"Lilly?" Dumbledore would whisper as he watched the patronus fade.

"Always." Snape would answer his eyes alight with something that Harry would never have.

It had torn Harry to shreds, had nearly broken him. These words haunted him every night, every day but he still came back for more. And he feared that he always would. Snape was walking away now, towards the bathroom where he would turn on the faucet as hot as it would go and wash away the evidence of what they'd done. It was the only physical sign of his disgust. Harry wondered why the man gave in to it every time.



Harry looked away then and slid off the bed pulling his clothes on slowly. When the man returned he was fully dressed and the bed spelled clean and smelling of lavender.

"Good night Mister Potter." Clear dismissal. Harry bows his head and hesitantly reaches out his hand- if only...Severus would allow it, Harry knew he would. But he would hate it almost as much as he hated him.

"I'm sorry." He whispers brokenly before slipping out the door wordlessly ignoring the tears that drip from his face. His fingers twitch at his side but he doesn't bother to brush away the tears. Minerva doesn't mention them as she hand's him the small pot of floo powder. She's used to them. They all are really. Hermione and Ron are too that's why they're waiting up for him.

"Oh Harry." She whispers her soft brown eyes breaking for him.

"Snape?" Ron says his own blue eyes saddened. Harry trembles as a smile stretches across his lips.