Title: Through The Looking-Glass
Author: Paperblank / larissa27
Word count: 4,800 words
Content/Warning(s): AU from GoF, Snape-centric, Chan (Harry is 14 - numerous students Snape sees wanking are underage), voyeurism, masturbation
Prompt: 17 - Professor Snape has a scrying-glass that lets him look at anyone at Hogwarts who is masturbating; he uses it to inspire his own wank sessions. He realises he's never seen Harry in it, and gets obsessive about trying to catch Harry at the right time.
Summary: "I can't believe I'm so obsessed with the Potter brat."
A/N: Standard disclaimer applies. Thanks a lot to crimson_vipera for beta-reading this. Your help has been precious and invaluable. You rock! Thanks a lot to badgerlady as well.
Through The Looking-Glass
I scowl as the chatty Hufflepuffs and the studious Ravenclaws slowly enter my classroom. As if it isn't enough to seek redemption and absolution in the miserable life of a teacher - I can almost imagine Albus smiling and twinkling as he says for the umpteenth time, "It's truly a small sacrifice that I ask of you, my dear boy," and my scowl becomes fiercer - I have to deal with gloomy and damp dungeons, with little to no ventilation, while trying to keep hormonal teenagers from poisoning either themselves or me with toxic fumes or from blowing us all to bits with dangerous explosions. And yes, this kind of atmosphere is disastrous on my skin and hair but every time one of the little imbeciles whisper, "greasy git,"I can't stop thinking it's not surprising that I can't get laid with those effects on my otherwise patrician looks. And thus, I take revenge by giving the foolhardy idiots detentions (lots of them) and having them clean disgusting cauldrons or cut and chop gruesome, slimy ingredients.
This class is hardly the worst I have: Fourth Year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. But apparently today they can't seem to settle down. "Must be this wretched Tournament,"I think. I use one of my hardest glares, the one that conveys death, torture and suffering and hiss one word: "Silence."
As the classroom is suddenly quiet, I can't stop myself and indulge in a happy dance inside my head while crowing, Yes, yes, still got it!
With the attention of every student on me, I walk towards my desk with my long black robes billowing around me and I wave my wand at the blackboard to make today's potion recipe appear. My voice is still pitched low and threatening as I begin to lecture :
"Open your books on page three hundred and twelve."
Look at the little buggers. They're fourteen and nothing can cow them for long, they're already smiling and whispering again.
"I hope you read the chapter concerning Forgetfulness Potions, as ingredient preparation, stirring and heating mistakes can all cause violent consequences, up to and including maiming and loss of life."
Threats like this one can no longer calm down keyed up, full of energy and passionate young men and women. Not even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Time to up the ante.
"As you moronic children seem oblivious to and unconcerned about the dangers encountered in this classroom, there is a new rule applying immediately."
Ah ha! Their heads perk up and they look curious.
"Every time I hear one of you dunderheads make a noise, be it whispering, murmuring or mumbling, I'll choose a random student and give him or her a week-end detention scrubbing whatever Mister Filch has available."
Of course, the little idiots groan and whine in a low voice. They never learn. Time to make an example.
"Miss Bones, detention next Saturday. Nine o'clock with Mister Filch. I believe the Owlery needs cleaning."
Susan Bones looks delicious with her red cheeks and her eyes brilliant with tears. I wonder if her aunt Amelia looked as pretty when she was younger. I'd say yes. It would have been more pleasant to be captured by the lovely young Auror than by the scarred and demented Mad-Eye Moody. Oh, yes. A few hours in a cell with Amelia...
My musings are stopped short as my hearing is keen enough to hear young Hannah Abbot whisper fiercely to her best friend a few words about the world being unfair and I being a mean git. Yes, it is. And yes, I am. There is nothing else to amuse me but to annoy schoolchildren. I stare coldly at Miss Abbot and smirk before saying:
"Mister Boot, detention next Sunday. I'm afraid you will miss the foreign students' arrival, as Mister Filch has a lot of trophies that need polishing."
The boy is blindsided by the injustice, but he's a Ravenclaw and doesn't say a word. He understands the rules of the game. Nevertheless, he turns to both Hufflepuff girls and frowns at them disapprovingly.
Hmm, Terry Boot has a very adult look when he wrinkles his nose this way. Very attractive...
"Now, get to work or suffer the repercussions."
I go back to my desk with a flurry of large movements that make the black fabric of my robes snap sharply, causing some of the nincompoops to gasp in fright. It's very satisfying.
The dunderheads are finally working in silence. I sit in my wooden chair, delighted at its archaic style - it looks rigid and severe, like it would hurt every part of one's back, bottom and thighs. Just like me, I can't stop thinking gleefully. Its invisible cushioning charms render it terribly comfortable, though. The next hour will be pleasant, as I have the liberty to spend it with my own thoughts. I don't fear these students will cause any kind of accident : the Hufflepuffs are very good at following instructions from the Ravenclaws and the Ravenclaws are very good at studying the process and directing the Hufflepuffs.
I put on my metaphorical mask of mean teacher - alternating scowls, sneers and glares at random intervals - and go back to the fantasy that caught my fancy this morning: a young Amelia Bones, red-cheeked, bright-eyed and inexperienced. Pretty little thing in her Auror robes. Amelia is pointing her wand at me, handsome Death Eater scoundrel, who disarms her with a swift Expelliarmus, violent enough to rip her robes at the shoulder. Her creamy skin looks delectable, and her robes slide down her arm and chest, revealing a generous cleavage and an erect pink nipple. She blushes in embarrassment, and crosses her arms. She bites her lips, her head down, then looks up to me with her wide eyes - Oh Merlin, it's no longer Amelia, it's Susan Bones. The girl is sitting right in front of my desk, biting her lips, with her head down and looking at me worriedly.
I hope I didn't leer at the poor girl, as I'm quite certain she wouldn't understand. But I'm hard and dying for a good wank. I can't indulge in my perversions during class hours, but there's no way I'm sitting through lunch hour in the Great Hall, surrounded by an infuriating Headmaster versed in Legilimency, a motherly Professor Sprout coddling her Hufflepuffs (including the shapely young Miss Bones, who did give me quite a boner), a moronic Madam Hooch who will blather about Quidditch until I have a powerful migraine and other colleagues, some of whom - like Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick - are far too perceptive for my tastes.
Back to my rooms it is, to acquaint myself better with my right hand and my new fantasy, I think. Make no mistake, I'm not a paedophile. Fourteen-year-olds in this dratted school are just unbecomingly precocious. And it's been months since I felt this mounting excitement, this taunting arousal. I need release. I concede that I will probably not imagine Susan Bones touching me. Nor I touching her - I often saw her grimacing in disgust when looking at me. But I'll be damned if I can't imagine her touching herself. What a tempting picture.
Merlin damn you, Albus Dumbledore, for seeking my company, today of all days!I feel a mindless rage seeping through every pore of my body, as I sit on my chair at the Head Table, for lunch. I am stiff as a board and send dark looks to students and staff. Woe to anyone who irritates me, annoys me or even comes to my attention. I couldn't escape to my personal quarters after the Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw potions class, because the Headmaster was waiting for me to talk about the rise of dark activity in the Wizarding World.
We walked as we discussed the inane topic. After a few asinine words about dark magic - "It's baaad", says the doddering old man - and about the resurgence of the Death Eater movement since the World Cup this summer - "It's very baaad"- Albus smiled, twinkled at me and invited me - and incidentally my sensitive erect prick - to have lunch with him. I don't believe I have ever hated someone that much. Yes, that's blatantly untrue, but I'm hard as a rock and having lunch with my very old mentor because he tricked me into it.So I'm simmering in my fury.
I simmer all afternoon and sometimes explode at the imbecilic simpletons of students that cross me... Or cross my path.
But a niggling memory stops me from murdering any of the little dunderheads before dinner. I remember an artefact that Lucius Malfoy left behind after graduating from Hogwarts - or to be honest, that I filched from his trunk before a house-elf collected it to stow it on the train. I was fourteen myself at the time and Evan Rosier had dared me to steal it.
Beautiful Evan. Dead Evan. When I drink enough to forget that you liked being a Death Eater, I quite miss you.
It was a small, tarnished mirror with the most astonishing properties, as I discovered in my Fifth year. I had forgotten all about it, until my fantasy of seeing Miss Bones touching her gorgeous body brought it back to my mind. Indeed, this mirror could show the wonders of masturbation - at the time, other students masturbating - as long as one was masturbating as well while looking at it.
That memory alone helps me get through this torturous day as I decide to make use of it this very evening.
As the magical sky in the Great Hall finally turns dark, illuminated by hundreds of little twinkling stars, I begin to feel more and more impatient for the annoying little buggers to finish their dinners and go back to their common rooms, where they will no doubt make a token effort at their assignments before heading for bed. I am certain that, in a couple of hours, I will witness at least a dozen hormonal boys and girls stroking themselves to orgasm. This time, I won't allow anything to force me to miss such a golden opportunity.
Not even you, Albus Dumbledore.
I carefully put my spoon on my dessert plate and leave my seat, a deep frown on my forehead. As Albus tries to stop me yet again - Merlin help me, is the man precognitive?- I retort with a foolproof excuse: a potions experiment waiting in my personal lab. The meddling Headmaster subsides, unable to foil my plans, and I cheer inwardly. I leave the Great Hall briskly, my black robes billowing around me.
As I reach the door of my personal quarters, I finally relax.
The long-awaited evening wank is mine.
A short search in my old school trunk stowed in my dresser procures me the innocent-looking mirror that I delicately put down on my bedside table. I consider taking a bath, but reject the idea as too relaxing and time-consuming. I take a thorough shower instead, to take care of the day's potions fumes, grease and stink. I unearth a vial of pleasantly viscous lube, which I put down near the mirror. It's ten o'clock, a little early yet, but it's a school night so I'm pretty sure a good number of students are - as I am - preparing for bed.
I forgo the nightshirt and lie down on my bed. I take the mirror in my left hand and put my right hand on my half-hard cock to activate it.
A silhouette appears and becomes clearer as my fingers caress up and down, barely stimulating me yet. It's a burly black boy in a shower. A red and gold towel is hanging on a wall hook. A Gryffindor, probably a Sixth or Seventh Year. Lee Jordan, then.The sixteen-year-old boy has one hand on the tiled wall, as he jerks himself off with the other. His prick looks heavy and thick, with the tip more red than pink. He's breathing heavily.
Very nice, Mister Jordan. Come on, give me a show.
He puts his forehead against the white bathroom tiles and uses both his hands. I'm stroking myself more forcefully. His left hand falls between his thighs and grabs his bollocks to massage them. His right hand twists his cock. His back arches and he spills himself on the floor, his mouth forced open by a silent shout of pleasure.
My cheeks must be tinted pink, as they feel warm. It's time to spread the lube on my cock, because Mister Jordan was only an appetiser. For the next hour, I roam the school through my scrying mirror and wank slowly.
Miss Patil, Ravenclaw, caresses herself naked with her legs spread wide.
Mister Diggory, Hufflepuff, wanks quickly and violently.
Mister Baddock, Slytherin, is too young and I quickly turn my eyes away.
Miss Brown, Gryffindor, rubs her clitoris against the wood of the chair she's sitting on amidst her schoolmates in the common room. What a naughty girl, I'll keep an eye on you, Miss Brown.
Mister Malfoy, Slytherin, is really blond everywhere and is apparently able to come from the sole stimulation of his wand in his arsehole. Very exciting show, Mister Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin.
I'm so aroused my balls are painful and drawn tight against my perineum. I lick my lips and give a last look at the mirror showing Mister Corner, under his covers with one hand over his mouth. The mirror falls from my hand, which goes right to one of my nipples to pinch it. I can feel a marvellous orgasm building deep in my groin. I come so hard, after this hour of peeking and spying at my students, that I black out for a few seconds. I open one eye, boneless and exhausted, and my only thought is The little blighters are actually good for something, thank Merlin.
I regularly practice my new hobby every night until the next week-end, when the two guest schools are scheduled to arrive. It's a pity, really, that the foreign students won't be inhabiting the castle, as I would welcome the diversity.
I refuse to join the Hogwarts' welcoming committee. After all, the attendance isn't mandatory and no one will notice my absence. Except for the Headmaster, who will no doubt chide me for my surliness. It is enough to hear second-hand reports of a gigantic horse-drawn coach pulled by monstrous Pegasi, and of an intimidating submarine that emerged from the Lake provoking geysers of water. There are whispers of an unnaturally beautiful blonde girl - I have an inkling that she does have Veela ancestry - and of Viktor Krum, Quidditch prodigy and star of last summer's World Cup.
The feast in the Great Hall is spectacular - Albus, you really have outdone yourself for the sake of international cooperation. I can't stop sneering haughtily at the Gryffindor table, whose members are particularly agitated, gesticulating wildly and debating loudly. Gryffindors are a bunch of arrogant fools. I smirk at them because I know their most intimate secrets.
I know the Weasley twins are devising a strategy to beat the age line right now andat night, they wank in concert.
I know Lavender Brown is preening at the glances of a Durmstrang older boy andshe's an exhibitionist.
I know Hermione Granger is berating her cohorts andas a Muggleborn - not that concerned about virginity - she's one of the rare girls I saw finger herself to orgasm.
And I know Potter, like his father before him, will most likely try to break the rules. That moronic boy will try to enter the Tournament despite the security measures to protect him, because he likes being the centre of attention. I laugh inwardly at the grotesque idea of a James Potter look-alike unable to pleasure himself without a crowd of fawning fans cheering him on. I know Potter is an attention seeker and in bed he... This is odd, the other Gryffindors were easy to comment...
I frown, as I find it difficult to mock his wanking habits because I don't really remember them. Maybe the images were truly unremarkable. It is of no matter; I am a gifted Occlumens. I will use mind magic to retrieve my memories of Potter jerking off. Though, of course, Occlumency shouldn't be used in such frivolous endeavours. I can hear Albus pontificating about it in my head: "Such a powerful tool, dear boy, such a weapon in our war against the Dark, it would be a shame to misuse it."Fortunately, I am shameless.
My frown deepens when I am unable to remember anything at all, even with mind magic, and it attracts Minerva's attention.
"Severus, what did these poor students do for you to look at them so severely?"
Why are you bothering me, you old cat? I don't want you noticing my little pastime, especially as I am getting excited by the appealing thought of a wanking Potter even without the visual boon provided by my mirror.
"I am severe, because these poor students - as you call them - are a troupe of misbehaving monsters. Especially your Gryffindors. Who will no doubt take advantage of the international school competition to wreak havoc in the castle. I would dock points and assign detentions in advance, because Gryffindor bravery will undoubtedly translate into foolish death-defying stunts, but you and Albus overruled me at the last staff meeting. Nevertheless, I'm keeping an eye on them, Minerva, and woe on the little miscreants I'll catch." This kind of discussion is so familiar that the words flow from my mouth naturally and dissipate my colleague's suspicion.
As the older professor turns away, I glare at the dark-haired head of her golden boy and feel like hissing. I haven't caught Potter in my scrying mirror yet, it seems, but it's only a matter of time.
Let the chase begin, Mister Potter.
I have forgone my nightly patrols for the last three days, I have resisted sleep for the last three nights, I have kept the scrying mirror in my pocket and checked it between classes and during meals - all in hope of catching Potter with a hand down his pants. It's a lot less easy than it sounds and I have spent an incommensurable amount of time with one of my hands on my cock and the other on my mirror. I can't believe I'm so obsessed with the Potter brat.
And my efforts are, for the moment, for naught. I've seen enough masturbating teenagers to fuel my wanking fantasies for years - or be utterly disgusted by the hormonally driven dimwits - but I haven't even caught a glimpse of the little dark-haired twit.
I scowl and glare. I glower and snarl. I deliver scathing diatribes to weeping Hufflepuffs and disparaging comments to outraged Ravenclaws. The Gryffindors, I simply insult relentlessly.
As Friday and my double-period class with the Gryffindor and Slytherin Fourth Years approaches and no amount of spying leads to the satisfaction of my curiosity, I become increasingly bad-tempered and foul-mouthed. The students flee from my vindictive presence and the professors are giving me the cold shoulder. This is entirely my fault. I may have told Filius his cheery demeanour was a powerful incentive to Cruciohim. I may have hissed at the bug-eyed bogus Seer in residence, Trelawney, that I would insert her crystal balls where the sun doesn't shine if she ever spoke to me again. I may even have threatened Albus to choke him with a lemon drop as soon as I catch him unawares. I am lucky that my mood is blamed on the upcoming Halloween.
Fortunately, the last Potions class of the week will alleviate some of my frustration. And I will keep my scrying mirror with me, just in case.
I look at Potter, as he and his two annoying friends settle at their usual worktable. My obsession is deep and sharp - yes, I do acknowledge that I'm obsessed- because I immediately begin to detail his appearance. His dark hair is windblown, not artfully arranged to look shaggy like his father's. His cheekbones are high and flushed, reminding me of Lily. His green eyes are obscured by his atrocious glasses, but they look bright and eager. He's still a smaller boy than his schoolmates - especially next to a Weasley - but his body looks lithe and firm.
Potter blushes when he notices me looking at him - does the whelp realise that he's an innocent prey in my wanking games?- and purses his lips when I smirk at him.
"Today," I say in a peremptory voice, "we will work on an unusual potion, combining complex ingredient preparation and thorough timekeeping."
I'm not telling them, but this is the recipe for one of my favourite mood-enhancers. It amplifies positive emotions and links them to sensory pleasure. It makes the experience of wanking while thinking about the object of one's desires truly unforgettable.
"You will find the instructions on the blackboard as always," I explain as I wave my wand to write them. I turn my back to the class for a few seconds, but I hear Potter whisper to the Granger girl and interrupt him smoothly. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mister Potter; there will be no need to talk, as this is an individual assignment."
The boy looks at me with blazing eyes and mutters, "But I didn't..."
"And ten more, Mister Potter," I add gleefully, "for back-talking."
Merlin, the boy is beautiful when he's angry. Is that why I've been goading him all this time?The thought makes me a tad uneasy, so I dismiss it as unworthy of my consideration. I've had legitimate reasons to provoke him for years, and now I just have an additional one.
I sit at my desk, my eyes roaming the classroom to make sure every student is working and to prevent another Longbottom disaster.
I'm a petty, nasty, black-hearted man - I admit it freely, as I cultivated those aspects of my personality for years - but it would be untrue to say that Longbottom is a scapegoat of mine. He truly is stupid. He is adding porcupine quills without removing his cauldron from the fire. Again. I swiftly walk to him and grab his hand.
"Didn't we learn, Mister Longbottom, that porcupine quills are only to be added in a potion when the cauldron is away from the fire? Didn't we learn this important fact in the very first class of your very first year at Hogwarts, during which your potion exploded all over you, leading you to painful burns and a stay in the Hospital Wing?" As my sarcastic tirade goes on, a couple of tears - caused by fear and humiliation, probably - leak from the boy's eyes. "Maybe if you actually worked and used your brain every once in a while, you wouldn't be such a clumsy cretin and you would learn to pay attention during Potions class." I can hear some of my Slytherins snickering quietly and I can see Potter seething with impotent rage at the presumed unfairness of my treatment of the nitwit. "I despair of you, Mister Longbottom. Zero for the day."
From the corner of my eye, I see Potter opening his mouth to defend his oafish housemate and Granger pinching his arm to silence him.
"Ow! Hermione!" The brat yelps.
I intervene. "Talking again, Mister Potter?" The boy sends me a dark look. "Detention, seven o'clock, on Monday." His look gets even darker and I smirk.
Alone in the dungeons with the little sod, what a perfect opportunity to discover exactly where and when he's pleasuring himself.If I have to dig this information out of his mind, there isn't anything to stop me.
The Halloween weekend event - the selection of the Triwizard champions - should have proceeded smoothly, but of course Potter and his infamous meddling in all things heroic have hijacked the attention of everyone present by having his name spat by the Goblet of Fire - a supposedly incorruptible artefact. The arrogant, unruly, disruptive little twerp!
It makes me all the more eager to use Legilimency on him during his detention. You will reveal all your secrets to me, Potter, and I will annihilate you with them, idiot boy!
I hear the hesitant knocks at the door. It seems the illegitimate Hogwarts champion is losing his Gryffindor bravery at the idea of confronting his Slytherin Potions Master.
"Enter," I say curtly.
Potter comes in, dragging his feet. He looks at me not without misgivings and I use my wand, hidden in my sleeve, to send a dart of Legilimency at him. A couple of seconds are plenty to discover his burgeoning sexuality, his absurd crush and his weakness.
It appears that Potter - Boy-Who-Lived, boy-hero, Golden boy- is a late bloomer. He hasn't discovered masturbation yet, which is why my faithful mirror hasn't exposed him to my licentious spying. But something, or more precisely someone, has recently been arousing him.
"You will work on last Friday's potion, Mister Potter," I order him. "On the workstation prepared for that. I expect the potion to be at least passable or I will issue another detention."
Once my instructions are given, I walk toward my desk, my black robes billowing around me, and settle down as if marking assignments. It's as good a cover as I can muster. My actual activity is spying again. My scrying mirror is amongst the parchments and as soon as I put my hand on my cloth-covered cock, images of Potter flash on and off. I raise my head to understand. I see him preparing the porcupine quills and squirming on his seat, as if he's rubbing his hard prick against his thighs. He is, the kinky little twat.At this moment, I have no doubt whatsoever that Potter has been wanking in my class all year long.
I stand up to observe him more closely, leaving the mirror behind. I won't need it any longer, as I prefer enjoying the live show the boy is offering.
"Careful with those quills, Mister Potter," I say as I approach his table. He ducks his head and flushes. It isn't anger or resentment, as I have previously thought. It's desire.
I catch his eyes again and dive in his mind. I appear in his thoughts larger than life, shrouded in black, tall, trim and majestic. I seem to look upon him from above, dominating his lithe form. Intense and brooding, as befits a dramatic character. He thinks of Heathcliff, dark and romantic hero whose all-consuming passion destroys him and those he loves.
The discreet movement of his thighs, squeezing against each other and trapping his prick into a haze of pleasure, is getting a bit more frantic. He looks like he can't help himself. I move closer and lean over him.
"Don't forget to douse the fire before adding them," I advise him in a low voice.
Potter is so aroused that his eyes are glazed. His left hand gets to his groin in an unconscious movement. His lips are parted and his tongue strokes them wet. What a little incubus!
His eyes unveil other fantasies. He imagines me with silky black hair - though my hair is actually greasy dark brown - with deep yet piercing black eyes - though once more my eyes are dark brown - with a patrician nose - well, he doesn't know his father broke my nose twice while at Hogwarts, but maybe I'll tell him, if only to see him flush in anger again- and with masterful hands. Hands pleasuring him.
I walk around him, as if keeping an eye on his potion, and stop right behind him. The boy is biting his lips now. The most innocuous stimulus will probably trigger a chain reaction resulting in his undergarments being wet and sticky. I can't resist such temptation. I bend down near his ear and blow.
Potter shudders violently and a choked moan escapes his mouth, as his body is overwhelmed by his first orgasm.
"Are you quite finished now, Potter?" I asks in a low tone, lacing my voice with innuendo.
The boy gasps, his cheeks flushed red, and looks at me suddenly. His bright green eyes are both shining from the afterglow and from the fear of discovery. He opens his mouth to answer, but, as he's just spent the last minutes utterly distracted, his unstable potion bubbles and explodes.
I smirk and say, "Detention, Potter. Eight o'clock tomorrow."
And maybe I'll make you come again.