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Harry put down his quill and shot one more quick
glance at his Potions NEWT.
He was finished. After seven years of continuously dreading the class, Harry
would finally be free of it. Well, technically, not yet. He still had two
weeks left until the end of the term. And if pressed, Harry would have to
admit that he hadn’t dreaded the class in earnest for two years. If coaxed,
he might admit that he actually hadn’t minded coming to class at all this
year. Under torture, he would probably confess to having enjoyed the class
and maybe even looked forward to going. But it would take Veritaserum to
make him admit that he would miss the class. He would miss Snape.
Harry cast a locking charm on the exam, thereby breaking the obscurity and
silencing bubbles Snape had placed around each student to prevent cheating.
Besides Millicent Bulstrode and Lavender Brown, he was the only one still
there. He supposed that maybe he had taken a little more time than necessary
on that last essay question on the ethical use of Magical Creatures for
potions ingredients.
Harry gathered his bag and exam and made his way up to where Snape pored
thoughtfully over a stack of scrolls, absently caressing his chin with the
eagle feather of his quill. Harry swallowed hard and looked away. Dropping
his exam on the desk with the others, he turned to go.
“Potter.” The curt, bitter way in which his name was spoken sent shivers
down Harry’s spine. He gasped and collected himself before turning back to
the Potions master.
“Yes, sir?”
“Your journal.”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “Sorry?” he choked.
Snape shot him an impatient look, pursing his lips irritably. “Your Potions
journal, Potter. You are to turn it in. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.”
Forgotten? No. Harry hadn’t known that the journal was to be turned in. In
fact, he distinctly remembered being told that the journal wouldn’t be
graded. He’d counted on it. “I-I thought you said it wouldn’t be graded,
sir.”
Something resembling satisfaction fell over Snape’s face. His eyes glittered
maliciously. Were Harry not struck with a sudden wave of alarm at the
thought of the professor reading his journal, he might have melted. There
was just something about that glare.
“If you had read the syllabus I’d given at the start of the year, you might
have known that while the journal wouldn’t be graded, it would be required
for a passing grade. Am I to understand that you’ve not been writing in your
journal?” Harry thought he could see the start of a sinister grin twitch at
the corner of Snape’s mouth.
Oh, he’d been writing in it. “Yes! I mean, no. I have been...it’s just
that...can I give it to you in another hour?” Harry began praying. If he had
but one hour, he could get rid of all the incriminating parts. All the
humiliating parts. Dammit. Why had Hermione given back that blasted
time-turner?
“You could, if you wanted to spend an eighth year in my class.” Harry
considered briefly. Would it be so terrible? Then he realised that Creevey
would be in that class, and knowing Harry’s luck, he would be paired with
him.
Bloody hell. The worst that would happen is that Snape would read his
journal to the class on Monday. The Slytherins would have a good laugh. Ron
would disown him. The rest of the Gryffindors would stop speaking to him.
But it was only for the next two weeks, right?
Harry plunged his hand into his book bag and quickly pulled out his journal,
thrusting it forward. He focussed his eyes on the green book, well aware
that he was blushing furiously. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do
about it. Snape took hold of the other end and tugged. After a moment, Harry
remembered to let go. He spun around and tried to flee.
“Potter, kindly remove the locking spell.”
Stopping dead in his tracks--or rather wishing he had been stopped
dead--Harry swallowed back a pained groan, pointed his wand and muttered the
password under his breath. He glanced once more with a bit more desperation
in his expression than he would have liked and then bolted out of the room.
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Intriguing.
I watch the boy scamper out of my classroom with nearly as much urgency as
Neville Longbottom had. Of course, Longbottom’s anxiety ceased to please me
ages ago. It’s become downright boring. I sneeze and the boy goes into
cardiac arrest.
Now, Potter...
It’s been years since I’ve provoked anything other than vague resentment in
the boy. He takes my punishments as though I were merely correcting his
grammar. The reluctance...nay, the terror I detected in his expression as he
turned in his journal promises a fun-filled night of reading exactly what
Potter thinks of me.
It happens every year. At least one foolish seventh-year student fails to
read the damn syllabus and fills his or her journal with commentary on
everything from my hair to my teaching techniques. I have a vast collection
of colourful insults, lengthy tirades, and splendidly cruel drawings of my
profile. It pleases me a great deal. As I don’t grade the bloody things, the
offending students are punished only by their own sense of guilt and the
occasional furious glare from me, along with whatever comments I add to
their journals. It’s enough to make them wet themselves for fear.
The next two weeks should prove quite amusing.
After all the journals and exams have been handed in, I gather up the lot
and retire to my chambers. I sit at my desk with a flask of brandy, my
quill, and a well of red ink. I have all week to grade the exams. Tonight, I
will allow myself the great pleasure of finally getting an honest word from
the boy. I open the journal at the last entry. The insults are generally
more creative toward the end the year. I take a sip of brandy and focus.
May 30
Wart-removing solution:
Cloudy. I added too much powdered viper fangs, I think. The consistency is
off a bit. Added more gin...seems to have worked.
Bloody hell!!! What I wouldn’t give to be his quill. Fuck.
I wonder if he’d notice if I drank some of this gin.
I furrow my brow and wonder about the quill in question. I would take a
sinister delight in revealing Potter’s secret crush. The “his” stands out. I
hadn’t realised that the boy was queer. Witches everywhere are eating their
hearts out. I suppose the old adage “takes one to know one” isn’t true after
all. I continue reading.
May 25 Lecture notes
1903-Dragon Protection Act
--Killing of dragons for their magical properties forbidden
--Penalty for dragon poaching 10 year minimum I’m so fucking hard.
I’m startled into laughter. Damn. I try not to think about Potter being
aroused in my classroom. The idea disturbs me. I shift in my seat and wonder
if I should continue reading. The desire to know the identity of the object
of the Boy Who Lived Again and Again’s affection drives me onward.
--15 yrs. for killing females
I wonder how big he is. Does he jerk off? God. I’d love to see that. I
wonder who he thinks about. If he thinks about anyone. I need a cold shower.
May 23
Eye-colour potion
Black. Like his. Dark and deep and cold. He’s glaring at me. When did that
glare start to go directly to my trousers? Christmas dinner. He dropped his
fork and I picked it up for him. He glared. Instant erection. I’m a freak.
I reread the passage four times before placing the journal carefully on the
desk. I drink deeply from my flask, letting the liquid calm my rapidly
beating heart. My first impulse is to believe that the entire thing is a
joke. And were it not for the fact that I had to essentially tear the
journal from his trembling hand, I would be more than happy to go on
believing it.
My mind trails to the night in question. The school, as I recall, was quite
empty. Potter and two Slytherins were the only students left in the castle.
Everyone else had been called home to celebrate the Dark Lord’s final
defeat. Dumbledore had insisted on gathering at a small round table for a
little more “togetherness,” I remember with a scowl. He wanted to ensure
that the occasion take on a familial feeling since the boy’s worthless
godfather up and got himself killed in the final battle. Having come in late
for the family bonding moment, the boy was forced to sit next to me.
I dropped my fork and he reached down to fetch it. I glared at his
Gryffindor insistence on showing kindness to those they hate. Or at least
I’d thought he hated me. It occurs to me now that I’d have preferred to keep
my delusions. How the hell am I going to face the boy after this?
Against my better judgment, I take up the journal again. Telling myself that
it cannot possibly get worse. As I have lost any hope of ever looking the
boy in the eye again, I may as well indulge my curiosity. I skip back a few
pages and scan his carefully printed notes for the telling scrawl of his
private thoughts.
He’s sneering. I wonder what it tastes like. I want to run my tongue
along his curled upper lip. What would he do? Die of shock. Disgust?
Probably. His lip would curl even more if he were disgusted. Good god. That
expression should be illegal. Oh no. The quill. Fuck. Does he know he
strokes his face with it? I doubt it. It seems like such a strange thing for
him to do consciously. So soft. I wonder how he’d like that feather brushed
along his chest, over his nipples, into his navel. My tongue would follow.
Would he moan?
Good god. I’m about to come just thinking about it.
I take a deep breath and try to curse away a rising problem in my trousers.
I try to remind myself that these are the thoughts of Harry bloody Potter,
the second generation of fate’s personal vendetta against me. Somehow, that
doesn’t help. In fact, thinking about whose head it is that produced these
thoughts only stirs my interest further. Harry Potter, the wizarding world’s
answer to muggle martyrs, is not as snow white as his smooth, supple, young
skin would lead us to believe. I take a wicked delight in knowing that
behind that innocent expression, there lurks a darker side. Somehow, it
redeems him.
Be that as it may, I am horrified to find that his impure thoughts are
directed toward me. I am. Horrified. I will my face into a disdainful
expression and read on...because as his professor it’s my job to read
his...potions notes.
I flip through until I find a rather lengthy passage that dates back to
March.
He looks tired. Was he walking the halls last night? I didn’t see him.
Does he have a lover? I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had sex. Oh.
Please be gay. I can handle the thought of you fucking other men. But women?
Ew. Maybe he’s shagging Fleur. Stupid French Bitch. As though Flitwick needs
a bloody assistant.
I snort, amused. And then damn myself for forgetting to be horrified by his
reflections on my private life. How dare he even think that I would be
charmed by that brainless twit? Let alone shag the cow. I shudder at the
thought and then continue with the passage.
He’s stroking his lips with the tip of the quill. Can I transfigure
myself into a feather?
I want to feel that feather slide down my spine, into the cleft of my arse.
It would probably tickle me mad. No. I want him to be rough. The other side
of the quill. He could dip it in that red ink he’s so fond of and write
nasty comments all over my body. The sharp tip scratching and clawing
insults into my skin. “Insolent wretch” etched into my chest. “Foolish boy”
tattooed on my arse. And then, when my whole body is covered in his scathing
remarks, he would order me onto my knees. His robes would be spelled away
and he’d be naked underneath. Hard. Huge. “Potter,” he’d say...in that way
he always says my name. Like he’s slapping me with it. A leather whip. “You
have repeatedly disobeyed the rules of this school. You’ve been an
insubordinate, ill-behaved little brat. While the Headmaster may be among
your little fanclub, I have not been charmed by your celebrity. Your
contempt for authority will not go unpunished. I will see that you are
properly subdued.”
I should stop grinning before he comes over here. Or before Ron starts to
wonder what I’m up to. If only Snape would insist on supervising his own
detentions. Yeah right, Harry. Like you’d ever have the bollocks to approach
him. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll read this.
No. Best not.
I think I’m the only person in the history of Hogwarts who has ever been
hard in Potions. What’s that word Hermione called Ron? Oh. Depraved.
Yes. That’s me.
I put down the book when I realise that I’m touching myself. Damn. It’s one
thing to continue reading the journal despite the fact that I won’t be
reading any of the others. It’s quite another to enjoy it. And it’s
unforgivable to get off on it. It’s vulgar. It’s...depraved.
I think the boy has found his calling as a professional smut writer. He’s
certainly inspiring enough. But no. It would be a shame for him to waste
that firm Seeker’s body.
I did not just think that. I have not noticed his body. I’m going to bed
now. And I will not think about quills...or leather whips. Or subduing
intractable Gryffindors...
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Snape didn’t read Harry’s journal to the class on
Monday. Neither on Wednesday. Nor on any of the other days between the NEWT
exam and the last day of class. In fact, Harry had given up hope that Snape
had read his journal at all. Not that he’d been hoping. He hadn’t.
All right. He may have had one or two fleeting thoughts suggesting that
maybe Snape’s reading of his Potions journal wouldn’t necessarily be a bad
thing. Harry thought that if his nearly former professor had read the
journal and found its contents intriguing, Harry might find another, more
interesting, more private celebration to attend than the one at the Three
Broomsticks.
But now, on this last Friday of his school career, in his very last Potions
class, Harry felt hopeless. He prepared the contraceptive potion that Snape
had assigned “because you will all undoubtedly get smashed and do foolish
things. And I shudder to think of any of you breeding.” Harry thought he saw
a hint of a smirk shot in his direction after Snape had said that, but was
sure he must have imagined it. His cock imagined it, too.
As the bell rang, Snape began speaking again. “Pick up your Potions journals
on the way out. The majority of them were filled with rubbish. You might
take that as your cue and dispose of them properly. Those of you who showed
the capacity for critical thought may wish to save the journal as a memento
of what you were like before you became a mindless drone in our society. I
congratulate you on having completed the best years of your life. Do try to
not destroy the world while I am still a part of it. Class dismissed.”
A flourish of celebratory whoops sounded and most of the students gathered
their things and paraded to the front of the class to be given their
journals. Harry, on the other hand, moved very slowly, trying to will away
the rather uncomfortable swelling in his trousers. Snape was always able to
get a rise out of him. Although in later years, the nature of that rise
changed dramatically.
Harry waited at the end of the line of students being held up by Hermione
who had insisted on unleashing her gratitude on what appeared to be a very
horrified Professor Snape. Harry shivered in anticipation for the response
that he knew his friend would get. He tried to feel guilty about wanting
Hermione to be humiliated, but he couldn’t help thinking that she was asking
for it.
“Miss Granger. If you are quite finished. You seem to be labouring under the
delusion that I care what you think. If I have done anything to encourage
that line of thinking, let me correct that now. You, along with your
cohorts, have quite possibly been the worst thing to happen to me in my
entire professional career. In the last seven years you have accused me,
attacked me, I suspect stolen from me, and otherwise irritated me
ceaselessly. It is only by the grace of Merlin that I have not yet hexed any
of you. As you are mercifully now my former student, I will permit myself to
tell you that you are a nosy, bookish, annoying little twit, who will
doubtlessly go far in life, if only because you’ll nag your way up the ranks
in the hierarchy of your choosing. I beg you, if you truly are grateful to
me for having taught you—a task which I cannot claim to have completed
willingly—stay out of education. Good day.”
Harry forced a sympathetic look onto his face when Hermione slumped off in
tears under the protective arm of Ron. Ron mouthed, “See you later.” Harry
had the sneaking suspicion that Ron would shamelessly take advantage of his
girlfriend’s fragile state and start the celebration before he even made it
to Hogsmeade.
Once his friends were out of the room, Harry allowed himself a sly smirk and
fought hard to repress the series of shivers that Snape’s speech had
invoked. His reaction was even stronger because the insults had been
indirectly aimed at him as well. He moved along in the line of now subdued
and seemingly apprehensive students, and, all too quickly, was the only one
left. He bit his lower lip in expectation of...well, he didn’t know what he
was expecting.
Snape silently slid the familiar, damning, green leather-bound journal
across his desk to Harry. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t glare. He didn’t
attack. Harry’s heart sank disappointedly. Surely seven years of animosity
were not going to end so anticlimactically?
Harry took up his journal, but couldn’t will himself to move. He was
shocked. Had he meant so little to the man? This was the last day. The very
last moment that Snape had any real authority over him. Wasn’t he going to
use it?
“Sir?”
A raised eyebrow over a neutral gaze. Harry could almost hear his heart
shattering.
“Did you...read it?”
A grunt.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
Snape looked thoughtful for a moment before replying. “With your note taking
practices as they are, it’s a wonder you didn’t fail.”
Well, that was something, right? Harry thought he could detect a little bite
in the statement. But it wasn’t anything even close to the rant with which
Snape had just accosted Hermione. Snape hated Harry more than he hated
Hermione. Harry’s green eyes flashed with jealousy. Those eyes flashed with
longing just as quickly when he saw Snape reach for his quill. A pathetic
whimper escaped his throat.
“Potter-” Harry gasped as his name lashed at him, stinging him. Leather.
Black leather. “Why are you still here?” Snape looked up at him, his dark
eyes glimmering in the reflection of the torches lighting the classroom. He
still held the quill and began absently tracing along his jaw line with the
plume. Harry felt his knees go weak. He placed a bracing hand on Snape’s
desk. He wanted to answer. But his words, along with his blood, had drained
into his now agonizingly painful erection.
“Are you being disrespectful, Mr. Potter?”
Harry had never heard that voice before. Thick and low, threatening. He
didn’t even try to suppress the trembling that tone incited. He was quite
sure he wouldn’t have succeeded anyway. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.
Snape raised an eyebrow and glared. “Are you trying to get a detention?”
Well...that, of course, would depend upon whether the detention were to be
served with Filch, as usual, or Snape for a welcome change. Harry, however,
didn’t have the mind to ponder the question in such depth. He simply
answered, “Yes, sir.”
Snape rose from his desk and made clicking noises. “It is a pity, really.
Filch will not be taking detentions this evening as it is the end of term. I
suppose, however, that I may be able to use you.” The smirk with which Snape
punctuated that last phrase, liquefied what was left of Harry’s capacity for
coherent thought. Snape mercilessly continued. “I seem to be running short
on parchment, Mr. Potter.”
“P-p-parchment?” Harry’s heart leapt in anticipation. Other parts were
leaping as well.
“Yes. I have a rather lengthy treatise to write on the despicably lax
disciplinary policies in our educational system.”
Harry groaned as the Potions master came nearer to him. Looming over him
with a terrible sneer and dangerous eyes. Harry could feel the heat
radiating off the man, combining with the heat of his own body, threatening
to incinerate his robes. Snape brushed the feather of his quill down Harry’s
cheek, lightly smoothing over Harry’s earlobe, and then sliding it down
Harry’s neck. Harry leaned onto Snape’s desk and struggled to remember how
to breathe properly. When Snape chuckled low in the throat, Harry gave up
the struggle, deciding that panting was a perfectly good method of
breathing.
“I expect, Potter, that you perform your punishment with much more
enthusiasm than you normally show your work. I will not be merciful. This
will hurt.” As though to prove his point, Snape introduced the other end of
the quill to the back of Harry’s neck, and slid it down.
Harry could feel the tip dragging along the sensitive skin and he shuddered
expectantly. “God, yes,” Harry breathed. “Yes, sir.”
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