Author�s Note: Has anyone else ever wondered just why Snape is SO violently angry towards Sirius and Remus - what has Remus ever done to him? - okay, Remus would have eaten him, but hey, I plead 'not of sound mind' at the time! And why has he always hated Harry because of the memory of James Potter? When I read Snape's memory of being bullied in 'The Order of the Phoenix', I knew I'd found the missing link... This fic is extremely twisted, perverse, and was a hell of a lot of fun to write.

My Head's All Messed Up, And He Knows Just What To Say

He was on his hands and knees again. The dust on the floorboards of the Shrieking Shack coated his fingers with grime. Fists tightened. He tasted the ecstasy of defeat momentarily, then overwhelmingly as it crashed over his head, the sweet harsh humiliation of being forced, again and again, by those who had the power to hurt him and the pleasure in doing it. Who had no desire to please him, but who would do it despite themselves, with those odd engaging looks, the softness of hair against his face, and its taste as he bit down on the strands that got into his mouth, against the pain in his inner passage and the shimmering elation that was somehow worse.

Because when he arched and came, he came against nothing. No warmth of flesh, no soft lips and flicking tongue to encourage him on as they did amongst themselves. They didn't want his come, they said; it might poison them, make them like him. The easy laughter, the jeers that stretched those mouths that had known his skin so intimately - even Remus, looking slightly uncomfortable now the mood was broken and Snape was looking like he'd been thrown against the wall and abandoned - even Remus just stood there.

It aches and hurts and rips and roars. He needs it. Month after month, they take him hard and fast, slow and easy, and every which way between, and they still don't know. The stupid young twats, thinking to fuck up his head - but they don't know how completely he was being fucked over, being torn inside with every time their engorged cocks threaten to tear up his stretched hole. Except Remus. Who looks concerned but can't do anything about it openly, just rubs his hand against Severus' tearstained cheek and sticks his tongue briefly into his ear to satisfy his curiosity, then quietly slips out after the others. Severus is left, a pale 18-year old shadow breathing on the floor, naked and spent. But filled well up with three peoples' come, leaking and messy over his pale buttocks.

They were never his masters, though. That came later, and was part of the memories that Severus kept bottled and sealed in his dungeon and marked with red ink: 'Death Eaters'. There was some knowledge too terrible to keep permanently inside your head. They never wielded that raw power, which literally wrapped chains around souls.

Theirs was more subtle, though no less far-reaching in its consequence; theirs was an attracting force. Severus heard the appeal, and it was unfair - it used his nerves to communicate, and he couldn't concentrate any more, because he couldn't trust his judgement any longer. Their proximity whispered at the edges of his ears and shouted in his blood. He wanted to let it out, more than they did occasionally in the Shack with James' pocket knife, and watch it flood and pour over the edges of his desk in some lesson. Then everyone would stare in disbelief at the shades of Sirius, James and Remus standing up, unfurling themselves from inside his blood as it dripped, because that was the only way he was ever going to get rid of them.

The appalling attraction was such, that they made him love their beauty whilst destroying him. He got to know them - James' arrogance, Sirius' drawling astuteness, Remus' quiet concentration - and yet they never let him in. It stayed a secret, and he out of all them had the least justification for letting out the truth. There was a reason now, though, and a damn good one. Quite possibly the most exquisite one of all. Revenge.

*

James brandishes his wand in Severus' face and leans forward.

'Tonight, 7 o'clock, the Shack,' he whispers against Severus' cheekbone, then scowls for good measure.

'Alright, Snape? You got that? Ever bother me again, you know what you'll get, right?' he says aloud.

Severus nods, tight-lipped, thin brows drawn together, then abruptly strides away. A straggle of fifth-years mutter derisively after him, their admiration for James Potter, the wonderful seventh-year Quidditch champion and Head Boy, obviously undiminished.

Severus' frown etches small lines into his forehead as he walks. He knows they're looking at him, those three, watching his steps, imagining the way his hips swing under the robe and exactly how they feel fitted into his pelvic bone, with the small mole on the left hand side, which Remus likes to kiss and where James always digs his fingers in. They told him they'd do that, last week - that's why they ordered him to walk up and down naked, so they could know what he looked like doing it and they'd remember when he was fully clothed again. Such games they like to play, he thinks, and lengthens his strides and turns a corner to get away from them. He knows he'll pay for that small luxury tonight.

*

He bites his tongue until his mouth is bloody. They torture him for the sake of the sobs wrung from his chest; deep cries and begging delight them all. Then the cock ring goes on, ohthe pain and strain and as they slip and slide into him, every side is sweaty. But screaming turns them on more; Remus pulls his hair and demands it. He's the only one to call him -

'Sev,' coaxes the voice, 'come on, Sev...scream for me, boy.'

He closes his eyes and takes a breath.

'Remus!' the sound erupts from his gullet.

The cock riding him seems to swell even larger. Remus takes a satisfied breath and leans forward, his hands running up and down, feeling Severus' thighs. He grips on tighter and hammers coarsely into his unyielding flesh, both of them groaning and Severus seeing stars when the absolute centre of his sweet spot is hit again and again. Sirius, standing behind them, watching appreciatively, reaches out to delicately stroke and pinch between Remus' taut buttocks. Remus swears and pants and comes, comprehensively.

Severus comes gratefully as he pulls out, but has no time to relax because James has already grabbed his hips and drawn him down to the mattress they keep there. He quickly enters him roughly, then sighs, remaining still inside him. In sex, James is a user. The main effect that that has on Severus is to make him like being used. The hazel eyes stare into his soul through his own wide dark eyes, and are indifferent.

Remus flops down beside him and they lean over and kiss, then Remus busies himself with cleaning himself up - he always was fastidious, Severus remembers - and Sirius wanders over, stiff-legged. His dick pulses in Severus' face. He knows what to do. He's good at deepthroating, essentially because he's had so much practise. Even the cock pounding into him doesn't prevent his tongue from knowing where to curl and when to flick. His hand skilfully curves round balls, dips in hollows, rubs on creases, fingers the base and wraps around a handful of black curls.

Sirius breathes in.

'Fuck, he's so - very - good at this - '

James laughs, and the same gleam leaps in Remus' eyes. Reaches out, calm, and gentle pets Severus' long hair, draws his little finger around the rim of his ear, skates over his bottom lip, slick with Sirius' pre-come. Severus squeezes Sirius' good, firm arse, hard so there might be bruises, with any luck. The marks of his fingers on them. He wishes. It's feeling so good in his arse, he loses track and has to hurry to catch the rhythm of tonguing. His whole world is rigid, and James' pants are muddled up with the sighs above Severus' head.

Sirius carefully selects four hairs from the mass of soft strands that are brushing around his balls, threads them around his fingers and deliberately pulls them out from the scalp, listening to the hiss of pain and looking for the tension to ripple across Severus' eyelids.

Smiling bastard. Severus knows exactly how his mouth will quirk, so - his mouth even imitates it, can't be prevented, sometimes he wants to be just like them and sometimes to never have met them, but never to be himself. He was unprotected, helpless, not like them. They had breeched his defences: anger, they laughed at, whilst tying his wrists above his head and arranging his legs how they wanted them; sarcasm, they gave as good as they got, and when they tired of his jibes, simply filled his mouth to get a better use from that sinuous tongue. Coldness, they ignored until he capitulated, crushed against their warmth, heat bleeding back into his voice before he can freeze it up, gasping and pleading for release. Which they gave to him, when they felt generous. He put the defences back together again, but splintered, and they know just where to wrench them apart.

With them, Severus is only susceptibilities. Sometimes it starts with a mere rub between his buttocks, and he wants to lie out on the floor and expose himself completely, open everything up, and weep with abandonment. He wonders if he's got there sometimes, when the sobs are shattering him and he's confused. Except that the backhanded slap - 'Stop blubbering, Snape, and get over here. You'll need all your breath to suck this.' - lets him know he hasn't reached it yet. That they don't know it all yet, except perhaps Remus who guesses, and for that reason won't say anything. That ignorance keeps him going, the only safety margin he has left.

At night he simply lies back and feels, the tingling of hurriedly magically-healed flesh, soft remnants of semen held suspended in the tight sore passage. His cock throbs but he can usually ignore it enough to get some sleep, he's used to that. His explorations remain, though, the knowledge of their bodies that he has gathered. The places rise up in his memory, and he licks his lips, wanting to touch them again. The strength in the back of Sirius' calves as he draws him nearer to drop at his feet, James' hazel haughty stare before he closes his eyes and enjoys, licking between the curves of Remus' fingers... The images are still there. After twenty years of more, or sometimes less, inspired forays into attempted oblivion, Severus was finally admitting to himself that he hadn't got over it. That it was time to vent his coldest, calculating anger on one specific person, rather than to dispense it generally among the population of Hogwarts. He was the only one he could reach, the only link to remain.

*

Severus lays his plans carefully. Always. He chooses a Friday evening, when Quidditch practice has just finished and tiredness fumbles the boy's reactions for him. To him.

'Yes, Professor?'

Innocence. Such a joy to hold this so securely in the fingers of both hands. Knowing how he will stretch it until it finds no more elasticity. Snaps, into a more perverse form.

He leads the way to his rooms, through a concealed door from the Potions dungeon. He turns, looks at the boy standing outlined against the fire, rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath. It was time for a short sharp lesson.

'Give me your hand.'

Warily, it extends towards him. He takes it.

Pause.

Break.

The pain is so unexpected and intense that Harry can't believe the evidence his eyes are giving him. His index finger, hanging at a peculiar angle. Snape, watching him with a half-smile. The scream leaves him without his having to do anything, breath's stopped. He's panting, eyes blurred with easy rolling tears, then cringes away from Snape taking out his wand. Utterly bewildered, he's feeling the bone smoothly knit together... pain's wiped out.

'Let me tell you something about your father, Potter. Breaking my fingers was one of his favourite pastimes. Of course, he always healed them, so as to leave no sign. But once or twice, he was careless.'

Snape's right hand is shown to him. He stares at the middle finger, slightly curved in on itself. The tears still run down his face.

The expectancy is beginning to murmur through Severus' veins. He catches a dim echo of times gone, and fosters it. The anger it kindles directs him. He steps forward, approaching carefully. Then stares down, arrogant in his height, knowing he is safe in his power. Nothing can go wrong for him. Everything will go wrong for Potter.

'Potter...'

As his hand stretches out towards Harry's face, Harry's head goes back, straining out of his reach. A finger lands on Harry's lower lip, and strokes it, dragging the skin from side to side. The expression on Harry's face rearranges itself from fear to puzzlement to outright incredulity. What's going on here?

He's too inexperienced to taste the nuances in this room, thinks Severus. A delicious compulsion edges up on him and presents itself. He weighs it, considers, then unhurriedly rests his fingertips on Harry's head and pushes them through his hair, rolling the strands with his fingers and feeling the waves and clumps and odd disorderly pieces his hair falls into. James all over again. At that thought, he bends his head to Harry's conveniently tilted-back face. Harry's mouth goes slack with shock, which means Severus is able to force his tongue a little way in, before muffled grunts and pushing, frantic hands on his chest make him lift his head again. Even so, he has enjoyed the first taste.

Harry is blushing, gasping, his gaze lowered. Snape...just... Snape, for God's sake!

Severus smiles. He forces Harry's chin upwards again with adroit pressure and looks at him steadily, eyes flickering all over the face he knows so well. Harry flushes even more under the cold stare, with the man so close to him. The words come delicately out of his mouth.

'On your knees.'

He watches Harry's mouth drop open. A glimpse of his tongue sends a shiver down Severus' spine and into his balls, but he sighs.

'Potter, I have neither the time nor the inclination to wait around for that underused brain of yours to catch up with my commands. Understand this: you will obey immediately. Or suffer the consequences.'

'But -' Harry stammers, 'I - don't want -'

Severus raises an eyebrow.

'Your wishes on this or any other occasion, Potter, leave me supremely indifferent. How indifferent - well,' his eyes glint, 'you will come to understand in due course. On your knees, I said. Unless you want me to snap one of these pretty wrists this time.'

His fingers caress the veins at Harry's right wrist. Harry looks at the dark, implacable eyes, knows that Snape will hold good to his threat, gulps. Bends down and gets on his knees. There is silence as Severus savours the moment. James! he exults inside his head. How the mighty have fallen!

He bundles his robes aside with one hand, and with the other takes hold of the hard naked flesh, free from any confines - he has prepared for this moment - the horror on Harry's face almost making him come without further ado. He nudges onto Harry's lips, feels a shudder, which then passes through him at the first wet touch on his cock.

'Suck, boy...'

Shades of Remus.

His eyes narrow. Watching the boy watch him, then drop his eyes to his task, too embarrassed to look.

A clever flick at the slit has him throwing his head back. His hands tighten on Harry's shoulders.

And so it begins.

*

Another evening. Tired from the burden of work accomplished in the day, he is reclining on the bed when the hidden door he left ajar is slowly pushed open. The boy has come straight from the showers. Wet hair. He likes wet hair.

'Come over here, Potter.'

A finger beckons. Trembling legs are forced forward. A face full of bravely suppressed terror looks boldly into his. This should be entertaining.

A hesitant voice, made loud with nerves.

'Just so you know, I - I'm not doing...anything to you. I'm only here - t-to tell you that.'

This should be very entertaining.

His hand gently plays with the strands of hair, smooth for once with the weight of water they hold.

'Indeed, Potter? A dubious claim, I feel. Had you really wished to refuse, you could simply have found a way to tell me. In our next class, at the bottom of your next essay, perhaps. You are ingenious enough to think of something that would have enabled you to miss this particular appointment. But you did not do so. That forces me to the simple conclusion that you wanted to come. Possibly out of curiosity. Out of a desire to know what else I would do to you. Or why I was doing it.'

A voice of revulsion.

'No! It's not...like that! I only thought, if I didn't come, you'd...'

Voice trails off, stops. A faint hint of something which might be related to laughter.

'Do something worse?'

'Yes,' mumbled.

'You may have been right. I do not take kindly to disobedience, as you have often found to your cost, Potter. However, be that as it may,' the voice is getting colder, 'your presence here allows me in return to assure you of my ability to make your life extremely unpleasant. Yes, more so than you're already experienced, hard though that may be to believe.'

His gaze is unyielding. Harry finds his eyes are watering in his attempt to hold it. He blinks, and tries to refocus. On the sibilant, menacing whisper, writing words of freezing cold dread in his mind's eye as he listens to its threats.

'Do not forget my time under the Dark Lord, boy. You do not know what I have done in his service. Before you take the step of attempting to defy me, remember the extent of my knowledge. I have curses at my fingertips that can rip you apart inside, gradually. Over days. Then put you back together again, with nobody the wiser. I can put voices in your mind. Give you dreams that will make you afraid to go to sleep. Even forbid you to speak of it to any other person.'

Harry swallows, tries to speak. A croak. Tries again.

'You can't - you can't - you'd end up in Azkaban!'

A shake of the head, a sneer.

'Grow up, Potter. Not everything is about agony, or Unforgivable Curses. I don't have to use the Cruciatus to make your life a living hell. There are far more subtle options available to me. They don't involve constant and excruciating pain, but I would not recommend them.'

Harry has run out of things to say. Severus' smile is like a whip cracking. He gently pulls him forward and seats him on the bed, next to him. His hands busy themselves with unfastening Harry's robes. His voice is softer, but Harry hardly notices. He is lost. It's going to happen again.

'I will not tell you why I am doing this, tonight. But if you thought you would not like it...you were wrong.'

His triumphant tone penetrates even the blank despair of Harry's mind. He looks uncertainly up at Snape's face, usually imperturbable, and now looking... He struggles to name the emotion sitting plainly in his eyes. He comes up with 'exultant'. And is very worried by it.

'What...?'

He panics as he feels air on his bare skin. Snape has undone his robes completely at the back.

'Lift your arms, Potter.'

Arms like lead. Activate your muscles by using your brain, Harry reminds himself. He finally manages the required action, and continues to sit passively, since it seems to allow his thoughts to run around pointlessly, tripping over each other and squeaking like frightened mice. Watches Snape's pale hands divest him of clothes and help him to lie down at the centre of the bed.

Severus contemplates the slight body, the translucent skin, and the hard, developing muscles from Quidditch. James, with mistakes and alterations. Now, it was time to start eroding that constant victim status.

He attacks.

Harry's careful avoidance of facing this situation is rudely shattered when a hot, agile mouth sucks his entire cock into warmth and wetness. He practically bounces upright.

'Hey!'

He tugs at Snape's hair, trying to get him to stop. Two hands grip his wrists and force them down to the bed, holding them there firmly. He fights back, but his attempts cause his hips, among other things, to move and buck up off the bed. This brings his cock further into contact with the one thing he doesn't want. Snape's tongue. It sucks ferociously, stroking and fondling in all the right places.

He tries to pull away. The mouth follows him, finds the base of his cock and caresses it wetly. Repeatedly. To his everlasting shame, his cock has different ideas from his mind. It grumbles at the continued attempts to remove it from the best place it has ever been. It rises and throbs, and Harry knows he's losing to Snape's extraordinary talents. Cocksucking. It's not something he would have associated with such an authoritative man. Harry! his cock moans. Would you shut up philosophising, and just lie back and enjoy this? He's got you trapped anyway, it's not as if you can do anything...

Ah. Severus feels it. The moment. When the boy realises the futility of resistance. When he doesn't even want to resist any more. He works the hardening flesh with his lips, encouraging complete surrender. He tongues the head. And - there, he has it. The sigh. The inevitable reaction to his aptitude in this area. Over and over, from James, Remus, Sirius. From others, in Voldemort's service.

The shivers have started. They rake through him. Despite himself, he moans out loud.

'Oh...oh!'

Severus smirks as best he can with a mouthful of cock. He has him now. Vengeance is such a pure indulgence with one who is so nauseatingly moral, wholesome, and worthy. And as Head of Slytherin, corrupting a Gryffindor feels all the more exquisite. He's had to endure Dumbledore rhapsodising about Potter's perfect embodiment of all of the oh-so-irritating 'virtues' of that pathetic house. Potter would need all the much-vaunted courage he might ever possess to survive what Severus was going to put him through.

Well, he might be intent on making Harry admit to pleasure... but he was damned if the Head of Slytherin was going to swallow like a good little bitch. That role was reserved for Potter. He tastes his come, tastes James and Sirius and Remus all mixed up, reaches for a glass by his bedside and spits.

Dazed green eyes regard him, replacing the glass. He stares back. Slowly, smiles. His voice is sleek.

'Well. The boy hero of Gryffindor...coming down my throat. Who ever would have thought, Potter?' he mocks, feeling the sudden strain of muscles where he is still holding him down by the wrists. Red stains the boy's cheeks and his eyes harden.

'You bastard, you...made me!'

'Oh, no, Potter. We both know you wanted it. You - accepted - it,' he hisses, leaning in and wrenching Harry's wrists behind his back, holding them there, 'and you enjoyed it, probably far more than you ever should have.'

Harry's furious eyes stir him.

'Remember what I can do to you, Potter,' he warns, then releases him briefly to pull at his own robes. When he has them arranged satisfactorily, he turns back to Harry, who is staring at his exposed cock with an appalled expression.

'You know what to do, Potter.'

No move is made to obey. He seizes him by the back of the neck and forces him downwards, delighting in his strength.

'Now suck. Properly. No teeth, or I will personally make sure that the Ministry of Magic is informed, tomorrow, by owl, that you know the whereabouts of Remus Lupin, a dangerous werewolf who should be destroyed. And I have important friends at the Ministry, Potter, who can make sure that he is hunted down before you have all had time to finish mourning your last loss. Now get to it.'

Harry hovers over the thick length. He is filled with such a clarity of hatred that it is impossible for him to believe that a few minutes ago, gratitude was rising in him towards this man, for making him feel so good, and he was wanting more of him...Abruptly, desolation breaks over him. It was hopeless. Now Remus' life was in danger if he didn't obey. Might as well give up. He licks the length of the cock, takes it gently into his mouth. Moves up and down on it. When he hears Snape's sigh, he gets some unexpected enthusiasm for the idea. I can do the same to him, at any rate! He'll lose that famed control and look stupid in front of me. Maybe I can make him beg. He tries out some of the tricks he learned the other day, which made Snape groan and hiss.

Severus looks down at the black head, limbs sprawled carelessly as Harry goes for it with a sudden, unexplained fervour. He strokes the hair, the reddened back of the neck showing the marks of his roughness. He puts two and two together. He wants to make me beg. Me!

Chuckles softly. It'll be a cold day in hell before that happens, my innocent Gryffindor.

*

Some of the oil has trickled down his leg, dripping from the back of his right knee. He stares at it, dully, and wonders... no, he doesn't. He has learned not to wonder how long it will last every time, because whenever he looks at them with hope in his eyes, they invariably notice and twist it to torment him. He lives in the moment. This moment hangs edgily, moist and covered with a sheen, with a deep sticky smell, with long shuddering breaths. His breaths.

'I believe, James, that our boy is tired out,' says Remus. He is looking softly in his direction. James looks, too. Satisfaction gentles his hands, wandering at random over Remus' body, kinder than his usual wont. The satisfaction comes from knowing what they've achieved, together. You can see it in Snape's wired, tense eyes. They have him. They all know it.

It is Sirius who assuages the ache for now, by rubbing his fingers roughly, skilled over the intensely red skin. Severus flinches and tries not to plead, just this once, but his voice is gone and his eyes express too much. Sirius, too, watches him, reading him, gaining knowledge - though by now he can gauge him almost exactly - fine-tuning the torture. He knows Severus needs it. Innate grace is masked by clumsiness as Sirius awkwardly bends over, with a flick of his eyes towards the others, and places his tongue on the head. Severus knows not to stir. It slides, tasting the vein. Then it leaves. The long hard strokes get longer and harder and Severus thrusts up and down with the movement. Shoulders hunch in slow motion, everything squinches up in one final breath, he's - so - nearly - will they let him this time? - yes! - 'Bloody hell, he's getting louder every time.' comes James' disgruntled voice from somewhere - somewhere - ohhhh.

Sirius stands, looking slightly disgusted. He wipes his hand on Snape's leg, then turns his attention to the others. Severus watches his effortless good looks from his position on the mattress. Sirius makes every mundane action, like shrugging on his robes, seem beautiful.

'Time to go, Sev.'

He blinks up at Remus.

James appears, twirling his wand between his fingertips. He points it at Severus and the ropes which bind him are cut.

'Get up. Get dressed. Get out.'

The cold voice which has the power to make him orgasm. It follows him. The voice in his head that tells him he's nothing: it has James' tone. Now that tone has begun to falter. Ever since he made it stutter, whimper. Suffocated it, stuffed it with cock.

Tonight, what he wants is... more. Not merely the harsh cry James would make under Remus' ministrations. He wants screaming. The screams you get only when there's real fear involved. The screams he'd given on countless occasions to his relentless lovers, joking over his body and its agonies. And if there was one thing he was good at nowadays, it was instilling real fear. Potter wouldn't stand a chance.

*

'What does Snape want?'

Ron's voice. Harry swallows his first response: 'to hurt me'. He is trembling; being so close to him is a strain. Plus there are the touches, so brief he can't swear to them, the looks, the extra bite on the words spoken in a voice, whose inflexions and richness and depth Harry has just begun to notice. Ah, that voice. As cold and dark as his eyes.

But sometimes when he was insulting him, riling him up yet again, he would just look, and all the breath would leave Harry's body, because he knew what Snape was thinking, and his hand would stray to his cock under his desk, perversely excited and sickened simultaneously, and lie motionless in his lap, because he wouldn't dare to touch himself in Snape's class, whatever he did to him outside it.

Normal tone, Harry.

'He...wants me to come back again after classes. For extra homework.'

'Mean old git!' said Ron, indignant on Harry's behalf.

'Yeah, I know,' said Harry.

Keep breathing, Harry. Don't say,

'Well, actually, he's not so old, under those robes. But he is mean. Harsh. When I'm with him, he makes me so afraid. But so hard too, y'know?'

No, Ron wouldn't know.

'Come on, let's get out of here.'

They trail out, Ron still muttering and Harry walking purposefully, not looking over his shoulder. He hears Snape give a quiet wry chuckle and knows he noticed the notness. He feels the sneer hit between his shoulder blades; it stays there for the rest of the day, and inexorably steers him back to the Potions dungeon at the end. His steps drag. The door swings open by itself.

'Come in, boy, don't dawdle.'

Snape is impatient. Will there be restraints?

Severus is impatient. There will be restraints. Faintly sighing, he imagines red chafes on the pale skin.

Harry walks in, shutting the door. Mutely follows, undoes his robes enough to slip his arms free. Holds his wrists together above his head for Snape to bind with slim ropes.

The lips purse and consider the result, then look down at Harry, seeing through him. He shifts nervously. The voice - in Harry's head, it has become the Voice - breathes coolly.

'Well, Potter. Have you obeyed my instructions?'

'Yes, sir.'

'We shall soon see, shan't we?'

Severus turns Harry onto his side and undoes the remaining buttons, taking his time. The black cloth rustles. He pulls at it, and his eyes fill up with aching, since Harry has obeyed and remained completely naked underneath. The desire unfocuses his eyes and refocuses them with sharp intent. He begins to stroke him. Just lightly, in unexpected places. His forehead. The backs of his hands. The little dimple at his elbow. A long finger traces the groove above his upper lip, then abruptly, all ten fingers are following his collarbone and the curves of his neck. The middle fingers jump to a soft place just under his ears and make small downstrokes. Harry's chest exhales slightly deeper. Swiftly, fingers and thumb yank on the earlobes. He takes a sharp breath. The fingers move along his jaw line, capturing flesh and making small indentations with the nails.

'Not red enough,' Snape is murmuring. 'Not like I remember...'

Harry wonders what he's on about, then his return with a small sharp knife makes his heart freeze. Snape notices him going grey and throws him a pitying smile.

'Foolish boy. Don't you trust me?'

A small part of Harry wonders how he gets his laugh to sound so sarcastic. The rest of Harry is hyperventilating.

Severus lies on the bed between Harry's legs and selects his spot. Not too public, but significant enough. He begins to carve, hands steady from years of measuring and slicing, fine lines encased in blood.

Horror and terror and curiosity and relief (he wasn't dead yet) war on Harry's features. He looks down. It certainly seems like he knows what he's doing, the frown more pronounced with concentration, the black eyes following the blade. He's writing something.

The stinging increases with every letter, until a low moan is forced out of Harry. Snape glares at him, then carries on for a further two letters. He bends his head and sucks at the word until Harry is pleading, crying out in pain. When he has licked all the blood oozing from the shallow cuts, he takes Harry's right hand and forces it to trace the shapes. The letters. The name. Severus.

'Shall I tell you why, Potter?'

Tears are misting up his glasses. Snape takes them off and polishes them, then fits them back onto the bridge of Harry's nose. Like they are intimate friends. Like they are intimate lovers. He cries more.

Severus buries his fingers casually in Harry's hair. He stands, and begins to disrobe. He turns his back.

'Look, Potter.'

The compelling tone demands attention. Harry looks up at the man's naked back. His eyes dropping to Snape's firm arse, almost despite himself, he feels a frisson of excitement. His knuckles brush the soft skin at the curves.

'Look at the left one.'

He frowns. There, a thin scar. Forming an unmistakable letter: 'J'. Awkwardly, because of his still-tied wrists, he strokes it. Snape swings round, and he catches a glimpse of his blazing anger before one hand slaps his face, hard. He falls back on the bed in shock.

'You little bastard!' Snape hisses at him. 'It is not a trophy to be paraded and admired. It is...'

He hesitates. Slowly, the words come:

'A token of disgrace.'

He sits, legs splayed, heedless of his nakedness. Close to Harry, looking into his eyes.

'I will tell you how it came to be there.'

The voice purrs. At odds with the story.

'It all began with your father, Potter. Surprising how many significant moments in my life have begun or ended with him, considering how much I disliked him. But then, you have the same ability to be endlessly irritating, do you not? Like a buzzing wasp that won't die, however many times you think you've swatted it for good.'

He smiles unpleasantly at the repressed fury in the boy's face.

'So...some time after the Shrieking Shack incident, after which we thankfully managed to avoid each other for a while, Potter decided to meddle once more in my life. He found out that I had...feelings for a particular girl in my house. He further discovered some facts concerning my family which I did not wish to be known to anyone, least of all James Potter...or the girl. He decided to use these two pieces of information to satisfy his wishes, and to fundamentally damage me, his worst enemy.'

Severus looks away, across the room. The fire flicker dances around the lines of his face, casts shadows, hides him for a moment. It is more difficult to speak of this, even in icy controlled anger, making every word pierce and cut, than he had imagined.

'At that time, he was experiencing problems in his relationship with Lily, who he'd gone out with since the beginning of the school year. She refused him... In short, he was...frustrated. Sirius and Remus...'

Even now, the names hurt.

'They were in a similar position, not having anyone with whom they could assuage their - adolescent drives.'

His voice drips with derision at such paltry urges.

'After some discussion, they agreed on a way to help them all with their problems. Frustration. Anger. Cruelty. They would take it all out on me, and to a lesser extent, each other. So for the second time in my life I was lured out to the Whomping Willow. I thought I would be meeting the girl I spoke of. Instead, James, Remus and Sirius stunned me and proceeded to take me through the passageway to the Shrieking Shack. Once there, they informed me that they knew about my family and about the girl, and if I did not co-operate, she would learn the truth, and the whole school with her. I had no choice but to submit.'

His gaze hones in on Harry's stunned face. I don't want to hear what happened next, Harry's brain repeats. Don't tell me.

Ignoring his plea, Severus licks his lips, leans forward, and begins stroking his cheekbones. He whispers into his face.

'So then...'

His voice pauses, hangs in the air.

'They stripped me. Then each other. That first time, no-one was so sure about what to do. They soon gained more confidence.'

His tone carries bitterness and spits it in Harry's face.

'They would make me suck on their cocks until I had no more breath and was retching from swallowing every last drop of their come. They would take me so hard, I'd tear inside, which wouldn't bother them after the first time, since they learned some general healing spells to extend the fun. Then they could cut me, hurt me how they wished.'

Harry feels his breath on his face. He wants to hit him 'til that sneer is a mass of puffy bruises, embrace him and pretend this never happened, grab his wand and demand he wipes his memory... Above all, he doesn't want to know this truth about his father. About his godfather, or his godfather's best friend.

'The scar came about because James read of a spell which binds a person to you, if you write your name in their blood and in their flesh. He wanted to do it to me, to prolong my agony, but Remus dissuaded him after he had done the first letter.'

The argument rings in his ears. Remus finally wins, by representing to James the awful bore it would be, having Snape hanging around him the rest of his life. Much better to just leave him behind after school came to an end. An amused Sirius looks on, uncaring, negligently deepening the cuts of the 'J' with the knife, cast aside.

Severus shivers the memory away. He looks up slowly and takes in Harry's demeanour. Watches the truth gradually penetrate, while Harry shakes his head, shakes under the weight of it, wraps his arms around himself and rocks, unaware of Severus' scrutiny.

Low mutters assail Severus' ears pleasurably - 'No, no. No.' - and eyes squeeze shut. Against the terrible knowledge that this is starting to make sense of everything. Against remembering that, however much Snape hated his father, he has never lied about what James was like. When Harry went into Snape's memory in the Pensieve, what he saw of James' arrogance, and his capacity for torture, proved Snape right.

Which, in turn, makes it all too probable that what he is saying now, is true.

Severus takes hold of Harry's shoulders, hunched against reality. He pulls the resisting body closer, into an embrace. Harry fights against the arms encircling him, but makes no headway; Severus' strength bests him, and he slumps despairingly forward into his naked chest. After a while, he becomes insensibly comforted by the man's warmth and the steady beat of his heart. Even Severus Snape has a heart, then, he bitterly observes. One of the hands holding him begins to stroke his hair gently. It feels good. After a while, he imperceptibly relaxes, and unconsciously leans in just a fraction closer, tilts his head just slightly towards the petting hand. His breathing slows. Severus continues to simply stroke, weaving a web of trust around the vulnerability. His touch is so soothing, it could almost be inspired by tenderness. He knows what he is doing. A Harry lost in pain-racked oblivion, unaware of anything going on around him, is no good to him. He needs the boy to be fully present for this.

His left hand, which is lying loosely pressed against the bare skin of Harry's back, starts to make innocent, easy circles around Harry's spine. Then gentle rubs, up and down, like when you're trying to ease a backache. He purposely restricts himself to above the small of Harry's back. No demands, just comfort, offered. And, exactly as he had planned, Harry takes it. He sighs into Severus' chest, then slips down further.

Now his head is in Severus' lap, his gentle breaths reminding him of the greater talent he plans to impart to that still-immature mouth... Time enough for that, Severus, he reminds himself, triumphant. His agile hands take advantage of Harry's now prone position to really get to work on his back. Thumbs massage slow, tight circles around the shoulders, and then branch out to small strokes and adept pressures at vulnerable points of his back. He runs fine fingers successively down Harry's spine, over and over, ending just above where the flesh dips down towards the beginning of his crack.

He feels shivering under his fingers, and hears sighs every time he stops exactly where he did before. Eyes lighting up with mocking amusement - look at the honourable Gryffindor now! - he moves his hands to the sides of Harry's body. Sensitive, or should be. He is right. The dance of fingertips, curving and spiralling, makes Harry raise his head at last. Longing eyes look at him upside-down. The ribs heave a little under long thin smooth touches. Severus raises an eyebrow.

'Hmm?'

Harry visibly wilts under his gaze. He shakes his head and rests it back down, eyes thoughtful. To distract him, Severus puts two fingers in Harry's mouth. The green eyes flicker for a moment, then he is sucking and Severus closes his eyes to help with the illusion. An appropriate juncture at which to act, he considers. With his two sodden fingers, he strokes down Harry's spine and doesn't stop where he did before. His ears detect an eager breath. Fingers skate down to the delectable arse, part it, and are caressing the wrinkles and furrows, the fine dark hairs in between the cheeks, before Harry can think about what is happening.

Without further ado, he sinks a wet finger in and leisurely worms it further. His other hand pets Harry's arse like it is something infinitely fragile. Harry is certainly reacting now. Panting, gentle movements of his hips to Severus' slow and ever-deeper fingering, words. Or sounds. 'Oh', for definite. 'Yes' was featuring. There - was that a 'please?' And again. Severus estimates...another finger. There, that was a distinct 'please.'

'Please, what?' he murmurs, still stroking back and forth. There is a scared silence.

He reaches down to where Harry's erection is pressing into the bed, and strokes very lightly behind his balls. A muffled expletive. Harry's hips move, hesitate, then thrust forcefully backwards to impale himself as fully as possible on the long fingers. His breath catches in his throat as he rides Severus' willing hand, giving himself over to the movement completely at last.

Severus' thin lips curve, high and cold. He abruptly removes his fingers, breaking the rhythm, and rolls Harry over, catching his cry of disappointment in his mouth, leaving bruises in his severity. His hands are lifting Harry's hips and the boy doesn't know if he wants this or not... but the inflexible length of hard cock is already entering and removing all space for objections. A wave of pain breaks over him. He lets out an agonised cry. Snape is hovering over him, eyes fixed piercingly on his face. As Harry gazes upwards, he stabs forwards again. The tender mouth (so similar to James's) lets out a sob, then exhales when Severus spreads his knowing fingers in an exact, accurate curve around his drooping cock and begins to fist him whilst moving slowly back and forth. The pain stays but the pleasure heightens. Severus finds the interplay of agony and desire in Potter's face very appealing. What he wants most, though, is to hear screams in James' voice...

He quickens the cadence of his strokes. The abraded flesh slowly yields, but not fast enough to match Severus' thrusts. The voice begins to cry, sob, implore.

'God, sir... please! I...need -'

'Well, Potter,' softly, 'what do you need?'

'Just...a little...slower...'

Severus' brows snap together. He gives a cruel thrust, then smiles at the tears overspilling onto Potter's cheeks. He bends down to taste them. Sweet.

'And what,' pull out, then arch in, 'makes you think that I want to do what you need?'

Hard.

Harry's eyes widen.

Points for Gryffindor: comprehension.

More points: fear. It flies into his eyes and settles there.

He stops, remaining within him. Slips his tongue into his mouth. Slowly fucks his mouth, fists his cock, until Harry doesn't think any more, just thrusts up mindlessly.

He is whimpering again. Snape seems to be adept at bringing many different sounds out of him. Another one to go with his nipples being ruthlessly tongued. Another one to go with the burning in his arse. Severus starts again, gloriously strong and heavy. Harry watching, with reddened lips half-parted in sighs, watching the arm muscles flex continuously, the hips plunge and the hands grip at Harry's waist. Harry has no numbness left about him; dim recollection, a few minutes ago, a voice telling him about his father - but that doesn't compare to this, this ecstasy and this building tempo. He arches his back...

And Severus still isn't hearing what he wants to hear.

Forces, jolts, bucking up into tight tight tight - come on, damn you! - whimpers, cries, getting louder - and that's it, yes!

Harry screams at the jagged pains, growing worse, screams to Severus, driving into him, showing no mercy - he's so stretched, he can't go any further - please, don't tear - 'please sir I'll do anything please just don't - '

And the dark eyes stare down at him wildly, devouring the sight of him in anguish, feeling the scrapes of his short fingernails along his back trying to fight him - useless! - the lips curl - pleasure jerking at his aching balls like a whip, keeping him pounding at the same pace, until control ends and - he - is - fucking - screaming - himself, the names of his tormentors, in triumph now - lastly, the one he has begun to break for their sake - 'Harry...!'

He forces his eyes open until the last possible moment, sees the boy caught up by his, Severus', release, and torn because of the pleasure he is milking out of his body, and his own unsatisfied erection, which is rapidly waxing now the pain is waning and his sore arse is being flooded with soothing warm come - one last vicious thrust should do it - to the hilt, and collapse. Breathe. And breathe.

Harry sobs quietly. And moans, as Snape pulls out, falls next to him, and without even looking, eyes still closed, gives his hard prick a long squeeze and rub. He shudders when Snape's hand drops away. He stares at the face on the pillow, hated and feared, lying in sated repose, hair almost endearingly messy... The ropes around his wrists disappear with a low word curling out of Snape's mouth. He pauses, then daringly reaches out, now free, and pulls a stray lock away from his mouth. A deep chuckle, and Harry snatches his hand away. Snape's eyes open, examine him, then an inscrutable gaze is bent on one particular area. Eyes flicker up to his face, then back down again. Harry blushes. Then wonders why (after all, Snape has just...um... he can't finish the sentence, even in his head). He blushes more.

Severus is relishing the boy's inexperience. Oh, but he has so much to learn. So much. Tonight will finish with yet another example. He stretches out, luxuriously (like a large lithe cat, Harry thinks distractedly), and rises.

'Out, Potter.'

He gestures towards the door.

The boy's hurt gaze. Delightful. He leans forward, hisses intimidatingly:

'You heard me. Get - out!'

'But -' Harry's throbbing. He needs help. How can Snape be such a bastard? He can't be. He raises his hips, pleading. Then blushes even more fiercely.

Snape's familiar sneer is back on his face.

'Potter. You little slut,' he says, spacing the words so there can be no mistaking them. He watches Harry's face burn.

'I have no interest whatsoever in what you do with that thing. My sole concern is for its immediate removal, along the rest of you, from my rooms. Do I make myself clear?'

Tears of shame and rage fall from Harry's now-bowed head onto the bed. He nods and gets up, reaches for his discarded robe, manages to get it mostly on and done up. A hand on his arm. He looks up, hope leaping unmasked - Severus almost laughs out loud at how pathetic - and sees the wand pointed at his chest.

'Much as I'd enjoy leaving you marked, Potter, I suppose I must resign myself to erasing something of the more - overt, shall we say - evidence of tonight's amusements. It might be stretching a point to walk around, especially in the showers after Quidditch, with my name written on you for anyone - for example, young Malfoy - to see. Even though both he and I would derive a certain elation from seeing it there.'

Harry bites his lip at the horrible image of Malfoy knowing anything about this. The wounds seal themselves, no longer discernible to anyone but Harry. Who can still feel them, written across his ribs. Who feels like he will always be able to trace two S's, two E's, the V spans the middle... His fragile hold over himself breaks and he stumbles towards the door as fast as he can, hot tears shaking him, a wince in every step at the deep soreness that Snape has left him, a clear reminder of his mastery.

Severus watches him leave, then pours himself a glass of red wine and raises it. You see, James, what I have done? Sirius? Remus? Lovely, your boy. He is mine now.

*

Over the next week, avoidance tactics are practised assiduously by Harry - avoidance of physically being in Snape's presence, and also of any attempt to touch the memories that line his head and jump up at him with reminiscent, identical smirks. Snape-smirks.

However, the third time in a row that he is trying to convince an impatient Hermione that yes, he really felt ill enough to go to Madam Pomfrey in lieu of Snape's dungeon for Double Potions, a cold voice sounds from behind them. Harry freezes. Inside and out.

'Potter. Touched though I undoubtedly am by Miss Granger's concern for your health, I myself am less likely to believe in coincidences after two successive absences from my class, which, as we all know, is one where your utmost diligence is needed to improve on a Potion-making ability presently corresponding to that of the average Squib. Let me look at you.'

Harry slowly turns. Glinting eyes rake him up and down.

'You appear - outwardly at least - to be unmarked.'

Harry swallows at the deliberate reminder.

'Come along.'

Severus knows he's won. He ushers them to the dungeon, opens the door and stands by it, waiting. Harry gives him what he gleefully recognises as a shrinking look, and passes through. Hermione throws him a questioning glance, then follows, clearly thinking hard. Really, he will have to teach Potter to be a little less obvious in future.

There is no difference in Snape's demeanour, either towards the class or Harry himself, but Harry is unable to relax. He relies on Hermione to correct his constant mistakes in the preparation of the ingredients for an Anti-Incendiary potion, and divides his time between looking at the floor and sneaking looks at Snape, trying to avoid eye-contact but check where he is in the room.

After the lesson, he leaves thankfully and has to endure Hermione's probing questions as to why he's acting all weird. He mumbles something about being preoccupied with the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin, and being worried that Snape as Head of House would hex him or something. After she's dealt scathingly with this - 'Honestly, Harry, are you ever going to let it go with Snape? He saved your life in a Quidditch match before!' - she sends him off to Professor Trelawney's class. He sits there with Ron, looking at soggy bits of tealeaves in his cup, pretending like it's all normal. Until he opens his bag to search for a spare quill for Neville, and finds a scrap of parchment. He turns it over and his heart starts pounding because it's covered in smooth, green writing. Slytherin green. He excuses himself to go to the toilets, and flees, the parchment curled up in his hand like a dormant scorpion.

He locks himself in the last cubicle in the row, and sits down, panting. Slowly, he unfolds the parchment.

'Potter. You cannot avoid me forever. Nor would it be wise to try. Meet me as before, at 8pm. Your father and his two friends still possess perfect reputations among the people you care about. Would you like this to continue?'

Hands trembling, Harry rips the parchment into tiny shreds and flushes it away. He couldn't allow Remus' life to be any more ruined than it already was, no matter what he'd done in the past. He was all he had left of his father and Sirius. His father and Sirius...who'd both been excused by Remus for bullying Snape, on the grounds of their natural immaturity at age fifteen. But nothing could excuse this. And now Harry was paying the price.

*

Harry lies there, exhausted. Then a command. No, no, he wants to say. Slurred out of the corner of his mouth, so he won't have to make much effort to even say the words. Too tired. But what Snape wants, Snape gets. He wearily rises.

At least he's learning obedience, Severus notes with approval. He was an ill-disciplined fool before this. Running around with that inane Weasley boy, blurting out everything that came into his head. Even just a touch of subtlety could only improve him.

Then he frowns. Why should he care how Potter behaves? Character formation is none of his concern. He dismisses it.

Touching the boy's cock, the muscles shudder. He uses lubricant, starts again. They make more of an effort, while Harry groans. Snape always gives him more. Too much. To train him, or to torture him. He can't remember which.

Then the taunts about his father begin. Giving him unwanted details about the similarities between their aroused states, triumph and contempt openly displayed, while Harry's head is in his lap, sucking him slowly, hopelessly but with care, his own cock twitching in half-lust as Snape pushes at it. He is moaning around Snape's thick member.

'Curious, the resemblance. When he felt it rising within him, he would bite the side of his lip - his upper lip, exactly as you are doing now - to try and hold in the cries. But it never works, does it?'

Harry snaps. He lifts his head, takes a deep breath. Cold eyes stare at him.

'I do not recall ordering you to stop.'

Now or never.

'Just shut up about him. JUST SHUT UP!'

Snape's expression slips to anger, flanked by a fleeting satisfaction, before he hits Harry stingingly around the face. It enflames along his cheek. Back-hands him deliberately on the other side too, to match, then takes a grip on his hair, yanks his head forward and down again to his now-straining erection.

Hisses maliciously,

'Now let's see if that cock-sucking mouth can feel as good as your father's did. Start at the head.'

This excites him, Harry realises, misery flooding him.

Severus reclines back, feeling the delicious heat from Harry's burning cheeks, nestled against his thighs. Contentment is dark in his face as he looks at Harry, mouth stretched and working.

After he comes, he strokes the sulky lips, tastes to taste himself. He speaks soft.

'Your defiance only serves to make your predicament worse, boy. You know that, don't you?'

Harry, curled up on his chest, looks up at him and nods silently, tears in his eyes. Severus pets him. Demeans him. The fingers casually pry into his arse, just because they can.

*

Stone. Cold. It chills his bare hands and knees. After a while he ceases to feel it so intensely - the palms go from burn to numb. Snape rides him smoothly, almost silently, and eyes learn by heart the shades of grey, the markings, the intricate veins running through each slab of the stone floor of the Potions dungeon, where he kneels, in front of Snape's desk. His head hangs down, arse in the air at an exaggerated angle where Snape's long fingers hold it, presented, accessible. The small draughts that are ever-present in the dungeon cool his overwrought body and soothe him as Snape explodes in heat, searing through his tautness, opened wide. He can feel each inch. He's so...slick. With sweat, with come, with a little oil. But not much.

'Much oil, less happiness, Potter.'

Harry blushes when he works out what he means.

'Only if you're some kind of sick masochist.'

Snape actually laughs at that, then leads him back to bed. Once there, settled down next to him, the familiar fingers stroke him, drag him into a whirlpool of hand and mouth, spit and lick and blow and breathe. And pinch and bite and scratch. Harry has bruises and little lacerations constantly healing and being replaced.

Snape stops, mid-bite. A zenith of groans. His gaze rests on Harry's flushed face, expression more than ordinarily sardonic.

'So you deny being a 'sick masochist', Potter?'

Harry squirms. He doesn't know. Why doesn't the man just keep doing...it, and stop with discussion?

Severus watches him, careful hands stilled. He wants to get under his skin, force him down the road that James took Severus down. Where he will know his position, and will be grateful for it. A total surrender, but not simply surrender. Great lust and desire, too, to repeatedly do the things that broke him in the first place. A mesmerising sickness, that Severus knows inside out.

(His own voice, barely recognisable for its thick veneer of lustful eagerness - 'Please, Sirius, can I suck you off?' A voice rich with barely repressed laughter replies, 'What a question, Snivellus. Shouldn't you be doing Prongs, isn't it his turn in your mouth?' 'I'll do him straight after. Please, just let me taste your cock. I...need...please, Sirius.' Sounds of shuffling. Creak of a bedspring. A slowly enveloping mouth, sighing.)

And he remembers the pain. Deceitful and inconsiderate. It shows him his body can, and will, willingly sell out to those who teach him that he's more complicated than he thinks, that having his feet lightly rubbed and his calves pinched and his hair pulled and his balls played with are all one and the same, accents on the fluent ebb and flow of bliss that he tries to grab onto, but isn't allowed to hold for very long.

And the greater the pleasure, the greater the pain that can be endured and enjoyed with it. And vice-versa, so that senses get confused. Callously, inside his mind: 'so will Potter's.'

Harry gapes at the next question.

'Isn't it the pain that makes it better?'

Harry gives it some thought. He remembers...maybe it's true, that the pain gives...it...an edge. Severus knows what Harry's thinking. His thoughts were also trained that way.

'I don't know why I don't fight more,' he says honestly.

Severus heeds echoes of shame and confused beginnings of defeat.

'I don't know...how did I get like this?'

'Very simple, Harry. You are your father's son.'

His dark amber voice drops the words into Harry's ear, then sucks on it, long and slow.

'Come on. Beg me to hurt you, Harry.'

And another thing, Harry tries to raise in the dark recesses of his mind, against the intensely disturbing words being whispered at him. 'Harry.' His name, murmured and cried at him, used over and over, being Severus' property now. Severus. He mentally tries the name out, tastes it on his tongue. It's a stranger's name, seems a separate identity. Another and yet the same man. He doesn't know if he dares use it.

Severus waits, patient. He knows they both know it; it is roughness that claims him. Perhaps something else will convince him. With facility, he moves off the bed and extends his hand imperiously. Harry's forehead wrinkles, anxious; scrambles up quickly so as not to test his patience; hand laid timidly in his.

Together, they cross the room to a large old leather armchair. Snape's retained something of the jerky spider-y image in his walk, but has added to it a sweeping dignity in his steps, due to his habitually heavy robes. He's winning Harry over.

He settles back in the chair, legs spread slightly.

'Lie down...carefully...across my knees, on your stomach.'

Harry takes pleasure in being so close to him. Almost everything is touching, or being touched. He sighs. A near-grin is startled onto Severus' face - a sigh of contentment! He shakes his head.

'Poor Potter - so naive,' he hisses, before giving the first hard blow. Harry's head shoots up and he lets out a shocked yell. Severus is concentrating on this novel position, cock growing and pushing at Harry's stomach, pleasantly warm. His hand curves to find the best places on the buttocks and he settles down to a steady, fast rhythm.

He's beating me, over his knee, like a naughty child!

Anger, indignation flare in him - he's done nothing wrong! That's just like Snape, always unfair, his mind growls furiously, while his mouth, seemingly unaided, produces continuous whining cries. He tries to move and Snape's arm tightens around his back.

'Be still, you insolent boy,' the voice snarls.

His flesh sparkles. It hurts goddamn it hurts...hurt hurt pain.

Harry rests his forehead on the leather and can taste its brownness; it clings to the back of his throat. His hands flex uselessly in the air, on the leather, crinkling it. He feels like flailing his feet around, like Dudley having a tantrum, but they are trapped by being too near Severus' thighs and he can't, can't kick him. Too risky.

Something rubs. In the region of his stomach. Incredulity - it's Snape's cock! How come he's got a boner...can't I get one? Let's experiment. His attention riveted, he bears down as much as he can and feels...a whole new possibility. Hurt hurt pain... but then their cocks rub together and a groan enters his soul. He does it again, gently, feels Snape's intake of breath and arousal is trickling down, a little even from the slap of hand on arse, rubs against the thigh underneath him...

Severus finishes the beating, satisfied that Harry is playing along - whether or not he knows it.

His whole bottom is feeling raw and Snape has stopped. Still, he continues to stroke it gently. That's rather nice, muses Harry between gentle thrusts, and angles more upwards, into the hand. Silently, Severus smiles.

He dips into the sweat that has beaded in between the arse cheeks. He tastes. He tickles, and then on purpose takes a handful of the hot flesh and squeezes, whilst simultaneously running dextrous fingers up and down Harry's stiff shaft. His voice is a ferocious tease.

'Imagine my lips around this cock,' he murmurs, pinching and stroking, 'giving you that suction you so delight in, Harry. What would you do for that?'

Harry can hear his own voice, proceeding with no input necessary from his brain.

'Anything...please,' he gasps, 'please, please let me come...'

'Anything?' is purred. A hand cruelly squeezes his arse again.

No, he's got something terrible planned! his mind screams at him. His mouth repeats: 'Anything...'

'Get up.'

He stumbles to his feet, is led to face the wall. Suddenly he is pinned against it, Snape speaks a short incantation and his wrists and ankles are magically fixed to the wall.

He is held there, helplessly. His voice rises in a panicked wail.

'Look at me, Harry.'

Snape is beside him. He touches Harry's face.

Icily. 'You asked for this. Now take it.'

He returns a moment later and Harry feels a sting against his already sore arse.

'I will count - only twenty, today.'

Today? yelps Harry's brain.

The crop swishes, meets flesh, sinks in, and marks.

Severus enjoys the slim length of limb and body as it strains and pulls and finally hangs limp, panting.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

He speaks, 'Finite incantatem', and steps forward swiftly to support the boy as he falls backwards. He lowers him to the floor and puts him on his side. Then pitilessly, one hand goes on his hip, the other snakes out to grasp the slightly limp prick. Lips open, tongue begins to flick. Harry groans, opens his eyes. He raises an unsteady hand and smoothes the dark head tonguing and manipulating and - oh yes yes yes, giving the promised suction. So very hard. So very...teeth clench... good.

Hips flinch, soar next moment. He totally loses it.

'Severus!'

The eyebrows arch, the smug expression twitches, but of course Harry doesn't see it. He escalates.

Afterwards, Harry lies on the floor, limbs spread. Severus eyes him.

Something intriguing even now... add a bite to that exposed thigh, just there. He bends, and leaves a deep mark. There is faint moaning, but otherwise the boy's too spent to raise a reaction.

Quite a satisfactory evening's work.

*

It begins to infect his days. Hangovers from the nights of sleeplessness, wondering if he was slowly dropping out of sanity, to want this to happen to him. That he actually looked forward to another time when Snape would force him, punish him, torture him. Then...rape him. Because it was rape, wasn't it? He certainly hadn't ever asked Harry to allow him to do what he was doing. But, now? When barely thinking about those cruel, pinching, knowing fingers got him so hard, that he had to shove his fingers halfway down his throat to push back the cry when he came? And having something down his throat would remind him all over again, until he's spent a miserable night, hands buried between his legs, caught up in see-sawing physical sensation and a mind-gripping fear of what Snape would do to him next.

The boy begins to look a little tired, pale and preoccupied. The green eyes, with shadows under them, dominate his face, while the cheeks seem to shrink under the weight of exhaustion that hangs over them. Even the hair has less of a life of its own, the untidiness lying more subdued.

His mind has shifted. All the time between is just so tiring now, and he waits purely for the next Potions class, for meals where he can surreptitiously watch Snape when he happens to be in his line of sight, for the next long night of sharp commands, insults, acts that degrade and dishonour him in the most - his mind whispers to him, hot with shame - enjoyable ways.

He is subtle, of course. Snape has represented to him the unwisdom of behaving in any other way than the normal one.

'Suspicions must not be aroused, which they would be, if you began responding to me in a manner encompassing anything less than the whole span of your usual violent dislike. Yes, I am quite aware that you have always passionately hated everything about me, Potter; in fact, perhaps you still do so. Believe me, the knowledge gives me far more pleasure, than mental anguish.'

I'll bet it does, you sick bastard, thinks Harry. Then gives in under his touch again. He begins to despair of ever being able to harden against his tactics.

*

But Severus is having problems of his own.

He called you Severus.

Lips pursed, he taps his fingertips soundlessly on his knee and ponders. His eye wanders unseeing over the furniture.

It doesn't mean anything, his mind argues. He was coming. You're probably lucky he didn't call out the name of his little Ravenclaw girl - who is it again? - ah, yes, Cho.

What precisely do you mean by 'lucky', you fool? the more Slytherinesque part of his brain snarls suddenly. We are not getting personal here. This is strictly about perverse lusts and power. Power which stays on your side. Don't even think about it...

Too late.

A glimpse of him, begging...begging Potter.

'No!' he spits aloud. His fist clenches and his nails dig painfully at the palm.

He would not be begging two generations of Potters to let him be fucked, '- extra hard', his mind supplies in a breathless, willing tone, from the stored memories. He flushes and a groan escapes him.

No, it would be too humiliating.

But isn't that why you want it? suggests another voice. Deny that it felt superb when you surrendered to James, when he would ram his fingers up you and you were crying out for yet another finger, a thumb...

Silence. The memories flood.

The voice smiles knowingly.

*

Snape is in one of the worst moods Harry has ever seen. He covertly admires him, from behind the toast rack, as Ron chatters away about some post Bill has sent him. Seething eyes look down the curved nose which overshadows the rest of his face. He is looking as though he desires nothing more than to curse everyone in the room, unexplained. Harry draws in a quiet breath. What he saw before as unjust anger, is now a fascinating and influential malevolence. It commands him. He shivers half-pleasurably at the power.

As the plates disappear, signalling the end of breakfast, Snape stands and his eyes fall on Harry. Is it his imagination, or is that suddenly a look of unfamiliar vulnerability at the sight of him? The black eyes certainly close for a swift moment, then he is sweeping out, imposing as ever.

*

They fucked him here. Here, on this very floor - he didn't come though, because they were punishing him for something. They snuck in one night, when the Potions master was taken ill and no-one had thought to put up the magical wards in his absence. The added element of risk was what swung it for James and Sirius, and they persuaded Remus against his better judgement.

'Come on, Moony. We need a change from the Shack for once! I swear, if I have to pull one more splinter from your arse after Padfoot's fucked you against that god-awful rickety table...'

Then a little game - they strapped him to his desk, hands splayed either side of the cheap wood. As an afterthought, they gagged him, to keep the noise down. Hands rough between his legs, stepping back to allow Remus first - they'd promised him that, since he liked the image so much. Slow, gentle fingerings with extra lube - he favoured a smooth ride, every so often. The brown downy hairs, in a swirl leading from his stomach, rub against Severus' buttocks at each controlled stroke, in a feeling he knew by heart.

Every time he sat down for Potions after that, one or other of them would look over at him at some point in the lesson, and just grin.

Now he was going to recreate it. Obliterate the image of his torments with those of Potter. That would teach the brat. He knows the nightmare sensation from personal experience, when the line between the secret world and your public life gets shortened, and they seem to clash. A reminder of his dominance would be branded on Potter's blameless everyday existence.

Which makes it so perfect for his purposes now. A message, in no uncertain terms, to both him and Potter: Severus Snape is in control. He is the master. And he will not submit himself.

*

His fingers caress the worn wooden frame and his whole body tingles. His eyes are full of secrets as he lifts his head and briefly locks eyes with the professor at the front of the class. Snape doesn't miss a beat, but flicks a glance with insolent eyes at Harry, then at Harry's desk, then back at Harry. Carries on snidely outlining the faults made by the class last lesson. He ignores him for the rest of the time. The desk, standing innocently and blatantly in the middle of the dungeon, speaks for itself.

*

Harry has brought his broomstick, as commanded. Trembling, he hands it over and tries to ignore the gleam in Snape's eye. He doesn't somehow think that he will be asked to get on it and zoom around the room a few times.

Severus considers informing him of what he is going to do. But then, who is he to explain his actions? Quite simply, last night, a stroke of inspiration. Quidditch. That would be the next target for corruption. Especially since it so nauseatingly reminds me of James. Arrogant little shit.

He merely points him to the bed, and selects some new cuts of satin, and one of dark velvet, from a simple wooden chest in the corner. He crosses the room and kneels in front of him. Harry's gaze gets wider. He doesn't normally do that. No, answers Severus' look, but I do not normally do this, either. He takes off the glasses and puts the velvet strip across Harry's eyes, tying it securely behind his head. Light is completely cut off. The material is tucked under at his upper lip. He can't see at all, not even if he looks down. He starts to pant, and Snape's mouth is suddenly, surprisingly on his. Tongues meet and he feels familiar again.

He has wrought reliance on him.

'Lie out on the bed, on your front, legs spread.'

He slowly feels his way to compliance.

Unhurried, Severus takes each piece of satin and ties him to the four-poster by his wrists and ankles. He brushes his long hands down the legs to ensure they are parted to their widest, yet still relaxed. He wants him to be able to pull and strain against the bonds; much more amusing that way.

Harry shifts slightly, tests out the way he is tied. He needs some perception. His arse feels distended.

Slow blood beat /

air circulates around his stretched exposed hole /

he is entirely helpless.

He deliberately relaxes into the bed, making himself weigh more.

The velvet presses densely on his face.

The satin strips are steady, though tender, restrictions on motion.

He tastes the residue of Snape's saliva on the roof of his mouth.

Hearing keener. Barely-there whispers, into his ear.

'You are a weak fool, Potter, as I have said before. You need disciplining. What I have in mind should train you.'

A retort. Astonishing at this stage.

'Sadistic bastard.'

The room goes silent.

No response. Harry begins to believe he didn't hear him. All at once - an aching, fiery shooting pain down his legs, because of the Firebolt rapidly forced into him. He winces, bawls. It plunges deep. The driving force, that is, Severus' hand, is brutal, to back up what he said.

Over his screeching, he hears Severus' voice, raised loud.

'I am not going to trade insults with you, Potter. You already know what you are.'

Yeah, the Boy Who Lived, Quidditch champion, Dumbledore said I was a true Gryffindor...The recitation is impossible. It slips away.

Severus doesn't need to fondle his balls this time. Stimulation is solely provided by fucking Potter with his Firebolt. It's dirty and thrusting and hard. His hips are sawing the air roughly. It's wholly wonderful.

Hands ball into fists around the sheets. The sharpest pain yet comes. He screams as hard as he can.

Severus notices the blood. The vindictive movements slow but do not stop, still thorough. Pants sound from his open mouth, the long hair obscuring his vision as he bends forward to check what he has seen. He brushes it impatiently out of the way, and looks closer still. The motions of his right arm are suspended. He puts out a hand, and firmly parts the cheeks. Harry cries out. Finger dabbles in the blood and lifts some to taste. He is almost drooling over the sight of it. His cock aches at it. At long last, he has caused the pain he alone has tasted.

He slowly eases the Firebolt out and sets it aside. His fingers delve smoothly, purely on the surface. Red stains them. Harry is still crying.

Spiteful, 'You now know what it was like for me, boy. I am so glad to have inadvertently given you that insight.'

He sucks on the metallic taste. Ponders. Heaves a sigh.

'Do shut up, Potter. I'm going to have to heal you, of course. You are in no way permanently damaged, so stop making that infernal row.'

He dips back for a final taste, retrieves his wand from where he has it concealed (no sense in offering Potter the chance to harm him, he knows the boy's propensity for grabbing one-off chances), and also the correct book. He consults the index, humming softly.

Harry is incredulous. He's fucking singing now? Wanker. He hears him turning pages. It sort of calms him down a little, nonetheless. Sadist though he undoubtedly is, if Harry were bleeding to death he wouldn't be looking at a book. Hopefully.

Severus locates the correct page.

'Very well. Remain completely silent and still if you wish to be healed, Potter. This spell is fairly complicated, and if you decide to move, your entrails may be hanging from the four corners of this bed in a few minutes' time.'

Harry tries not to sob, not to breathe, not to feel. He thinks about neutral topics. Like Hedwig, today's lunch, and whether he should bother spending out to get some new robes, considering these ones are getting rather short. He doesn't think about Quidditch.

Severus speaks a 25-syllabled word, wand soaring and dancing.

A moment. Harry's flesh joins together.

'Well, Potter?'

He is still unbearably sore, probably bruised. But not torn.

'Yes, sir.'

A second 'Well?', more menacing.

Harry swallows.

'Th-thank you.'

He hates, simply hates him. No, not really simply - Snape merits a multi-faceted, multi-layered, multi-lingual hatred. He closes his eyes, pictures snakes, curses him in Parseltongue.

*

Clutching and sore, Harry hurries to the Prefects' bathroom area. He's got the password from Fred and George. He tightly locks the door, and tries to catch his breath. He hurts much more than he ever has at any other time. But he had had no option.

Yeah, right, comes the familiar sneer. Keep using the same tired excuse. I'm sure if it's repeated enough times, it'll start making you forget all the pleasure he gives you, too. I saw how you relaxed today. How you trust him. You still do now, don't you? Because you need him, whatever he does to you. So you'll keep taking it all. Won't you?

Shut it, Potter, he instructs himself. In Snape's voice.

*

Snape hurts him. With little games. Snape reminds him that he is Severus, too, with the occasional softness afterwards. After all, when you're being insulted a lot, you're weakened to a compliment. Harry's pleasure escapes him and runs around unreined when he's praised. It jumps up and down and screams for more attention.

'Your hair.'

'Yes, sir?'

'It is probably the softest thing I have ever felt. Quite incredible.'

Harry wishes for his mouth be cursed so it can never more produce the beaming grin that appears at such remarks.

They're probably part of the game though. Harry can't tell when he's in reality now.

Some of the games are simple. Severus knows: 'simple but effective.' Like fucking Harry in front of a mirror, eyes spelled open so that he can't escape seeing his change in front of him, the melting, the eagerness, the need, the submission. It is already there; Severus merely shows it. Inescapably in the reflection, in plain fact.

Little games. Like James, Sirius and Remus played with him. He plays some of the same. He remembers how he reacted to them. Now he doesn't need to push the thought away, but actively explores it. Compares and contrasts, tweaks and improves. The sheer classic pleasure he gets from seeing Harry react as he did is never astounding. How he is, that's how Harry is. Their characteristic.

Wildly varying emotions are the best part. Swings and fluctuations of shame and frustration (breath-sobs), alternating anger and excitement (he loves the tiny flashes that Harry has, unaware, in his eyes).

Savours...disgust. Savours...terror. Savours...yearning. Savours...good old-fashioned lust. Hawked hooded eyes above a hawk nose see them come into the boy but never go, hooking into him and burying themselves. Then they are present for the next time. When he will point them out again.

One day, too curious to be able to hold it back, he asks Potter, in a subtle way, with all the craft he possesses, what he thinks of him now. Manages to convey his utter disinterest in whatever the answer may be, that not a scrap of his ego rests upon it. 'In a way, it's... kind of exciting, to find out what makes you tick. I mean, how you work. Or something. Cos what you do...it shows me something about you.'

He falters under Severus' cold glints. Interesting. But he should not have asked.

Harry is too busy moaning himself into ecstasy under Severus' inexorability. He was honest, but isn't focused on that right now. He does wonder later on, why he asked. Though he will never be told, he knows that.

He can't picture him being taken by his father and his friends. Well, he can picture it. Unshyly the images crop up, explicit, vivid and detailed by his imagination, based (accurately) on what Harry has had done to him. Despite what he has learned, however, he can't make the leap, not because he is not aware of any gap between today's Severus and yesterday's, rather that the wounds are so deep that they never actually show on any surface of which Harry is made aware. The shame is locked aside. It unbefits one.

He can't see the Severus who submitted gladly to his tormentors, was their willing slave. You're a disgrace, Snivellus. And still he suckled on them.

*

He shows up and they put him down. Moans, moans, moans. Moans, moans, moans. Moans, moans, m - oh, shiiiiiiiittttt! He's TIRED of it, inner voice pouts petulantly. 'Hurry' is not in their vocabulary.

'Sounds like he needs a good hard fuck. What d'you think, Moony?'

Remus says nothing, only laughs a little and watches him from under his eyelashes. And makes the mood in the room abruptly change. And Severus feels with every fibre already the hard thrusts Remus will make inside him with his wand, which sometimes acts as an alternative to his cock (Remus claims it feels similar, due to the magical binding).

But for now he is crossing the room, stepping lithely over the damage he caused last month at the change. His bare feet flex and Severus watches, fascinated, then forgets to think because Remus turns around and gets into position, comfortably and with ease.

Severus' saliva glands respond automatically, moisture gathering in his mouth so that he has to swallow quickly. Remus likes a good rimming. Practised fingers grasp, thumbs part, mouth hits the little hollow just above the hole and licks sumptuously around it, long and shallow. Remus sighs. It means 'deeper'.

Sirius stands over the two, rubs against Severus - his spine provides an interesting friction, he must remember that - fingers skid along his erection and get into an often-practised pattern.

James lays back, hands behind his head, stares off into space and listens to his friends getting off. His cock will rise on its own and he'll get Severus to take care of it. He'll always take care of it. Nonetheless, he still may beat him, for the sheer hell of it. It was so fun, being unfair.

*

The end of the year. Taunting to the last day. The last time - still can't say 'together'. He stares at their retreating backs and is able to say, 'Pricks,' for the first time. He is free.

Graduation. The teachers' proud faces. His indifferent one. No more playing along. What they tried to teach me, all lies. You can't protect me from myself. It is silence from the small spacious cupboard in his mind, where he has locked the discarded past darkness. Nothing rattles the chain or tries the padlock. Not yet.

Time to leave and find less condescending company.

*

Glittering black eyes. They follow him into his dreams. And especially close-up, like they were now. Simply watching him, as he falteringly learns to suck with the right pressure, stroke the adequate number of times, where he should just taste and when he should add the pressure of a finger. The mocking voice instructs him, corrects him, derides him.

'You are at last beginning to acquit yourself. I had almost given up. After all, compliance has never been your strong suit, has it? But I think you must have inherited the Potter natural ability at going down, despite having James' regrettable egotism.'

He is breaking him so thoroughly.

'Are you familiar with the term 'fisting', Potter?'

Malice drips off the words. He looks up from what he has been doing - Snape's cock, to be precise.

'No, sir.'

'What deplorable ignorance. My duty this evening will be to enlighten you. Turn over.'

He obeys. Feels Snape's interested fingers, silky with lube, open up his arse, explore him, circling round and round...He feels vulnerable.

Severus is rediscovering the utter absorption that it is possible for him to have, in playing with the crumpled entrance to a male body. Watching one finger - two fingers - being swallowed, feeling the darkened flesh stretching impossibly. The fingers retreat for a moment, leaving redness, then return for more. Now a third finger is pushing in.

'I never get tired of doing that,' murmurs Snape over his head.

Let's try four.

Harry starts moaning louder. The muscle contracts as he pushes out reflexively.

'Potter,' he is rebuked, 'this could be construed as defiance.'

'No, sir...I just can't...'

'Relax.' the voice overrules. The fingers intrude further and grasp at the slippery flesh, curling inside. They must be up to the second knuckle now.

He recoils, but the pain is insidious. As is the sudden pleasure at a deeper thrust. He gasps quietly. Do that again?

Severus finally coaxes his thumb to fit up the tight passage. Now he can really get going.

His voice is a hypnotic buzz around Harry's ears.

'Surrender it all, boy.'

He leans into the motion, cock angling up against his belly. Oh, he loves this.

Harry agrees. His muscle and Snape's bones interplay, with a crackle of electric arousal at each thrust, now he's in really deep.

He feels violently invaded. And is excited by it. He wills Snape to keep at it. Don't spare me, don't spare me, his mind chants. Give me a good hard seeing-to.

'Harry,' working his hand harder and harder (oh good! his thoughts revel), 'what are you thinking about now?'

Oh shit.

He is too dispersed by the hurting and the snatching after wisps of gratification going on in his rear, to be able to even start thinking up a lie.

He can't separate himself from what he's thinking. The inclination to just blurt it out can't be overridden. A mental shout: complete and total prat! Whereas another part relaxes, and emphasises: ahhhhh... feeling the words tumble off his tongue.

'That I feel so good with you doing that, that I want it harder, I want you stretching me past breaking point. That your fingers are so clever. I want mine to be like that.'

Snape catches his breath in some surprise. Tough luck, he can't change it now.

The tone is oiled.

'That could probably be achieved, Potter. If you work hard enough. Certain hours of...practise. As to the rest...I believe I have something, which you may regret asking for.'

He withdraws his fingers. Returns with something in his hand. The largest black dildo Harry has ever had the displeasure of seeing. It overflows Snape's hand.

''Stretch you beyond breaking point' was the specification, was it not?'

He won't give into the queasiness. He forces himself to relax and shuts his teeth on his pleas.

Severus lubes it up. Taking some small pity on the boy, mainly for the reason that he sensibly recognises that his grasp on such complex healing spells as to repair an entirely shattered inner passage is not as firm as he would wish for the situation, he brings out his speciality. A potion, to be used sparingly, which simultaneously warms and relaxes the muscles, whilst subtly inflaming the nerves and increasing sensitivity. All these effects together achieving an incredibly aroused state and some of the best orgasms Severus has ever, ever, ever had.

Fuck I am so screwed...am gonna get so screwed...will never be able to be screwed ever again...scrolls across the inside of Harry's head in flashing stark colours.

The unyielding density nudges at his parted cheeks. Not as cold as he expected. It starts going in. No...fucking...way. Implausibly...it's amazingly, astonishingly wonderful. What in the hell is going on? He cranes behind him. Severus leans forward.

'How's that?' he smirks.

A whimper. Harry has forgotten how to close his mouth.

'Come now. Even you can achieve a more articulate level of English than that.'

'Shit...what did you do to me?' Harry feels winded from the lack of pain. From the indecent amount of gorgeous sensation. He wants to ram himself onto the immense cock for hours at a time.

'You'll never have heard of it, Potter, at your level,' the voice points out dryly. 'One of the most potent of the aphrodisiac elixirs...even texts containing the briefest of references to it are kept in the Library's Restricted Section.'

Oh, he is breaking him so thoroughly.

For no pleasure is given without it having its purpose, to make him yield even more.

So when the boy congratulates himself, thinks he's got away with a good experience, Severus sees it differently. He is building up a store of reminiscences in Harry's head, through which he can control him. Since they prove how good he can make him feel, he can use that knowledge to force him to obey. To implore him, Severus, in the most humiliating circumstances, to repeat any of the former ecstasies. There will come a time when he will do nothing without it being pleaded for. And Harry will be helpless to do anything about it.

He smoothly moves the dildo in and out, watches the boy eagerly take it all and effortlessly rise to meet the tip as it hits his prostate, so right every time.

*

He begins the next stage, then, judging he is ready.

Harry understands: that he won't let him alone, he won't simply finish this, disappointing though that would be. He still wants to use him for his pleasure, and still wants to have him to torture. But cruelty has evolved to become so tightly restrained, that Harry is almost so deceived as to wonder what he gets out of it. Until he glimpses his eyes. Merciless ingenuity surrounds a lust, its strength growing at every stumbling word he produces, every fleeting shameful look he gives to the adamant face.

What shrewd hands do, make him writhe with the tell-tale tingling warmth on the soles of his feet, like pins and needles, as he nears his climax. His touch is insinuating.

But he is unsympathetic to gasping, and unkind to Harry's desires. They struggle for many nights. Harry is unwilling. Becomes obstinate, when he glimpses what it is that Snape wants him to do.

Severus plays him carefully. During this time he never allows him to come. Yes, he can go afterwards and masturbate. But it will never be as good. He makes sure of that, by rubbing a certain cream into his cock at the end of each evening, which dampens its ardour, makes it sluggish and slow to respond. He could just about wring an orgasm from it, but he'd have to stay up half the night to do so. And he has little enough sleep to waste. Harry, gagged and bound, his eyes furious and desperate, is powerless to keep the bliss he thus robs from him.

He further torments him in the manner he himself was tormented - stroking, rubbing, licking, sucking, everywhere but at the relevant points. And he makes him suck him off. A lot. Uses particular spells, to delay release. Reams his arse slowly, securely, covering and re-covering every last patch of skin with biting, persistent mouth, with sure fingers and thumbs and hands, with the hot ridges of his cock, finally with his creaming come. He disdains a co-operation forced from fear of physical injury - he will not break bones (not since that first time), or flay skin or the like. He has more refinement. It will pay off.

At the end of a particularly difficult fortnight, Harry gets to Severus' chambers at 8 in the evening, and by 10 past is sobbing hysterically in Severus' arms. He can't take any more. But he can't do what he's being asked to, either.

'Yes, you can, Harry,' the voice in his ear. Reassuring warmth from the arms around him, hugging him very close. 'Simply tell me what you want. That is all. Forget your pride, and let yourself go into this. Beg.'

The voice is luxuriant. So is the hand that fits itself to Harry's soft flesh and rubs the foreskin so beautifully...

So the evening passes marked by Harry's voice, as he describes what he wants Severus to do to him, articulates his lust, spells out his hunger. Despite his embarrassment, because Severus doesn't make it easy for him - he just sits and waits and smirks and arches an eyebrow at indelicate turns of phrase, and although somewhere far back in his eyes there is a kind of fascination, his voice only questions him occasionally, to draw out more details.

Then there are the minutes at a time where he allows Harry to explore his body with tongue and hand, sensitive and layered to make him groan. They bathe together, water taking the place of sweat to make him slippery. Steam rises, almost too difficult to see his body. Harry learns it off by heart instead. Volunteers to do everything. He serves him, and Severus has not to lift a finger. Naturally, there is an ulterior motive. Of his own accord, he is doing anything he knows Severus might like, in an attempt to persuade him to give some attention to his fraught body. But the difference is, is that Harry is working in the light, with a clarity that betrays his every last thought process, whereas Severus works in the dark, as always. Harry doesn't know the ideas that go through those intricately-warrened eyes, and he is simply not skilled enough to dig to unearth them.

Harry has towel-dried him. He now kneels at his feet. Severus interrupts the litany of slight tongue flicks on the bones of his ankles, interspersed with shuddering murmurs to ask him to penetrate his willing, tight arse - 'and then I'd bear down and squeeze your cock just right, so sweet, you know you like taking my arse hard, and I want it too, I want it, oh, I want...'

Sentence left unfinished. Resigned, tongue moves along and fits to the shape of his calf muscle. He places a hand to merely disturb the topmost hairs on Harry's head; still the green eyes narrow up at him immediately. Almost like myself. Interesting.

Harry waits for a command. Severus only stares, gathering together in himself the sum of the qualities that make him Snape, the most feared and hated teacher the students have had to suffer under. Lets it grow, lets the apprehension in Harry rise. Spine sits rigid. Glares, menacingly vindictive. Cold. Controlling.

To him belongs the authority, the certainty of his status against Harry's insecurity, his right and due privilege as senior Professor, teacher of Potions at Hogwarts School. The silence widens the gulf. He holds fistfuls of his own power in his chest as it overflows darkly. Here - here is utter dominance and sway.

He has faced down Dark wizards with this sureness; with this ability to influence, has repeatedly convinced even the Dark Lord of a fact when the opposite was true.

So now, when he has let the intimidation simmer for a while, he swings it, as a heavy whip. Lashes Harry with it and sees Harry crumble, overawed and cowed at his feet.

His contempt is a masterpiece.

'So. Harry Potter. This is the boy wonder? This is the great hope of the wizarding world?'

He imitates the whining, enunciates maliciously.

'Please, sir, please fuck me. I need your cock hurting inside me, thrusting into me, going at it hard.'

His tongue curls around the syllables, diction clear as always. Harry's betrayed, stricken face is a joy to behold.

'Potter. A dog would have as much dignity. But then again, you are a dog, aren't you. My little bitch,' he spits, and is shaken at the extreme hardness his body is able to maintain.

'You are my toy, Potter. It is unpleasant to find that you are nothing but a plaything, is it not?'

The humiliation is so great that even his body is involuntarily expressing it. Harry writhes. Severus strokes himself.

'So finally you've admitted it. As great a perversion as your father's. How will you continue life now, Potter? How will you go back to innocent little Granger and Weasley, when you know that you don't really belong in the pure house of Gryffindor? Even the Slytherins you've always despised have more self-respect. Oh, yes,' his mouth compresses, 'so much more. They'd never do this. You never even tried very hard to fight me, did you?'

He surveys the benumbed expression, fingers smoothing the pre-come around the head in a velvety rhythm. Time to push it home.

'You would fit in quite nicely with Malfoy and his ilk, now. Once they'd gang-banged you into shape. You would suit their purposes admirably. I could tell them, if you'd like. Perhaps then your appetites could be satisfied for a while...until they got tired of you, that is. It does not take so long, after all.'

Watches the shudder pass onto the pale face. Tears stand unconscious in the wide eyes. He's nearly there. Forces his mocking tone to remain even, brings out the last few scornful words.

'It would certainly get the whole school buzzing. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, celebrity in residence, and the most complete slut this school has ever admitted through its doors. Outweighs even the combined talents of Sirius and Remus to suck endless cock; I know their proclivities. Oh, and I can incidentally inform you of one fact. There was only one reason Remus kept hanging around that depressing house of Black's, all through last summer.'

Pause, for effect...

'He wanted some cock, the little whore.'

Harry is still frozen on his knees. The abuse given in that measured, precise gloat, rains all over his body, and he shivers as in an icy downpour.

He doesn't understand. Severus had wanted him to plead for it, moan for it on his knees.

Too appalled even to cry, his body heaves and pumps with the single thought of betrayal, as devious Severus ridicules him for the obsessive need he's created in him, for the obscene desires that were handed on, ruthlessly exposed.

A little whimper.

He is so eminently fuckable.

Severus finishes himself off, aims accurately. Directly onto Harry's face. The tongue flicks out automatically, licks it from his mouth.

'You cannot even control yourself now, can you?'

A simple observation, made in an enigmatic tone. Harry turns his head away.

*

He has striven. Has followed his own, perfectly conceived and precisely executed plan. When he does that, situations do not go wrong, situations do not get out of control. The cursed boy calling his name from pure physical excitement. STOP obsessing, Severus. Stop bloody connoting from one tiny occurrence. Pure physical excitement, that is all. He sees himself in the mirror. His blank expression.

The situation will continue as usual for a time. Severus will keep it going. He has to. No, he doesn't. NO, he doesn't.

To cover it up, eh, Sev? 'Just because you know something, doesn't mean you have to say it.' There's a good Slytherin motto for you.

Shut up! I do not know something! You are a good fuck, boy. That's all.

Ha ha, Severus. Denial will get you everywhere. Denial that you actually felt guilt after you destroyed him. Just what has the boy become to you?

He will end by going mad. Was this such a good idea?

*

Harry won't eat, can't sleep. When he does drop off, he dreams of red-hot scorn in Severus' eyes. But when he wakes up, he knows even that was a flattery. The scorn was icy and chilling. He puts up the silencing charm round his bed every night now, knowing he could give away the whole secret by sobbing out one name. The one that's on his lips, waiting to spill off but never receives the go-ahead until a safe time, away from others.

Severus, Severus, Severus...Why hadn't he used it when he had the chance? Doesn't matter if he thrashed him for the insolence. He would have at least been able to indicate how he felt. That he...

The wizard doesn't send for him.

Doesn't speak to him.

Doesn't look at him.

Severus lifts an eyebrow.

'Charcoal curve completes his contempt.' writes Harry in his Potions exercise book.

He makes me melt down.

'Impertinent whore.'

The mouth nuzzles between his legs.

'You are so responsive to torture, Potter.' Such a responsive body. Such fun to torture. Here is my responsive body. Harry wishes to leap on the desk and wave it around. Please torture me again.

Why I should not let you...no whys, any more.

He's sick of a nuanced approach.

So sick, he wants to vomit all the time.

He collapses one day after eating an orange. His first food in 72 hours.

Was it the orange? Because it wasn't Severus' favourite fruit? I have displeased you again. I'm sorry. So sorry.

*

Recovery with Madam Pomfrey. Severus is at the door. No, surely. He never comes here, not to see me.

No, it really is him.

'Potter...'

He sits beside the bed. Looks at his hands.

Harry waits for the world to start again.

Severus' eyes blink at the bedspread.

'Was it because I sent you away?'

He raises his eyes. No disdain in the blackness. Harry nods.

Severus makes his decision. He doesn't have to like it.

'Starving yourself is unacceptable, Potter. You need not think that I am doing this out of some weak submission -' (his heart pulses twice in quick succession) '- to any type of emotional blackmail. My actions are my own.'

'Yes, sir.'

The cool skin with the veins in it, on the back of Severus' hands. He wants to kiss it.

'You may come to visit me again. If you understand this.'

He tastes his own fear. This time, it was his aim to get caught.

Harry lights up.

*

So when Harry gets out of the infirmary, there he goes again, down to the dungeon.

Finds him, oddly quiet and pensive. They lie together, fingers jogging idly up and down curves, but the black eyes lack their previous intense concentration on Harry's skin and the mouth sits silent, jibes unaccountably missing. Harry is no longer uncomfortable at the mere fact of his presence. However, his strangeness worries him.

'Severus?' he tries.

The black eyes snap to attention, frowning on him.

'Why do you call me that?' mouth strangely twisted.

'Because...because...that's who you are.'

Impossible to express. He has gone past 'Snape' and can't return.

Severus opens his mouth. He knows what he could say, to blight the boy's presumption and set this back on its rightful footing. But he doesn't want to. He wants the Remus in Harry; the sweetness; to be 'Sev' again. He wants the James he has discovered so plainly in Harry, to tell him he is desirable again, by look and touch, if not by word. And he aches for Sirius' sure strokes to handle him, hand himself over, off with responsibility, leave behind ability and just respond. He grits his teeth on the sentence, but it slowly trickles out with the next exhalation anyway.

'Please, Harry...please...'

He can't do it. The thoughts burn a hole in his head, but they are clogged in with the mesh of memories. He...is weeping...oh, God!

Harry looks up at him. Conflict and confusion. He's pretty familiar with those himself. Severus has helped him, unwittingly, to understand. He reaches out timidly, and cradles him in his arms, head against his chest, hot tears dripping on his skin, pulling him almost on top of him, embracing him as fully and as closely as their separating skin will allow. They are not so different.

The endless solitude has worn him down. Long resistance is one of his strengths, but not immunity. He has paid them back in full, and they have indebted him again, with a new boy with greenness and scar and black hair that will go on and on linking him to James.

His muffled voice sounds racked.

'Harry...'

Harry leans back slightly, gives him room to breathe, but doesn't stop his fingers sliding down the expanse of Severus' back.

'You've got to...'

Focus, now. No-one had those green eyes. Look at them, and ask. It is Harry. No-one else.

'Please. I need you...now. To fuck me.'

Harry's breath hitches.

'Or just do anything. Take anything you want.'

A shocked pause.

'Please, Harry...' he says, sees again the fleeting picture of him begging, hears it now as well, pleas hanging onto the edges of his throat, shoved violently out there so Harry can hear them too.

'S-Sev?' Uncertain.

Brief joy at hearing that name, at last. He can also hear what's unspoken. He is quite good at that.

'Because I need it. I never told you...what James...Remus, Sirius did...'

Sick excited anticipation fills his veins and makes him blunt. Finesse is escaping him.

'They made me beg. And hunger. If you long for release and are constantly denied it, after a time you will do anything. Even when the torture doesn't stop. Then you begin to expect the torture. Learn it. There is a very fine line...you come to almost like it. They play you, play on your nerves, play on your climax...'

Memories consume, like openings of wounds. Harry cries suddenly into Severus' shoulder. Both stroking dark hair.

'I did this...to get revenge, but also to regain something. They made me so dependent on them. I wanted to show you that darker side of yourself - James' perversion, in you. So I could have you instead, and master you. And through you, him. And Remus and Sirius.'

Makes sense, in a Snapish sort of way. Harry stops stroking him. He becomes aware that his fingers are biting into Severus' shoulder, and releases him. Utter exhilaration and joyfulness are rising. Severus wanted him. Anger comes in waves. Severus fucked with him, for a long, long time. He should pay, to their mutual satisfaction.

Anger feels very right, if taken out on the nearest available body.

Start off slow...the way he taught me.

'So...you want a good fucking, Severus?'

He is proud of the tone. A bite nearly worthy of the man himself.

Severus is very still. Harry recognises the reflex: be very quiet, and hope they don't see you.

'Do you? Tell me!'

'Yes,' whines Severus. Whines? He replays it. No other word fits. He's submitting. He finds the idea of a submissive Severus strange. Then it hits his groin with an almost violating, indecent thrill. His dick stiffens alarmingly. Abruptly: fuck, yes. That mouth, usually full of insults, pleading yet more with him. That icy, purring voice coloured with desperation. The cool, amused eyes beseech, dignity discarded and long-forgotten. He had unlimited power. He could, for the first time in his life, sympathise with wizards who joined Voldemort. Even understand Voldemort himself. The lust for power. If this was what a little of it tasted like...

Severus smiles rather grimly though his tears. He feels the sudden hardness of the tip on his stomach, the quickening breaths. Harry is having his first experience of total control over someone else, without fear of repercussions or retaliation. Good, is it not, Harry?

He subtly shifts closer.

Still, his heart jumps a little at the look that is slowly taking place on the familiar face, in the familiar eyes. Too-bright. The mouth trembles, trying to fit around the shape of cruelty, glee and still a residue of concern. Tongue licks at his lips and he opens his mouth, welcoming. Feelings flicker: overwhelming concentration / immersed / bringing harshness into his softness. Harry tastes unforgiving. They pant.

Fingers tangle in his hair, take a good handful and pull, as hard as they can. The dizzy pain clamps at his scalp.

'Suck my nipples.'

Severus bends his head immediately.

The power rush runs agreeably along his vein network, kind of like when he flies in Quidditch. Really, he could co-operate with this new sense. Access his inner Malfoy. He is slightly shocked to find a sneer has settled on his features. It seems the fitting expression. Mmm...certain reasons speak for being an absolute git. Perhaps that's why Malfoy practises it so tirelessly.

'Very nice, Severus...'

He runs a careless hand down the long spine to the tender flesh direct beneath the creases of his buttocks. He smacks down, hard. The body trembles, but the obedient, assiduous tonguing carries on.

'Stop now. Let me see your face.'

Harry contemplates the tear stains. His mouth goes, tender, to the swollen eyelids and plants kind kisses. Reflects momentarily, but the hard need is insisting. He looks down, reaches and lazily grasps his own cock, flicks it with a swift proficient wrist. The movement's small grace enraptures Severus, staring, and his thin lips part...

'Exactly,' Harry whispers. 'Your mouth.'

He basks in the eyes' flaring heat. The head moves over his ribs, down his stomach. He fondles the hair and stops himself from raising his hips, pushing the head further down instead. Breathes soft for the supple mouth,

'Mmm, Sev. My submissive little bitch. I'm going to make you howl.'

When the breaths are hastening out of him, he snaps an order. A flash of joy at the alacrity with which the body, belonging to him now, stretches out again. The dark eyes are solemn, but the evidence of his craving is between them. He places the tip of a fingernail on it.

'What do I want now, Severus?'

A slim hand insinuates itself between Severus' thighs, crawling under to feel for the rounded arse. Eyes him expectantly.

Severus opens his legs, eagerly, and, unasked, his hands are pulling at his buttocks, spreading himself. Harry can see the darkened flesh. His legs tremble with the intensity of his cock's stiffness. He tries for a hiss. It comes out rather well.

'Look at you - you're such a slut -' fixing his gaze on the black eyes, so as not to miss the desire heightening.

So provoked, he reaches for the lube, he slicks himself up, he approaches on his knees, is suddenly unsure as to the mechanics. The other's hands help him into the right position. His hardness sits at the entrance, hands playing with the tenderness under the hip bones. Puts thick dabs of lube where it counts.

He forces in a little. Swallows, keeps pushing. Severus' eyes encourage him. He's past the beginning - and it takes him, draws him on, he's suspended as the muscle does what it wants with him.

Oh, the fucking tightness. No wonder Sev wanted to do this to him.

Severus is gasping, snorting in breath. Involuntary tears run. He hasn't had this since...

'Sev? Are you okay?' His hands smooth Severus' cheeks, wiping the tears.

Severus nods.

He murmurs,

'Was the last time, um, with...?'

He can't bring himself to say their names.

A low reply.

'No. Later than that...' his face closes, and Harry knows that's another story. One that he won't learn today. No matter.

His cock twitches, in palpable agonised delight.

Severus puts the Dark Lord, and his pleasures, and his Death Eaters, firmly to the back of his mind, and says vehemently,

'Go on, Harry. Please.'

The determination is back, and with it, the lust. It roars. Reminds him of the authority he's been given, skims it down his spine.

'Alright. I'll fuck you...if you beg me to. With all the honey that you're got under that clever tongue of yours. You've got such a way with words, so convince me. Why should I move from right here,' he pats the backs of Severus' thighs smugly, 'when I could probably stay for hours?'

The well-hidden is out in the open. He's put it there. Has given Harry his measure, and his glare has been rendered impotent. Harry only laughs.

'I'm waiting, Sev.'

Green-eyed intensity is the worst.

So, threats are out. He probably won't believe it if you warn him of the danger this activity poses to his health, if he continues to suspend all movement. Gullible he may be, but not that gullible. My repertoire also stretches to logic - almost certainly discounted, if you take into account the 'drunk with power lust' state of mind he is currently enjoying - and an appeal to his finer feelings will fail on that score, too. He's probably forgotten by this time that he ever was in Gryffindor. Down to your classics, then, Severus - supplication and entreating of the boy to have his wicked way with you. An inward quiver of gladness. There is nothing left to shield him.

(Please let me be able to form words of more than one syllable!)

'You win, Harry,' he says, a small smile playing around his mouth. It is burned away with his next sentence.

'I need you. You are too intelligent to insult with the notion that anyone else could...'

He breathes. Begins, more quietly.

'It is not solely my links with James. You surrendered to me, bit by bit. And initially, I wanted only to break you. But breaking you was so unexpectedly delightful...it was a joy, a fascination. You and I, we are so alike. I could see so much Slytherin in you, that desire for power-plays, for magnificent submissiveness to the greater power, after fierce resistance. I recognise the voices that sneer around you, though I was the one who put them there. Mine match yours.'

A boy, luminous as the voice purrs over him.

'Harry. Give me it, I beg you. Please... you demand it, and I want so much to obey you. To do as I am told. Give me it. Fuck me. Extra hard -' Severus knows exactly what he's saying '- up to the hilt, give me all of your lovely young cock. Ram it up me. Don't take any care, just take my arse and use it, tear me if you wish, pay me back for everything I've ever done to you.'

The voice slithers along his senses, drags at his cock. He could pull out his semen with the structured velvet of his speech. Harry knows the superfluity of words. He simply smiles into Severus' eyes and starts the motion. The cock draws gradually out and slides forward, tensely walled in. The pressure slides along with him. He gets Severus' hands and grips them. Fingers willingly interweave.

Caresses to infinity with rubbing, juicy sounds. Severus loves their crudeness. Head back, hair parted, nostrils more pinched.

He's rocking inside him. Faster. Deeper. Sparks suddenly. Yes...keep going...

'Ah!'

Harry notes the place at which he cries, and at the next stroke in, stops deliberately before he hits it.

He's doing it. He's actually punishing me!

He grits his teeth. Harry grins. Starts up once more. Queries innocently,

'How's - this?'

'...so good.'

'Fast enough?'

'Mmmm...' contented.

'Right, we'll slow it down then.'

Small strokes with his shaft, wilfully tantalising.

Severus' upper lip twitches in grudging admiration at Harry's tactics. He has certainly benefited from my training. He tries to buck up. Harry slaps his face and he sinks back into the pillows.

'I've always wanted to do that.'

He admires the marks of his fingers as the cheek rapidly turns scarlet. His expression vicious and gentle. Gryffindor plus Slytherin.

Long and hot into my crack -

'Take it. Take it all, Sev. Take my cock.'

I most certainly will -

'Who's your master now, Sev? Say it.'

Gives in to the eagerness which bubbles up, subsuming his whole personality in the boyish willingness coming from the past.

'Harry!'

'Come on, scream it all out.'

He is screaming it all out, giving it all out in great sobbing lungfuls, until there is nothing left to give. His voice goes silent and muscle reflex takes over. Pushing against Harry's shoves.

Mind becomes lost inside the you-ness inside mind. He lets it. You, you, you...Every word is a certain stroke with his rigid cock.

Fingers part his lips, dip in. He sucks avidly, tastes individual substances mixed up on Harry's fingers. Sweetish tasting, sticky lube, slight mustiness from his own crack, some pre-come from Harry's guiding his cock in, Harry's saliva...Wonderful. More... He winces, then leans forward, goes back into the pain because he really does want it. He feels Harry slow a little.

'Don't - stop.'

The dark curls are soaking now, from absorbing the lube and seeping pre-come from Severus' proud hard-on.

He jerks hard upwards and Severus cries out approvingly.

'Oh, God, yes! Harry... Please - hurt me - '

They kiss. When they part, Severus watches his sneer flow onto Harry's lips. It suits him rather well, actually. He stops himself from laughing. Then has no desire to. Harry is so deep-seated, every breath aches through his arse.

'Tricksy little whore,' he whispers, as Harry doesn't move, and strains forward to bite a nipple. Harry's expression is maintained at 'indecipherable'. Then he breaks.

'Why are your terms of abuse so fucking hot?' he demands.

'Language, Potter. I am going to have to punish you for that,' Severus remarks, reverting for a moment. Until he catches Harry's eye. And falls silent, rebuked.

'It hurts, doesn't it, Severus?' sternly.

'Yes.'

'Yes, what?'

See Harry pushing it, he thinks.

Severus flicks his eyes up, disbelieving. He holds the green gaze. No-one yields.

Harry reaches for his hair. He slowly and surely winds it round his wrist, admiring it.

The drag on Severus' neck muscles increases. His head is forced backwards.

'How dare you, Severus,' is whispered. 'You know what I want.'

Severus closes his eyes, luxuriates in the submission as it happens.

'Yes, sir,' he speaks, clearly. Hears held breath hissed out. They both smile to themselves.

'Do you want me to move?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then fucking' - he waits to see if this will provoke a reaction, is satisfied when it does not - 'well beg. With details.'

'Please, sir. Please - fuck me. I want your cock moving fluid and h-hard in-inside m-me. Ah, God...! I want to - squeeze you so hard, Harry...'

He bites down. Draws blood. Harry's sympathetic intake of breath is muffled as he inches forward a fraction more, and sucks on Severus' bottom lip. Then he moves. Then he moves. Yes.

'Hard' - a vaguely rational (small) area in Severus' mind calls into question whether he has ever known what that meant.

Now he does.

They are moving and they are rocking again and they they they, gulp in breath, together are fucking and coming but too they are...say the words, Severus.

'Making love.'

Harry looks at him.

His long hair is smeared onto his forehead with sweat. His eyes are squinted almost shut. His pale skin could almost be called red. Love, you are perfect.

Severus is submerged in Harry's green. Green on black. It takes him a moment to work out where he's seen those two colours before. The Slytherin house colour, on black robes. His own little Parselmouthed Slytherin snake. The red flush is the Gryffindor part of Harry. He's got all the parts, and they're all placed rightly.

Ache and arch and agonise and anticipate and amalgamate and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Harryseverusharry. Severusharryseverus.

*Nd*.

Author's Extra Note: Thanks to Severus for standing in front of the wardrobe in my room, alternately smouldering and giving me encouragement, but also making me sleep 6 hour nights and work typically from 11pm to 5.30 am in an effort to get everything down that he was saying to me.

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