Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!
Notes: In which the house-elves go on strike, there is no breakfast and Severus Snape discovers a novel way to procure morning sex. My first ever 'silly' PWP, and hence somewhat tentative.
Early Birds
by
Snape was, contrary to all expectations, an awful cook. It was an unpleasant discovery to make when all the house-elves were on strike--and damn Hermione for her Department for the Equality of Magical Beings, anyway. Harry sighed as he padded to the kitchen, groggy-eyed and bleary, spectacles greasy after a rather close encounter, the previous evening, with Snape's hair. He'd have to cast a cleaning spell on them after breakfast.
Breakfast.
What the fuck were they going to have? Harry had solemnly sworn not to touch another kitchen appliance after he left the Dursleys, but he wasn't going to survive another day of Severus' cooking. One would think that all those years of stirring cauldrons and measuring ingredients would have given the man a modicum of culinary skill, but all that potion-tasting seemed to have killed his tastebuds altogether. (Well--except for Harry's skin--Snape seemed to find that good enough to eat.)
The kitchen was annoyingly bright, with a lone figure--already dressed--seated at the small round table. Harry glowered. He'd always thought that Snape wouldn't be much of a morning person--but Snape, of course, seemed determined to contradict him just out of spite. He was up by seven each morning, even during the holidays, and dressed before eight. Harry, by contrast, stumbled out of bed barely a few minutes before breakfast--well, that was when there was breakfast. Fucking house-elves. It was good that the students had gone home already, or they'd have mass starvation on their hands... As it was, only the staff were left to fend for themselves.
'Good morning,' said Harry, meaning to sound sarcastic but ruining it with a yawn.
Snape grunted in response, snapping the pages of his Daily Prophet in a crisp, I'm-not-in-the-mood-for-conversation-Potter way.
Harry trudged over to the cupboards, yanking them open one by one. Sugar. Milk. Tea. Bread. A few slices. And--
--Nothing.
Harry gaped. Then, as realization sank in, he felt his vision go red.
Right.
Okay then.
This had happened far too often.
He turned slowly, hands clenched, to fix a gimlet eye on Snape. Who was sipping his tea in a far too innocent manner.
'What,' Harry ground out, 'happened to the eggs?'
Snape didn't look up from his paper. 'Ah.' He didn't even have the grace to sound sheepish. 'I needed their shells.'
'Their shells?' Harry's teeth seemed to be grinding themselves to a fine powder.
'Yes. The alarm at five this morning--or did you sleep through it? I needed them for Poppy's Rejuvenation draught. Had to be stirred in precisely.'
Poppy's. Rejuvenation. Draught. Was going to. Get them all. Killed.
Well.
Snape, at least.
Suddenly itching for his wand, Harry turned back to the cupboards to count to ten. It didn't help, so he counted to twenty. 'I thought,' he managed after a few moments, 'that your potion stores were separate.'
'They usually are. But the potion required unexpected modifications...'
'And you couldn't have left them for later?'
'Not unless you wanted to wake up to the sound of an eruption, and several gallons of exploded bubotuber pus.'
Harry groaned, thunking his head against the kitchen counter.
'Oh, don't be a nuisance, Potter. Get yourself some breakfast.'
What breakfast? Harry wanted to whine--but he knew better than to waste his time.
Instead he straightened his shoulders, lifted his throbbing forehead and--with the look of a man stoically surviving the most horrible torture--took out the bread.
Several minutes later, after chewing on unappetizing slices of hard, dried bread, Harry carried the pitcher of milk over to the table and set it down with an exaggerated thump. The milk sloshed; Severus raised an eyebrow.
'I'm going to Hogsmeade for groceries today.'
Snape nodded, attention fixed on his paper once again. 'Get me some erumpent extract while you're at it.'
Harry's mouth dropped. The nerve of the man. The sheer nerve...
He took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to fight. If they did, one of them would invariably end up either hexed or buggered, and Harry was simply too tired for all that. Not to mention hungry. He thought of writing a nutritional pamphlet, the kind that was kept in little racks in front of Slug & Jiggers: 'Living With Severus Snape, A Guide to Losing Calories'.
He snorted. Severus didn't even look up, however; focused, as he seemed to be, on some exceedingly fascinating paragraph in the Prophet. Harry wondered why he even read the damned thing when he criticized it so much... Huh. Probably to gather vitriol. Snorting again, and nearly expecting that 'care to be saddled and blinkered, Potter?' comment, Harry filled his glass with milk and began sipping. Its fresh, cool taste slid down his throat, calming the knot of frustration there. He eyed his lover across the small, polished circle of the table--his precisely buttoned waistcoat, the proud rise of his shoulders, the firm line of his mouth.
Oh.
Harry suddenly found himself gulping down his milk and setting down his glass rather distractedly. Bugger it. He was still hungry; and Severus casually flexed one leg, causing the rich charcoal of his trousers to stretch tightly across one strong thigh. And across a rather generous package.
Harry, who shouldn't have been thirsty considering his very recent glass of milk, felt his mouth go dry.
Hungry indeed. Harry suddenly felt very hungry. And, considering that his being hungry was all Snape's fault, it was only fair that he provide Harry with some breakfast...
Barely making a noise, Harry pushed his chair back carefully. Stood up. And walked quietly, catlike, over to where Severus sat.
His act of stealth was suddenly spoiled by a loud grumble from his stomach--which he cursed silently--but Snape still didn't seem to have noticed him, buried in his newspaper as he was.
Then those charcoal-clad thighs shifted apart, minutely, and Harry knew that he'd been caught.
He'd also been given permission.
Not bothering to hide a grin, Harry shifted in front of Snape and kneeled, which would have been difficult on the slippery kitchen tile were it not for much experience. As the lines of the tile dug into his knees, Harry grimaced and wondered if he'd end up with permanent scars as a result.
No matter.
His eyes were fixed, unerringly, on his target--and he knew they must be gleaming the way they did when he spotted the Golden Snitch.
Severus had shifted his legs even further apart, cooperative as always when it came to this, even if he was a bastard in everything else. Harry's hands were smoothing along those strong thighs, relishing the responding twitch of muscle. He glanced up to see if Snape was watching--after all, not many people got to view Harry's messy mop of hair quite from this angle--but Snape didn't even spare him a glance, instead lifting his tea to take a calm, controlled sip.
Bastard.
So this was how he wanted to play it, eh?
With new-found determination, Harry reached out his right hand and pressed the palm of it, flat and warm, against Snape's crotch.
And rubbed. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Yet even as his palm heated with friction and he felt that cock harden under his touch--a silken strength that never ceased to amaze him--he heard a nonchalant rustle of paper overhead.
Snape wasn't even looking at him--he was busy turning the pages of the Prophet. 'Drivel,' he was muttering. 'Utter drivel.'
Harry decided, quite suddenly, that he'd have to burn every copy of the Daily Prophet in existence. Gritting his teeth, he was forced to admit defeat to the increasing demands of his hormones--no, his stomach--as he undid the buttons of Severus' trousers and slid his hand inside.
Snape's hips jerked--just momentarily--and Harry smirked, lifting his lover's out cock gently. He ran his fingers up the hot length of it, feeling out the familiar signature of veins--and it looked beautiful there, heavy and dark against the paleness of his hand, beautiful enough for him to catch his breath.
Severus' breathing deepened, making Harry look up; but those thin fingers still held the Prophet loosely, without an ounce of tension in them, reminding Harry that he had a job to do.
Let it never be said, Harry thought, that I don't take my work seriously.
And so he leant forward, hands cradling the base, and took the head of Snape's cock tenderly into his mouth.
A startled groan erupted from Snape before he could stifle it, and the thighs on either side of Harry twitched violently--but the tremors soon settled down, and Snape took a deep breath, turning yet another page of the newspaper.
His gesture was clear. It's not over yet.
Huh. So Harry worked his mouth down, knowing that it was unbearably hot and soft, and smiled around his mouthful at every involuntary lift of Snape's hips.
The following minutes were formed of one long, seething silence punctuated by stifled gasps and sighs, in which Snape began to undulate almost involuntarily against Harry's movements. Harry closed his eyes and sighed at the ease of this, the familiarity, the bitter warm taste in his mouth spreading a satisfaction deeper than he had ever known down his spine, sending a curl of heat to his stomach and pooling, finally, deliciously, in his cock. Harry barely noticed when a rustle announced that the Prophet had been set aside; he barely noticed anything but the velvet heat in his mouth, his lips stretched tight and likely to chap from friction, the back of his throat and his tongue aching for the touch of that tender, salty head. But he didn't want to end up with a sore throat and a raspy voice this early in the morning--unless he wanted more cough lozenges from Pomfrey at the staff meeting--so he kept his hands squeezing rhythmically at the base, matching the rhythm he set further up. The languid strokes of Severus' pelvis rubbed the cock repeatedly against the roof of Harry's mouth--and Harry moaned, setting off a shudder that wracked through Severus' body like a wave. An echoing haze filled Harry's head; beat through his ears in a deafening pulse, and Harry was thinking of nothing, feeling nothing but the tightening of those balls under his wrists, the throbbing of his own prick below, and the path of cool saliva that was left tingling on Snape's cock every time he pulled back, only to be replaced with liquid heat when he slid down again. He barely noticed when Snape's panting breaths grew heavier, and he didn't speed up, keeping the same lazy pull back and forth, back and forth, nearly purring in contentment. Breakfast.
But he did notice when two fingers--still warm from a teacup--came to rest softly against the nape of his neck. They stroked up into his hair with the same gentleness, the same rhythm Harry was using on Snape's cock. Harry shivered at the prickling, intimate slide of them--even as Snape arched, hand tightening cruelly, groaning as he shot stream after stream of hot come down Harry's throat, nearly choking him, bitter and beautiful and yes and Harry's mouth closed around it greedily, sucking and sucking and sucking until the prick in his mouth finally began to wilt, and he reached even further to follow it, to lift it, to lick up and around it and down it until Snape was moaning, fingers tugging at Harry's hair, panting something Harry couldn't hear over his own pulse. A stray streak of come was cooling on his chin, so he finally pulled back, relinquishing Snape's cock unwillingly, only to move forward to rub his chin clean against the dark hair nestled at the base, and finally extending his tongue to lick even that clean, loving the wet crinkle of hairs and the press of sweaty thighs around him. That scent, deep and musk and wonderful, made his own cock twitch desperately--but he ignored it, because his work wasn't done yet; he had to get Snape to say... he had to...
'Harry,' someone seemed to be saying, 'Harry,' but Harry didn't want to leave, didn't want to leave this nest he'd made for himself, nose still buried in that delicious scent, lips still brushing that quiescent cock.
A quiet chuckle, and Severus tugged even more insistently at Harry's hair, gently, until Harry finally looked up with glazed eyes and a wet mouth, face flushed and lips swollen, the very picture of debauchery. Snape's breath caught--but Harry, who might have been proud had his mind been working, merely followed the hand as it guided him up and off his knees--and when had they gotten so sore? wobbly?--until he was kneeling astride Snape's lap, and the hand that had smoothed his neck before was sliding comfortingly down his body, and under his nightshirt, along the slick skin of his abdomen before curling, carefully, around his cock.
Harry mewled.
Severus smiled--mouth not nearly so firm or cruel now, and whispered hotly in his ear: 'Perhaps a little repayment?'--but the words might as well have been gibberish to Harry, whose universe had now contracted to that point of near-painful heat between his legs. 'Please,' someone was moaning, 'please...' And that glorious hand seemed to listen, because it sped up accordingly, almost business-like and firm, familiar press of palm and knuckle and a shape Harry knew so well. Yes, he was thinking, YES, and his mouth was open and gasping against Severus' neck, and the hand on him moved faster and faster even as another palm settled hotly on his back, under his nightshirt, supporting him so that he didn't slide off. Yes, and his thighs were trembling, yes, and Harry reached up his loose arms to wrap around Severus' shoulders, tightly and don't let go don't let go please oh yes please and his hips were jerking and a low wail was tearing past his mouth and he was coming, shock and sweet and yes and thank you thank you so hot yes thank you and stars were spinning behind his eyes, a kaleidoscope of white and green, and his head fell onto Severus' shoulder as if robbed of all strength, and he melted into a boneless joyous emptiness that he could never get enough of, never, even as that deep voice kept murmuring in his ear.
A warm mouth was moving along his jaw, oddly uneven against his stubble. Another hand was wiping something wet off his lap with the extra length of his nightshirt. Harry turned his face, blindly, to meet that mouth, and the tongue that slid in to meet his was thick and warm with the taste of steeped tea, and Harry was kissing back languidly, still feeling his hips move even though his orgasm had long passed, and the hand that had been cradling his back slid up to his neck again, holding him close to that moist, seeking mouth.
They stayed that way for many long minutes, even after Harry's hips had stilled and his hands had stopped digging into Severus' shoulders. They stayed that way, sticky mouths parting barely a moment to catch a breath before diving back again, deep and comfortable and warm. Harry's entire chin was cool and wet in the wake of Severus' hungry tongue, and he finally drew back, breath more even now, head clear, crystal clear and everything was beautiful, and his palms were moving in warm circles on Severus' back.
Severus leaned his head back against the chair, his own mouth shining with spit. His face was so face easeful and smooth. Harry blinked slowly, still feeling that clear, somewhat sleepy calm as he saw Severus' dark eyes close and a smile curve that thin, beloved mouth.
'I'm going to burn that Prophet,' Harry heard his own voice saying, which made no sense until Severus started chuckling, belly shaking against Harry's own, voice low and rich and round. Harry found himself grinning at the discarded, somewhat crumpled paper on the table, and Severus was saying: 'Are you sure? It seems to have served us rather well just now...'
And Harry felt his jaw drop indignantly, even as Severus' actions made sudden sense to him. 'You,' he felt his mouth working, 'you--'
'--genius,' Severus completed, eyes opening to glint at Harry victoriously.
'Bastard.'
'The two are not mutually exclusive.' And that thin mouth was smiling again, and Harry found, suddenly, that he didn't feel so much like complaining anymore.
'Bastard,' he repeated anyway, for good measure, and Severus hummed in agreement as he shooed Harry off his lap.
Harry climbed off, legs a little unsteady, head rather light and--yuck. The front of his nightshirt.
'Oof,' Snape grunted, standing up and massaging his thighs. He cast a sour, if somewhat mild, glare in Harry's direction. 'You're no longer that light, you know. Keep to yourself next time.'
Harry snorted. 'Yeah. And you're the one who pulled me up... Ow.' He winced as his own knees caught up with him, striped red and sore from the tiled floor. The skin there tingled oddly.
Severus took a peek at them under the hem of Harry's rumpled nightshirt. 'I have ointment for that,' he gestured towards the bathroom.
'What. For tile-burn?'
'For scratched skin and bruises, you fool.'
Harry ran his hands through his hair and sighed. 'Back to the you-fool routine, are we?' But his heart felt strangely warm.
'That's because you deserve it,' Snape snapped, or would have, had his mouth not twitched traitorously. He waved at Harry's soiled nightshirt. 'Aren't you going to take that off?'
'Eh?' Harry looked down and groaned--if he moved the wet stickiness rubbed coldly across his skin, and--ugh. 'Bloody house elves are on strike too.'
'No matter. A few cleaning charms--'
'--not as good as theirs, though--'
'--and we'll be done.' And Severus was walking, quite abruptly, into the bedroom.
Harry blinked after him. Well. This was... nice. But hadn't they already--
'Well?' Severus' irritated voice called from within.
'Well what?'
'The staff meeting,' Severus clarified, words slow as if talking to a child. 'Unless you've forgotten? I need another shower--and you, lazy sot that you are, need your very first.'
Harry grinned as he walked towards the bedroom, remembering the meeting planned for eleven today. 'Better than showering twice.' He tugged off his nightshirt as he entered. Severus, who was shrugging off his own waistcoat to reveal an uncomfortably sweaty shirt, gave him quite the appraisal.
Hmph. So this morning wasn't a total disappointment after all.
''M hungry,' he muttered as he picked up two sets of towels and padded to the shower, feeling his stomach growl again.
'They'll have sandwiches at the meeting,' Severus said from behind him, and Harry felt his heart lighten at the thought.
'Joy,' he said, trying to mask his relief with token sarcasm. 'You don't feed me nearly enough, you know.'
'Oh, I don't think so,' Severus drawled as a pale wrist, lined with silky black hair, reached past Harry to slide the shower door open and turn the knobs. 'I seem to have fed you rather well today.'
'Oi!' Harry dropped the towel and followed Severus in, a vengeful gleam in his eyes, as steam rose around them and hid the slick length of Severus' body from his sight. 'You're going to pay for that, you prat,' he growled, and backed Severus into a wall even as he moved up to capture that chuckling mouth, feeling long fingers curl in his wet hair and slide slowly past his shoulders.
* * *
One and a half hours later, hair wet and clothes clean, Severus Snape and Harry Potter stumbled into the staff meeting five minutes late. Or rather, Harry stumbled in and headed straight for the plate of sandwiches, whereas Snape stalked calmly in and sat, folding his robes fastidiously, next to a grinning Madam Hooch. Trelawney was absent, as always.
Dumbledore coughed. 'So good of you to join us, Severus. Harry.'
Snape nodded coolly, but he avoided Dumbledore's gaze when he said, in a curiously raspy voice, 'I had... work to take care of, Albus. My apologies.'
Hooch seemed to have trouble keeping a straight face--so to speak--and Minerva McGonagall was studiously looking through the papers in front of her. Filius Flitwick had a strangely fond look on his face. Poppy Pomfrey, however, latched immediately onto the rasp in Snape's voice, and promptly reached down to ruffle through her large black case. 'Sore throat, Severus? Here--', she pulled out a vial, '--the weather's so bad these days, no wonder everyone's getting sore throats--here, take these. Twice a day should do it.'
And Poppy was holding out a small hand with the even smaller vial in it, glittering as it was with odd little globules.
There was a strange choking noise from across the table--and everyone turned to see Harry Potter, face stuffed with sandwiches, clamping his hand over his mouth rather tightly.
'Harry?' Poppy asked, concern ridiculously out of place considering Filius Flitwick's rather uncharacteristic smirk, and Hooch's sudden inclination to scratch her nose distractedly.
Harry shook his head, face flushed, eyes shining; and Severus cleared his throat, calling Pomfrey's attention back to him.
'Thank you, Poppy,' he rasped solemnly, ignoring the blush that heated his ears. 'I'll... take them.'
'Remember, twice a day.'
'Twice a day.'
'Oh, more than twice, probably,' said Hooch, followed by an 'Ow!' when Minerva McGonagall kicked her under the table.
There was a brief respite as Harry took the time to calm down and swallow his last sandwich, and Minerva flipped seriously through her notes. Flitwick patted Hooch's hand consolingly.
'Well, then.' Albus cleared his throat as Snape stared fixedly at the vial in his hands. 'Harry, about the DADA lessons next term...'