Author's Note: Response to Dixiebell's "What Is Rimming?" challenge, Harry is a boy of many skills. Snape is about to have a very different sort of run-in with one of them. Special bonus of Telanu's "Oh, Professor Snape, you sexy bitch" challenge.
The Consequences Of A Weary Mind
Snape sat at his desk, hands folded, lips bunched, giving a concrete glower to each and every student as they turned in their pathetic attempts at essays. As each scroll hit his desk, the bearer turned and shuffled out the door. Thank Merlin.
The last of the seventh-year Slytherins - Zabini, as it happened - gave him a polite smile. Snape's mouth became a little less bunched in return, and Zabini bounced out of the classroom like a happy puppy. Snape sighed. The scrolls sat innocuously on his desk. He imagined they were mocking him. Tiny, papery voices made rude comments, daring him to mar their surfaces with traces of red. He stared wearily. You've never seen the likes of what I'm going to do to you lot. They didn't seem to care. He gathered the scrolls and counted them.
Severus frowned. There were supposed to be twenty. So, either someone had slipped past him without turning in his homework, or...
His neck snapped audibly as he looked up. It only took a moment of scanning to see the cause: on one of the Gryffindor desks rested a disheveled, apathetic lump of black hair. The shoulders behind it rose and fell steadily. Snape growled. "Potter!"
Potter jumped. "Asphodel! Wormwood! What was the question again?" He blinked blearily, rapidly, shoving his glasses up on his nose.
That's it. After this year, I'm taking that sabbatical and I'm not giving it back. Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Ten points from Gryffindor for utter gormlessness, Mister Potter. Give me your essay and, for Merlin's sake, go dribble on someone else's desk."
Potter blinked at him again. A bit of spit had, indeed, crusted in the corner of his mouth. His irises were unusually bright next to the redness of his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. Snape started to open his mouth to deduct more points, but suddenly remembered his own NEWTs and the espresso addiction that left him screaming from the room when his Transfigurations test bunny lunged for his throat.
Or hopped slightly, wiggling its pink little nose. It's hard to tell sometimes, with bunnies.
"Sorry, sir," Potter tried to mumble. It was dismembered by a jaw-popping yawn. Snape winced. He gritted his teeth, glaring painfully, as the brat stumbled out of his seat, didn't even bother picking up his bag, dragged it across the floor, dropped his essay and two empty candy boxes on Snape's desk, and wandered out with his eyes closed.
Snape waited for the door to click shut, and very gently thudded his head on the desk several times. Three more weeks, Severus. Three more weeks and you never have to see the little wretch again. Three more weeks and there would be no more "brilliant catch, Potter! You really taught that Snitch!", no more "wow, bet ol' Voldie never saw that one coming, Potter!", no more "ten points to Gryffindor for being absolutely perfect, Potter!". And, of course, no more snarling under his breath and deducting points while he got lost in that idiotic, dunderheaded, lickable, suckable, absolutely stunning brat's eyes.
Severus was hardly going to know what to do with himself.
Harry's hand jerked over the parchment, quill following blindly. His cheek was pressed against the common room table. He had the vague impression of a moist spot growing beneath it.
"Harry, wake up. You're doing it again."
Someone was shaking him. "Whazzat?" he mumbled, trying (and failing) to open his mysteriously glued-shut eyes.
"You're doing homework in your sleep again."
Harry once again tried to force his eyes open. A blinding white crack took the place of pleasant darkness. A moment later, he recognised Hermione. A large puddle of drool had formed under his mouth and had soaked into the edge of his parchment.
Wrinkling her nose, Hermione picked up the sheet. Her eyes moved over the words analytically. Suddenly, they widened. "Harry! You cannot turn this in!"
She held the parchment in front of his face. He blinked a couple of times and read. Comparatively, the mating habits of the hippogriff and the hippocampus Hagrid, mate, I love you like a father, but you can't teach this class worth a damn are much more similar than one might expect.
Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. "You've got to get some sleep, Harry, or you're never going to survive the year. Think how Hagrid would have felt if you'd turned this in!"
"Couldn't be worse than Trelawney."
Hermione's mouth quirked in a shameful grin. Harry's recent Divination essay featured the phrase "you couldn't see the future if it stripped starkers and danced in front of you singing, 'happy days will be here again'"; it had earned him one week of detention, two furious Gryffindors in the form of Parvati and Lavender, and enough general awe to overshadow three dead Voldemorts. Quickly, she sobered. "That's completely beside the point. It would kill him to know that's what you really think. Get some sleep, then write. Then remember to proofread for once? You haven't written any others, have you?"
Harry thought for a moment. "Only Potions."
Hermione frowned. "Harry..."
He shrugged and dropped his head back on the table. "Won't say anything he can't already... know..." He trailed off with a snore.
With no small distaste and rather a violent twitch in his temple, Snape drew a single angled line at the top of Longbottom's essay. He took a deep breath, or tried anyway. Several seconds later he drew another, this one a mirror image of the first. Merlin, no. But he couldn't deny it. Biting his lip until he tasted blood, he dragged the quill between the two. It jerked and jumbled and shot off the edge of the parchment in a ragged line, but there was no way to mistake what he'd just done.
He'd given Neville Longbottom an "A".
It made him feel positively ill.
Shoving the essay to one side (he couldn't even fault the margins - that boy was going to pay for this), Snape leaned heavily on his elbows and massaged his temples. A bottle of Magigraine sat on the corner of his desk. He picked it up and nearly had the stopper out of the green glass phial before he remembered he still had Potter's to mark.
Times like these, he missed Voldemort.
At least he used proper English.
Delving into the pile, he prayed to gods, demons, dragons, small paper cups of coffee, anything he could think of that he grabbed, say, Malfoy's paper. Malfoy's written language skills were flawless in at least three languages - not all of them human - and his handwriting was enough to make a bitter academic weep with joy.
No, no, he grabbed Potter's.
God, he missed Voldemort.
Laying two fingers on the side of his neck to feel the frenzied pulse that, with luck, would soon burst and send him to Academic Heaven, he unrolled the scroll. Academic Heaven, my arse. With my luck I'll spend eternity marking sixth-year essays on Biochemical Transgressions Within The Physiology And Generation Of Nutant Braestus Cup. There was an essay he'd learned about the hard way. Especially after the lot of them looked up "nutant". Not that it stopped him from getting half a dozen blank looks regarding mutant braestus cup. He felt his blood pressure rise ten more points just thinking about it.
I see his handwriting hasn't improved. Severus picked up his red quill again and skimmed the first paragraphs, looking for misspelled words. Just to spite, he marked for transitive and intransitive tenses. A sharp slash obliterated a dangling participle, and he took a whopping five points for ending a sentence with a preposition. He sighed happily at that.
Still didn't change the fact he had to read the fucking thing.
Taking a sip of coffee to steel his nerves, he delved in. The power of the mind has long been the subject of intense fascination among scholars and laypersons alike. The power to control the mind god, I want to shag you has equally enthralled for just as long. With such spells as the Imperius Curse and potions such as Veritaserum-
Wait a minute.
Severus' brow furrowed as he backtracked. He stared. For an instant, he considered capitalising "god" and simply getting on with it. It must have been a prank. Potter, along with most of the rest of Hogwarts, would dance on his grave should the hated Potions master be found dead of a heart attack. Inducing one wasn't beyond his skills. Snape suddenly found himself reconsidering his decision to smirk wickedly at what happened to Sibyll. He looked again.
Yes, Potter's essay quite clearly said, "god, I want to shag you".
Snape drummed his fingers. He decided to simply interpret it as a deviant desire to coat a deity in shredded tobacco. Or carpet, it didn't matter which. Mentally slicing a few more years from what he'd already decided would be a mercifully short life, he went back to reading.
Legends abound of a potion form of the infamous and unforgivable Imperius Curse. It has been postulated that these legends were based on early truth elixirs which gave apparent control oh, Professor Snape, you sexy bitch over those administered them.
Severus sighed. He paused to place a crimson comma between "elixirs" and "which", and reached for the Magigraine. Three more weeks, Severus. Only three more weeks.
But, Merlin's tackle, if his curiousity wasn't piqued.
Calm down, Severus. He's only trying to get a rise out of you. The childish part of his brain, the one he normally kept under lead and muzzle, sniggered. Oh, shut up. Not that sort of rise! Rather than shut up, it giggled and tossed up an image of Potter thoroughly naked and tied to Snape's bed.
Ten minutes later, when he'd returned from his sweaty-palmed walk to the kitchens for fresh coffee, Snape dived back into the essay. As well as he could, anyway. As soon as he reached the part about "you'd look so good in hot fudge, Professor", he wheezed and spilled the liquid in his lap.
"Balls!" Gritting his teeth at the strategic burning sensation, he crab-walked into the bathroom for a towel. The thick, white cloth turned brown readily enough, but it couldn't quite seem to sop up all the annoying drops.
Oh, what the Hell?
Shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation, he skinned out of his robe. For possibly the first time, he silently thanked his brain for its inability to focus enough to mark in his office. With Slytherins in for advice every three minutes, how could it? Dropping his shorts as well, he rubbed angrily at his groin and legs, groping for the liquid. His tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth as he did. He took a fresh hand towel with him and, sitting down, spread it daintily over his pelvis. Wouldn't do to have Minerva spell the lock again in some effort to make me social. I don't think I could look her in the eye ever again if she saw me marking completely starkers. He smirked wickedly. On the other hand, it would certainly teach her a lesson about other people's privacy.
Before setting back to work, Snape made certain there were no hot liquids, caustic substances, or sharp objects within easy reach. Gingerly, he picked up his quill again and eyed the parchment. It looked innocent enough. As long as he ignored what it said, anyway. Biting his lower lip, he got to it, shushing the little voice that asked why he didn't just give the brat an "F" and leave it there.
The penalty for the use of such potions without permit varies from a minor warning to life imprisonment you've got the most gorgeous arse. However, even a warning is permanently etched into a witch or wizard's are you doing anything Saturday night? permanent criminal record. The only exceptions given require that the offender be, ironically, under the sort of control of which he or she has been I want to strip you naked and find out what you taste like accused.
Snape shook his head. An odd tingling sensation was starting to grow in his ocular sinuses. It dribbled down his spine into his pelvis. Arching an eyebrow, he snarled at himself and carried on.
Antidotes are dependent on a person's will oh, I don't want anybody else, when I think about you I touch myself as much as on the potions themselves. This is not as simple as oh, I don't want anybody else, oh no, oh no, oh no one might imagine. Right now all I want to do is rip your clothes off and pound you into the mattress. The fear inspired by the Imperius Curse what's the point in writing this bloody essay when we could be having fun? is due to its ability to dominate all but the strongest of persons. The addition of a chemical component that effectively binds the effects I'll bet you look amazing in handcuffs to the afflicted's neurons ensures that the effects may very well be permanent oh, sod this, you're the only mind control I need.
Severus gulped. His eyes went wide at what Potter described next. "Can two people do that?" His mind's eye pondered it and proved that yes, yes, they could. With enough lubricant and practise, at least. And some rope. Would definitely need some rope. He felt a distinct twitch somewhere in his nether regions. He glanced down, and groaned.
He seemed to have raised the white flag.
Ignoring his surrender as best he could, he went back to trying to read the essay. Essay, my arse-oh, there it is again. Oh, my. This isn't an essay, it's a bloody love letter! He cringed. Did I just call it a love letter? He looked again. No, no, my mistake, it's worse than that. This is the plot for a bad pornographic novel. Unconsciously, he leaned on one elbow, eyes running a bit too hungrily over the words.
I love squirty cream. It's so... symbolic. Tie you down, blindfold you, use the can to give you a corset so I can lick it off. Then, once you've been licked until you whimper, I'll sit on your chest and put a bit of the cream on my cock. Would you like that, Professor? Should I call you "Professor"? Or Severus? Or just my bitch? Oh, yes, I like that. I'll put a nice, white squirt of cream on my tackle and let you lick it off like an ice cream. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Then, once you've licked it off, I'll lean forward and let it slide straight into your throat.
Although I'd sort of like to be your bitch for a while, Professor. Let you peel my robe off, see if I've got anything underneath, let you have your way with me. Only, I don't see you doing things normally. I see you throwing me down on my stomach and running the tip of your tongue between my cheeks until you can just wiggle it over my arsehole. Oh, god, yes, yes, I want that. Oh, you could make me scream myself hoarse if you did that.
Severus realised suddenly that he'd flicked the towel to the wayside and was sliding his fist languidly over his rather, ah, attentive member. It was certainly the best essay Potter had ever turned in for his class. He wondered distantly if detention was in order.
You have no idea how often I've dreamed of pressing you flat against the bed and sliding down on your cock until your eyes roll back in your head. I want to fuck you senseless, snog you until you get hard again, and fuck you some more. Oh, god. I'm a virgin, you know. All I've ever had inside me is my fingers and my wand, and every single time I've imagined it was you. Fuck me, Professor. Fuck me hard, fuck me now, fuck me until I think I'm going to break. Then turn me around and fuck me some more. Oh, god, I could come just thinking about it. Bouncing up and down on you, screaming my head off, hearing you tell me what to do in that scrumptious voice of yours. Oh, god, yes. Oh, god, Professor, yes! Yes! Oh, my god!
Severus' hand was flying by this point. He stared at the page, eyes glazed, rereading every other word because the stars going off behind his eyes kept getting in the way. His jaw had dropped, and he was panting like a dog in summer. The image of Potter straddling his hips, hands braced against his chest, moaning and whimpering and crying out and screaming, oh, god, yes, screaming, was very nearly enough to make him ruin the finish on his chair.
Yes! Yes! God, Professor, I'm going to come! Take me, you animal! Fuck me! Shove your cock into me until I howl! Oh, my god, YES! YES!! Mind control potions, therefore, are among the most insidious and dangerous of magical substances. The limitations on their use...
"TEN THOUSAND POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR!" Snape bellowed. He slammed his fist on the desk. Desperately, he tried to squeeze himself back to peak.
No such luck. The abrupt switch left him at full mast, but short a salute. Growling, he shoved his chair back and stormed into the bathroom for a cold shower and a good round of intense, grammatically incorrect cursing.
The door flew open. Severus stormed in, hair dripping, lips blue and curled, robe plastered to his skin with water, and a scroll clutched tight in his hand. Albus watched innocuously as his Potions master kicked the door shut and all but threw the scroll at him. "HEADMASTER, I MUST INSIST THAT POTTER BE EXPELLED IMMEDIATELY!" Wet hair fell in his crazed eyes, and his shoulders rose and fell worryingly.
Dumbledore held up a hand. "Severus, dear boy, take a deep breath and tell me what you have to say like a rational human being. You've not been hitting the espresso again, have you?"
Snape turned an interesting shade of red at that, but he growled and took a gulp of air anyway. He made a little hic sound, and turned redder. "Headmaster hic," he said with as much dignity as he could, "Potter has hic simply gone too far with hic his essay." He pointed at the scroll, chest jumping with a hiccough.
Severus opened his mouth. He hiccoughed, closed it, opened it again, closed it, hiccoughed, and flopped sulkily into a chair. "Read it yourself," he muttered, cheeks going purple.
Albus casually summoned a glass of water first. "It must be serious. I haven't seen you angry enough to get the hiccoughs since Black was pardoned." He chuckled as the indignant noises suddenly doubled in rate. Severus sneered at him and grabbed the water. He chugged it in one, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and did a very poor job of pretending his hiccoughs were gone.
Eyebrows raised in bemusement, Dumbledore unrolled the scroll. He scanned it. "Ah, I see he's inherited his mother's writing ability."
Snape frowned. "Pardon, hic sir?"
"Ah, yes, yes, haven't seen this in a long time, not since Miss Evans was studying for her own NEWTs. Automatic writing," he said as he re-rolled the scroll with a flourish. "When one reaches a suitable level of exhaustion, the subconscious takes over and spills all sorts of details. In Mister Potter's - and his mother's - case, it seems to involve the person most closely related to the subject at hand." He chuckled softly. "Don't tell me you don't remember the fuss when she called Minerva... what was it again? Ah, yes, an 'overbearing old cow who needs a few good orgasms'."
Severus gaped. "Lily hic said that?"
"Of course! Became quite the popular young lady for a time after as well. Ah, that's right. You were having your own difficulties at that time, weren't you?" Albus grinned and winked. Severus sulked more.
"Doesn't change the fact that Potter wrote... wrote... wrote that! Hic!" He waggled a stiff finger at the scroll.
"You're taking this much too seriously, Severus. At least we have a bit more insight on the reasons for, ah, your particular brand of... mutual tension?"
Severus hunched. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Nonsense, my dear boy. You didn't know about the betting pool?"
Snape shook his head. He arched an eyebrow dryly.
"Most of the staff have had a friendly wager on for months. We all want to see if you kiss each other or kill each other first. Of course," Albus punctuated this with a glare, "should you choose the first option before his term as your student is over, I shall have to take drastic action." The cool glare was backed up by the force of Dumbledore's fifty Galleons on snogging, just after end of term, in the dungeons, with neither of them seen again before morning.
Snape gulped. "Yes, hic sir," he muttered. Then, under his breath, "As if I'd ever hic have anything to hic do with hic Potter hic hic hic."
Albus smiled and handed the scroll back. "I shall let you decide on punishment for his, ah, rather creative interpretation of the assignment. Within reason, of course."
Severus snatched it back at swept to his feet. "Thank hic you, sir," he said dryly, and stormed towards the door, hiccoughing rapidly.
It slammed behind him. Dumbledore smirked to himself. Pool's as good as mine.
Snape clutched the scroll to his chest. He was torn between the urgent need for a Hiccough Halter Draught, absolute fury over Albus' light reaction to a serious problem, and persistent images of Potter tied, naked, to the bed, yowling like a cat in heat and being thoroughly buggered by a very eager Potions master. Three more weeks, Severus. Only three more weeks. His fingers dug into the scroll until it collapsed under them.
He hardly knew what to do with himself until then.
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