|Aug. 20th, 2007 @ 07:27 pm Childish Things, NC-17|
TITLE: Childish Things
PAIRING: Severus/James, implied Severus/Sirius
WARNINGS: dub-con/non-con, filthy language, hate!sex, Evil!James (or maybe just TotalButthead!James)
SUMMARY: Harry isn't too happy when he discovers one of his father's boyhood secrets: that James Potter had very old-fashioned views about Life Debts, and how they should be paid.
DISCLAIMER: The world of HP and it's characters belongs to Rowling. The author of this fic has borrowed them for the purposes of storytelling. No profit was or will be made.
AUTHOR/ARTIST NOTES: I burn incense at the altar of Nishizono who beta-read this piece and made excellent suggestions. It's a better work now because of her input. This was written for the First Bottomsnape Exchange, which has now concluded.
“When I became a man, I put away childish things.” I Corinthians 13:11
It was December in the afternoon. The house was quiet and the year was dying when Harry finally settled the box onto his lap and opened it. The Weasleys and Hermione had gone to visit Arthur at St. Mungo’s – he had begged off only by pretending to be asleep – and Sirius had locked himself away upstairs with Buckbeak. No one else was there. He was finally alone.
He and Lupin and Sirius had found the small chest while trying to clear more of the cursed items from the attic. It was wedged between an armchair that tried to suck its victims down through the cushions rump-first and a cheval mirror that muttered insults in Langue d’oc. The small chest tumbled down on end when they finally managed to banish the chair and put a Silencing spell on the mirror.
“Remus?” Sirius asked in a low voice, blinking at the box. “Is that what I think it is?”
Harry and Lupin both turned to peer into the darkness. When Sirius tipped the box right-side up, Harry saw what looked like a small pirate’s chest, complete with skull and crossbones painted on the arched lid.
“Merlin’s Ghost!” Lupin murmured coming closer. “I think it must be.”
“How… how did it end up here, though?” There was something sharp in Sirius’s voice, Harry thought. As if he wanted to snarl and weep at the same time.
“I think,” Lupin said slowly, “after….”
“After I was hauled off to Azkaban,” Sirius said, managing to keep most of the bitterness from his voice.
“Yes.” Lupin cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “I thought the Ministry confiscated everything, but they must have released some possessions to your family. That’s…that’s the only explanation I have.”
“Would somebody mind telling me what the two of you are talking about?” Harry snapped, irked at being treated as if he wasn’t there. Both men turned and blinked at him, then Sirius grinned.
“Come over here, Harry. I’ve got a theory I want to test.”
Harry scowled but marched over to where Sirius knelt by the chest.
“Get down here, all right?” With a sigh, Harry got to his knees before the chest. Sirius rapped on the top of the chest. “Hey, Crossbones!” he shouted. “Wake up!”
To Harry’s shock, the painted skull blinked and rolled pea-sized eyeballs around its sockets to stare at Sirius.
“A heathen Black, ehh?” the skull muttered. “I don’t open for your blood, scurvy dog. Off with you, and leave me be.”
“Not so fast, Crossbones,” Sirius grinned. “Look there.” He pointed right at Harry. The skull eyed him.
“Be ye a Potter?”
“Yes!” Harry squeaked in surprise, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”
“Arrre you now?” drawled the skull. “Prove it.”
“Put your finger on the skull’s mouth, Harry,” Lupin urged. He was leaned over, hands on his knees, and his eyes held the same avid light that Sirius’s had. “Go on, just lightly.”
With a suspicious glance at his former professor, Harry did as Lupin asked.
“Ouch!” he squawked as the skull nipped him.
“Aye,” it considered. “Ye taste like a Potter. I’ll open for ye.”
The ornate lock that secured the latch rattled but didn’t open.
“Open up then, you bony bastard,” Sirius growled, knocking on the skull’s head.
“Said I’d open for Potter,” it snapped, its beady eyes trained disconcertingly on Sirius. “Not for you lot. What I be guardin’ be only for Potters. No one else.”
Sirius gave a low snarl and looked like he was about to bite the skull, when Remus laughed and clapped his shoulder.
“Well, it’s definitely James’ Bachelor Box. I guess the old stories are true. Even a man’s best mates don’t get to see everything that’s put in one of these.”
“What did you call this?” Harry asked, looking from Lupin to his godfather, his earlier pique forgotten.
“A Bachelor Box,” Lupin said brightly, sliding right into the lecturing voice he’d used when he taught at Hogwarts. “It’s an old Wizarding custom. Before a wedding, it’s traditional for the groom and his friends to have a party.”
“Yeah, Muggles do that, too,” Harry commented. “It’s called a Stag Party.”
“Is it really?” Lupin and Sirius stared at each other and grinned. “How appropriate.”
“Wish we’d known that,” Sirius muttered, sounding wistful.
“Years and years ago,” Lupin continued, “the Bachelor Box ceremony was an important right of passage. Marriage was a sign of a wizard’s maturity, his willingness to take on the responsibility of a family.”
“That’s right,” Sirius nodded. “The Bachelor Box showed that the groom was earnest about become an upstanding member of the community. Putting away the frivolities of youth, and all.”
“Like what?” Harry frowned.
“Oh, drinking, smoking, carousing, late nights out with your best mates,” Sirius announced airily. “All the good stuff, you know?”
“Sounds kind of grim, if you ask me,” said Harry.
“Nowadays, it’s anything but grim,” Lupin chuckled. “Ludicrous might be a better description.”
“Yeah,” Sirius barked a laugh. “They make a big production of putting stuff in it at the party.”
“Usually after the fire whiskey’s been served,” Lupin noted with a cough.
“The groom and his mates fill the box with … well, basically, all the stuff he wouldn’t want his wife finding out about,” Sirius grinned.
“So it’s all a bit of a lark now?” Harry supposed.
“It’s a very serious ritual, Harry,” Sirius said with mock gravity.
“It’s ludicrous,” Lupin repeated, pronouncing the word just as if he was teaching students how to use the Riddikulus charm.
“So,” said Harry, considering the chest before him, “you’re telling me this box is filled with…”
“A collection of some of the most embarrassing and ridiculous things you are ever likely to see outside of Zonko’s,” Sirius announced proudly.
“But,” Lupin added with a fond smile, “they were your father’s utterly ridiculous and embarrassing things. And now,” he shrugged, “I suppose they are yours.”
Harry reached out a hand and stroked the polished wood of the curved lid. It had been his father’s. When he raised his head and grinned at James Potter’s two best friends, it was the first time he’d felt truly happy all Christmas.
Sirius had been right. The box was, in fact, full of ridiculous and embarrassing things. Most them made Harry smile, or groan or roll his eyes. A few of them made him blush.
“Like what you see?” the autographed wizard photo of Desdemona Devereaux, PlayWizard’s Madame April 1978, asked seductively, presenting her ample attributes for approval.
“Uhh, yeah,” Harry gulped faintly.
“Want to see more?”
“Maybe later,” he managed to say.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she promised, puckering her pink lips at him and batting her lashes just before he – carefully – laid the photo face down on the bed.
The collection of Chocolate Frog Wizard Trading Cards wasn’t embarrassing or even ridiculous – some of the cards looked rare and valuable – but Harry had to believe – he hoped, anyway – that the inflatable kneazle and the extra-large bottle of Wiz-Lube was a joke. Maybe he’d ask Sirius about that later. Or maybe not.
He was pulling out another photo when he felt the tingle of magic at his fingers. He peered inside. The only things remaining were a few charmed photos and a piece of what looked like a Fanged Frisbee marked March 1976, RIP. He dumped everything out of the chest and felt again. The tingle was still there. Feeling a thrill of excitement, Harry closed the lid and turned the box over on its back to study the bottom. It didn’t look like there was room for a secret compartment, but this was, after all, a wizard’s chest.
He pulled his wand. “Alohamora.” Nothing. He frowned, trying to think of another Unlocking Spell.
Harry tipped the box back up. Crossbones was eyeing him.
“The password is Prongs.” The skull winked at him.
“Thanks,” Harry grinned, then pushed back the lid again and peered in at the bottom. He pointed his wand where the magic felt strongest. “Alohamora Prongs!”
Harry held his breath, waiting, and just as he was about to frown and try again, the floor of the chest shimmered away, revealing a compartment lined in dark red velvet. In it were three thin bottles sealed with cork and wax and a silver basin the size of a soup bowl. Magic prickled down the back of Harry’s neck as he read the words on the rim. Ostendo memoria.
“A Pensieve!” Harry gasped, setting the chest on the floor and reaching down to lift out the silver bowl. It was already filled with a swirling, pearly substance that was somehow both liquid and gaseous.
His heart was hammering so hard against his chest Harry was surprised it didn’t break his breastbone or crack his ribs. Harry’s eyes cut back to the three bottles lying cradled in the deep velvet. There was really only one thing they could be, stored like that next to James Potter’s Pensieve.
They had to be James Potter’s memories.
Harry set the Pensieve down on top of the bedside table and clasped his hands to his knees.
Breathe. He needed to breathe. He needed to be able to think clearly.
“Right,” Harry exhaled. “Right. What would Ron and Hermione say, if they were here.”
For one fleeting moment he wished they were there to share his excitement, but he sobered, remembering that the chest wouldn’t open in front of anyone else. He didn’t have any trouble imagining his best friends, though.
You need to be very careful, Harry, Hermione would warn him. You don’t *know* whose memories those are, you’re just assuming they’re your father’s. What if they aren’t? Worse, what if they are, and they’re memories you really didn’t want to see? Your dad probably put these away where no one could find them for a reason, you know?
She had a good point, Harry admitted. Several of them. She always did. She was right. He didn’t know whose memories those were. And if they were his dad’s, maybe he wouldn’t want to see.
I think she’s right, mate. Ron was agreeing with Hermione? I mean, what if one of those memories is your dad with… y’know… with your mom?
Harry heaved a sigh and put his face in his hands.
On the other hand, if only a Potter was allowed to see what was in the Bachelor’s Box, then shouldn’t he see what those memories were? Maybe they were something important. Something his dad might have wanted him to see. Maybe even something he needed to see.
Harry jerked his head up, eyes wide as a thought struck him. What if there was something about Voldemort in those memories? He’d been hunting the Potters from before Harry was born, possibly before they were even married. If there was something, anything in those memories that might help him defeat Voldemort, then he needed to see it.
“Right then.” Still clutching his knees, Harry peered down at the three bottles in the chest. One brown, one blue, one green. On impulse, he picked up the green one and studied it. Dark green sealing wax trapped the cork. He tipped the bottle to see it better in the light. The seal pressed into the wax was a knotted serpent.
Harry felt the hair on his arms and neck stand on end as a chill went down his spine. The snake. Voldemort. He knew he had to see what was in that memory.
He broke the wax seal and twisted out the cork. A tendril of silvery mist wafted out of the narrow opening, and before he could think better of it, Harry dumped the contents into the Pensieve. Heart racing, he swirled the contents of the bowl with the tip of his wand and leaned over, hardly daring to breathe, to peer inside.
The mist began to swirl in the bowl and Harry watched the silver shimmer give way to something else. He was looking straight down into a Hogwarts classroom. The room was deserted except for a couple of wooden tables, a scattering of chairs and two figures who stood facing each other, a little ways apart. Harry was certain one of those figures was his father, and he leaned closer, pressing his face through the surface of the Pensieve, anxious to see.
Harry felt his trainers leave the floor as he pushed through the surface, and then he was tumbling, head over heels through rushing darkness until, with a start he found himself standing in that same barren classroom.
It must have been late afternoon, because the high windows painted the stone floor with light. Light which glinted off the frames of James Potter’s glasses.
Harry grinned despite himself to see his father standing there so jauntily, hair mussed and unruly as ever, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up and a mischievous smirk upon his lips. He could not have been more than 17, but James Potter looked every inch a grown man, from the broad shoulders, to the stubble on his jaw to the confidence and air of command he had about him.
An air of command which was focused on the other figure in the room: Severus Snape.
If James Potter looked confident and at ease, Snape looked anything but. His narrow bloodless face and the thin, disapproving line of his mouth were already familiar to Harry, but this tall, scrawny figure had none of the malicious confidence and power that Snape the Potions Master wrapped around himself like robes. This Snape’s thin shoulders were hunched, and his skinny arms clasped a stack of school books against his chest. His black eyes were wary, and his whole stance radiated resentment and discomfort. Harry thought Snape looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there at the moment.
“I’m here as you asked, Potter,” Snape told him, lifting his chin and glaring at the Gryffindor with an air of challenge. “What is it you want?”
“What do I want?” James repeated thoughtfully, a corner of his mouth twitching, “Maybe I just wanted to see how you’re keeping, Snape? Is that so hard to believe?” Potter’s smirk deepened.
“Yes!” Snape retorted. “Why would you of all people care about that?”
“Because I’m an honorable man, Snape.” James’s smile was self-assured; even smug. “It’s only proper for me to take an interest in your affairs now. I wouldn’t be living up to our ‘contract’ very well otherwise, would I?”
“What are you blathering about, Potter?” Snape sneered, but Harry saw the way his shoulders twitched, the way he shifted his armload of books uncomfortably.
What’s going on here? Harry wondered, staring between the two young men.
“I’m surprised at you, Snivellus,” James Potter tsked in mock disappointment. “It really isn’t like you to play dumb. You’re usually too busy playing ‘too damn smart for your own good.’ That’s what you were playing at the last full moon, weren’t you?”
Snape’s shoulders drew back as the skinny wizard inhaled sharply, something like fear flashing in those black eyes.
“So tell me, Snape,” Potter asked lightly, “how have you been keeping? Ankle all better? Scratches all healed up? Still waking your dorm mates up with nightmares about the big, bad werewolf?”
The Shrieking Shack, Harry realized. The Life Debt. So that was true. His dad had saved Snape’s life.
Snape glared at Potter. His black eyes were threatening, brimming with hatred, but Harry saw how the tendons stood out on the backs of the pale hands clutching the books to Snape’s chest.
“What in Merlin’s name are you going on about, Potter?” Snape snarled. “Tell me and be done with it!”
James crossed his arms and cocked his head at Snape, studying him with narrowed eyes as if the scrawny Slytherin were some strange insect, both disgusting and compelling.
“What I really want,” Potter said in a low, thoughtful voice, almost as if he were talking to himself rather than answering Snape, “is to know what all the fuss is about.” Potter turned and began to stroll clockwise around Snape, surveying him as if Snape was something James was thinking about purchasing. Snape pulled himself up, straightening his shoulders and glaring at his nemesis, but hugged his books even tighter.
“I’ve thought and thought, Snape,” Potter told him, pausing to eye the slender wizard from the rear. “It’s kept me awake at nights, wondering. It’s ruined my appetite on a couple of occasions. Still, even after all this time and thought, I’m cursed if I can figure out why Sirius wanted to have anything to do with you.”
Harry saw something flare in Snape’s eyes at the mention of Sirius’s name – something sharper and deeper than the hatred already in his eyes. Something very much like pain.
Sirius? Sirius and…Snape? Harry shook his head. It couldn’t be what it sounded like. It just couldn’t. They hate each other. They’ve always hated each other!
Snape whipped his head around and glowered at James. If looks could kill, Harry had no doubt that his father would have been nothing but a pile of smoking dust on the floor at that moment.
“But Sirius did see something in you,” Potter reflected, tapping his lower lip. He stopped behind Snape, leaning back against one of the work tables and crossing his ankles, pondering the long line of Snape’s black-robed back. “He did.”
Harry’s father no longer wore an arrogant smirk. Instead, James Potter looked as if he had eaten something unpleasant that he was too polite to spit out. It was a bitter expression, and one Harry was familiar with. He’d seen it on Ron’s face last year. He’d seen it in his own mirror.
“He seemed to want rather a lot to do with you, in fact.” James considered, stroking his knuckles along his jaw. “Now, either my best friend has gone well and truly around the twist…”
Snape’s snort clearly announced his opinion of the matter.
“Or,” James Potter paused significantly, “…there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
Potter slid his rump onto the table, dangling his legs and leaning back.
“Take off your clothes, Snape.”
“What?” Snape whirled, snarling.
“You heard me,” Potter said matter-of-factly. “Take off your clothes.”
“You’re mad if you think I will!” Snape spit at him, eyes flashing. One arm still clutched his books, but Snape’s other hand now held his drawn wand at his side.
What the hell was going on here? Harry’s heart was hammering as fast as his brain was whirling.
James Potter didn’t seem the least bit threatened. He was still studying Snape as if he found him strangely interesting.
“You know, I did wonder,” Potter said, “if a Half-Blood would really be able to honor a Wizard’s Debt.”
Snape stiffened and went absolutely white.
“I suppose,” James considered, drawing his wand and casually twirling it between his fingers, “that’s why there are certain spells to remind some wizards of exactly how that debt is to be honored.”
“You wouldn’t.” Snape’s eyes locked with Potter’s, daring him.
“Try me, Snivellus,” Potter replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Those are some awfully Dark spells for a knightly Gryffindor,” Snape hissed through his teeth, “don’t you think, Potter?”
“Ministry doesn’t seem to think so,” Potter shrugged, still twirling his wand. “They’re all nice and legal. But I’m sure you know that, Snape, you being so much smarter than anyone else.”
The two of them stared at each other, the air heavy with the silent battle of wills.
“What’s it going to be, Snape?” Potter said softly. “Honor the debt on your own? Or do you need a little…help?”
Harry heard Snape’s harsh breath rushing through his teeth, even over the beating of his own heart. He was trapped, staring at the memory of two young wizards, one he wanted desperately to love, and one he wanted desperately to keep hating. He was finding it hard to do either.
Harry jumped when Snape’s books slammed to the floor where he dropped them. Snape’s face was set in a rictus of anger and revulsion as he pulled off his school robe and pitched it aside, then started yanking loose his green and gray Slytherin tie. Snape bent his head, long hair hiding his face as his slim fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, then he was peeling that off, too. Now clad only in his trousers, he turned back toward Potter, his expression venomous.
“Go on,” Potter told him. “All of it.”
Harry saw Snape’s eyes close, saw him bite his lip, and then he was toeing off his shoes and socks, and shucking off his trousers with shaking hands. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, and when Snape straightened, his narrow back to James Potter, fists clenched at his sides, Harry stumbled backwards until his legs met a chair and he fell into it.
Naked. Snape was naked. The greasy git was naked, right in front of Harry, and much to Harry’s horror, he looked good.
Snape was tall and lean and there didn’t look like there was an ounce of extra fat on his body. Nothing but pale skin, sharp bones, sinew and tendon and sleek, understated muscle. His skin was so pale and his hair so dark, he looked like a pen and ink study of himself, except for the fawn-pink nipples and the flush of blood burning on his face and neck.
And his cock.
Harry couldn’t stop staring at Snape’s cock. It hung there between his thighs, thick and long and gorgeous, and Harry found himself rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms along the legs of his jeans.
“Turn around.” Harry saw Snape’s jaw clench at the command. He turned slowly, looking away to the side, or down to the floor. Anywhere but at James Potter.
Harry heard his father whistle.
“Merlin,” he said softly. “What a cock!”
The flush on Snape’s face deepened, and tendons flexed in his long arms as his fists clenched.
“Come here, Snape,” Potter ordered, his feet thumping on the floor as he hopped off the table. “I want to get a better look at that barge-pole of yours.”
Fairly vibrating with rage, Snape forced himself to move toward Potter. Harry could feel the heat of Snape’s anger and shame, prickling like sharp-footed bugs crawling on his skin, but if James Potter felt it, he ignored it. He was far too busy studying Snape’s naked prick.
“Circe’s tits,” Potter remarked, unable to keep the barest edge of admiration out of his voice. “How did you get a cock like that, Snivellus? How do you even deserve a cock like that?”
“Jealous?” One word in a low voice of silken hatred.
Potter narrowed his eyes at his rival, and for the first time, the loathing in James Potter’s gaze matched that in Snape’s.
With a wry look, Potter reached out and grasped the Slytherin’s cock, smirking when the contempt in those black eyes turned to shock.
No! Harry stood up abruptly when he saw Snape go rigid, when he saw what his father was doing. No! Please don’t do this. Please don’t have done this!
Harry didn’t want to see it -- he told himself he didn’t -- but he couldn’t seem to stop drawing closer. He couldn’t stop watching: Snape standing there, quivering, clenching, sweat starting to thread down his body as James teased the tip of Snape’s cock with a thumb and two fingers.
“Maybe this is as big as it gets, eh Snape?” James Potter taunted, studying the Slytherin’s face as he toyed with the delicate foreskin. “All for show, nothing to grow?”
“Stop,” Snape hissed, lip curling over gritted teeth, eyes flashing dangerously. “God damn you, Potter, stop it!”
“I don’t think I will, Snivellus,” Potter said lazily. He pinched the head of Snape’s prick and gave it a hard tug before straightening. Potter pulled the back of his hand across his mouth, considering Snape, then jerked his head at the table.
“Get up there,” Potter directed. Snape stared at him with hateful eyes, and didn’t move. Harry could see the way his sides heaved with each breath, the clenched buttocks, the tension in his back and jaw. “Do it,” Potter snapped. He licked his lips as Snape lowered his burning gaze and pulled himself onto the table.
Snape drew his legs together and bent his head so his black hair fell across his face, veiling his features.
“Open your legs,” Potter told him, frowning at Snape’s thin, white body.
Snape lifted his head and stared at Potter.
“Go on. Or I’ll open them for you.”
Snape scowled to hide the panic in his eyes and shifted his legs apart.
“Yeah,” Potter approved. “Move forward now. Just like that.”
James Potter couldn’t seem to stop staring at the long, soft prick hanging between Snape’s thighs. Harry couldn’t either, and he felt his heart race as the memory of his father reached out and lifted Snape’s cock, examining it in his open hand. Snape’s bony fingers went white, clutching the edge of the table. His mouth was set, his jaw clenched and his eyes were squeezed shut. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face and caught in the hollow of his throat.
“Come on, Snape,” James drawled, giving the cock in his hand a light squeeze. “Is that all you’ve got? You know what I want, Snivellus.”
“No,” Snape said with a tight jerk of his head, voice so low Harry almost didn’t hear him.
Potter did look up at Snape then, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes at Snape’s obvious distress.
“Yes,” Potter countered, curling his hand around the thick cock in his hand and giving it a couple of pulls.
Snape made a noise deep in his throat that sounded like something had cracked, and Harry’s eyes widened as Snape’s penis twitched in James Potter’s hand and started to lengthen.
“No!” Snape whispered again, the muscles in his stomach jumping as Potter stroked him to full hardness.
“Oh yeah, Snape,” Potter gloated, eyes fixed on the swelling cock. “Sirius said you were a hot tail. Always hard for him. Always ready. Just for him.” Potter pronounced those last words with a tang of bitterness. “But look at you now. I guess it doesn’t matter who takes you in hand, does it, Sniv? You’re just a slut for Gryffindors.”
That was too much for Snape. Snarling, he grabbed Potter’s shirt in both hands and shoved him back hard. It was almost as if Potter had expected it; had been waiting for it. Before Snape could take another breath he was knocked back across the table, a strong hand clutching his throat and a wand pressing into his temple.
“So help me, Snape,” Potter growled, “I’ll use the spell if I have to. You’re going to obey me, do you understand that, you greasy bastard? You’re going to do exactly what I say and the only choice you get is whether you do it of your own free will, or because I put an Honor Binding spell on you. Did you get that?”
Snape was panting under Potter’s grip, both hands fastened on his captor’s wrist, eyes so wide they were almost bugging out.
“What’s it gonna be, Snape? I’ve got that spell right on the tip of my tongue. Do I use it? Or not?”
Snape’s eyes closed slowly in defeat. He shook his head sharply, then turned his face away.
“Good,” Potter said gruffly. He still held Snape to the table by the throat, but he slid his wand back in his pocket with his other hand, and then started fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. “I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding. That’s a first for us, I think, isn’t it, Snivellus? You understand that I’m going to fuck you, and I understand that you’re going to lie there and take it like a good little slut.”
No. Oh God no!
Harry was shaking his head, backing away from the scene. No, he didn’t want to watch this, he’d seen too much already. He desperately wanted to get out of this memory, but he realized he didn’t know how. Was he going to have to see this through to the end?
He couldn’t watch it, but he also couldn’t close his eyes. Harry couldn’t watch his 17 year old father undoing his pants and pulling up his shirttail to free his stiff, red cock. He couldn’t watch the way James Potter’s insolent gaze swept possessively over the pale form sprawled before him. He couldn’t watch as the Hogwarts Head Boy spit on his fingers and slicked the head of his prick before clutching Snape’s narrow hips and yanking his arse to the very edge of the table.
“No!” Snape hissed, lifting his head, eyes desperate. “Damn you, Potter! At least…do it from behind! Please!”
“Fuck you from behind, Snivellus?” Potter paused as if briefly considering that option. “Maybe next time,” he shrugged, smirking as Snape’s face went blank with despair as those words sank in. “This time, Sniv, I want you to see who’s fucking you. I want you to know it’s James Potter between your legs, and James Potter’s dick up your arse. And,” he added, leaning close and gazing straight into Snape’s eyes, “I want to see your face when I make you come.”
With that, James dug his fingers into Snape’s flesh and drove his hips in with a hard, sharp thrust that had Snape arching up from the table, eyes wide with shock and denial, and biting back a cry of pain.
“Fuck!” James grunted, shifting and giving another thrust, then shifting again. “Fucking hell!” Harry winced as he saw his father slap Snape hard on the side of his arse, then again even harder. “Loosen up, damnit!” James commanded, still rolling his hips between Snape’s legs.
Snape’s nails were scraping into the wood of the table and he was breathing through his teeth in short, shallow gasps. Suddenly Harry saw Snape’s entire body seize up, saw him throw his head back hard against the table, just as James drove his hips down and breached Snape’s arse with a wild groan of pleasure and triumph.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Potter gasped, almost doubling over the slight form impaled on his cock. “That’s nice, Snivellus. Nice and hot and tight. Looks like you are good for something after all.”
Snape bared his teeth and twisted, struggling up to support himself on his elbows, fixing his burning glare on the wizard moving between his legs. His breath hitched as Potter gave a sharp thrust, then another, but his hot gaze never wavered.
“That’s right, keep looking at me just like that,” Potter laughed through a predatory grin as he dug his fingers into Snape’s buttocks and pulled him into a thrust. “You feel that, Snape?” Potter drove into him again, then again, harder. “That’s my dick fucking your arse. That James Potter’s cock you’re wrapped around so tight, and you love it, don’t you, you fucking slut!”
Snape just stared at Potter, and Harry felt his blood chill as the hateful fire in Snape’s black eyes froze solid.
“I wonder,” Snape said oh so softly, as if his legs weren’t spread wide, as if Potter wasn’t stabbing into him raw and rough, “what your precious Evans would say if she could see you now. The heroic James Potter, sunk to his balls in Snivellus Snape, of all things.”
“Don’t you even say her name!” Potter growled, driving into Snape so hard the table screeched across the floor.
“Do you think,” Snape drawled, grimacing at another cruel shove, “that she’d let that insignificant cock of yours anywhere near her if she knew where it’s been? And what it’s been doing?”
“Shut the fuck up, Snape!” Potter growled, punching into him as if his cock were a fist. The table rocked, and Snape had to grab the edge to keep from being fucked across it.
“I wonder if the high-minded Miss Evans would be more appalled that the prince of Gryffindors is raping his only subject,” Snape hissed, “or that he seems to be enjoying it so much?”
”Shut! Up!” Potter snarled at him, his features so contorted by rage and lust they were almost demonic. He pulled nearly all the way out of Snape, then slammed back into him, balls slapping against sweaty skin, thrusting in at every other word. “Shut up, you greasy bastard, you fucking cunt! You deserve every bad thing that ever happened to you and more!”
“Or maybe Evans isn’t really the one you want, after all,” Snape purred as if James hadn’t even spoken. “Are you really shoving your sad little excuse of a prick into me just to teach me my place? Or is this as close as you can get to what you really want?”
Potter shuddered and stopped, hazel eyes filled with loathing.
“I’ll hurt you, Snape,” Potter threatened, his voice low and dead serious. “I’ll hurt you if you don’t shut up right now.”
“Are you wondering if this is how Sirius fucked me?” Snape whispered, eyes shining with malice. “Are you wondering if he bent me back, or took me from behind or sucked my cock and made me scream? Are you wondering,” Snape hissed, biting off each syllable, “if he’d have done the same to you? Or if he’d let you do it to him? If you’d only dared to ask?”
“Snape!” Potter snarled in warning, and thrust so hard that the table lurched.
“How sad is that, Potter?” Snape’s lazy, sinuous voice slid snake-like to tighten around them. “How sad is it that fucking Snivellus is the closest you can come to what you really want? That you’re satisfied with,” Snape sneered, his eyes suddenly bright with pain, “that you want Sirius Black’s cast-off? That you want…me?”
“Bloody fucking hell!” Potter roared, grabbing Snape’s legs and forcing his knees so far back the Slytherin was nearly folded in half. Potter plunged into him with a growl -- so deep this time that Snape gave a grunt of pain -- and caught a fierce rhythm, fucking Snape with fast, wild, punishing strokes.
“God damn you, Snape! When—when--when are you going to learn to shut—your—ugly—mouth!”
“A little—too close—to the truth, Potter?” Snape gasped, eyes bright with anguish and the desire to hurt, to score, to make something bleed.
Face twisted with fury, Potter let Snape’s legs fall aside, then reached down between them. He grasped Snape’s rigid cock, wet with their combined sweat and dripping pre-come, and started pulling the slick shaft in time with his thrusts.
“Fuck!” the Slytherin choked, a pang of fear in his black eyes. Snape’s stomach muscles convulsed as he bucked and twisted, and he shoved against Potter, trying to throw him off. “Fuck you, Potter! No!”
“Oh yes,” James Potter hissed, grinning down at Snape as he pumped his thick, weeping cock. “Now you tell me, Snivellus. Is this how Sirius brought you off? Fucking the bloody hell out of your arse while he wanked you? Or was there a bit more to it than that, eh? Maybe something like this?” James changed the angle of his thrusts, driving up in short, sharp jabs, watching Snape’s face for a sign.
“Ahh!” Snape curled up as if he’d taken a punch in the stomach, almost doubling over as his muscles twitched. “Fuck! No—oh fucking—stop!”
“Not a chance, Snape!” Potter growled, rhythmically squeezing Snape’s damp, swollen cock as his hips snapped with short, angled thrusts. “Told you—you’re gonna come for me. I’m gonna make you!”
Harry didn’t know exactly what his father was doing to Snape, but the Slytherin’s eyes were desperate and his breath caught at every thrust, as if Potter was striking a nerve on each stroke.
“Fuck!” Snape shrieked as a violent shudder wracked him. He was whimpering with each fast and ragged breath and suddenly, with a broken sob, he was throwing his long, white legs around Potter’s hips, pulling him close, arching sharply up into Potter’s assault. “Bastard—hate you! Fucking—hate—you! Oh God, no! Ahh, fuck!”
“That’s it— yeah, that’s it!” Potter hissed, sweat dripping from his wild hair onto Snape’s taut, white stomach, onto his fever-hot prick as he fucked him. “Oh, fuck yes!” he growled, “Sirius was right—right about you! Tighter than a Gringott’s vault and smooth as melted chocolate. Ugly bastard—so fucking hot! No wonder Sirius made you his bitch. But you’re mine now, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Fucking mine now, Snivellus! Mine til you pay me back!”
“No! Oh god—Merlin, no!” Snape was choking, fingers clawing at the table top. “Stop, just fucking stop, damn you!”
But Potter didn’t stop. His fist flew on Snape’s straining cock and his hips were a blur, and when Snape started to arch back, gasping, eyes closing, head turning away, Potter grabbed him by the hair and turned his face back.
“Look at me!” Potter demanded. “Open your bloody eyes, Snape, and look at me!”
Snape opened his eyes; opened his eyes and glared at James Potter with seven years of hatred and humiliation behind his eyes; glared at the man who was plunging into him, whose balls were slapping his arse and whose hand was twisting on his hard, leaking cock.
“Come for me,” Potter growled at him.
He came with a strangled cry, hips driving his cock up harder into Potter’s fist and Potter’s prick deeper into his arse, lean thighs clutching his assailant’s waist as he convulsed and splattered his chest and stomach with sharp bursts of milky fluid.
When the last tremor ran through his body, Snape went limp, his breath nothing but a thin moan, his head lolling to the side. With a howl of triumph, Potter seized Snape by the hips and hauled him half-way off the table, shifting him around like a doll until he found the right angle and started thrusting into his unresisting body with a vengeance.
“Oh hell yes!” Potter gasped, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle tensed as he pounded furiously into Snape. “Oh bloody fucking hell, yes! Mine—I own you! Own you, you whore, you ugly cunt—vicious little fuck! Hot tight nasty beautiful little slut! Oh, Merlin! Oh fuck—yes!”
Potter’s hips slammed one last time between Snape’s legs and he came with a guttural shout, gasping over Snape’s slim, spent body as he shuddered again and again with his release.
“Fuck!” he muttered, dragging the sweat out of his eyes with a trembling hand. “Fuck.”
Harry was only vaguely surprised to find his feet moving, to find he was walking toward the rough, wooden table where the man who would become his father was heaving over the man who would become his Potions instructor; the man whose eyes were half-slitted and empty, whose stomach and chest were streaked with his come, whose long limbs were slack with defeat.
James Potter was still hunched over Snape’s listless form, staring at his averted face.
“You know, Snivellus,” he said as casually as his panting breath would allow, “I think I finally get it. I think I’ve figured out what Sirius saw in you after all.”
Potter licked his lips and leaned in close. He took Snape’s jaw in one hand and turned his face to meet his eyes.
“You’re fun to break.”
Not waiting for a response, Potter released Snape’s head to rock back to the side, and pulled out of him with a wet sound that made Harry shiver and turn away. When he looked back, James was doing up his pants and tucking his shirt back in, still watching Snape intently. With a sigh and a stretch and a hand passed through his ever unruly hair, he was back to being the James Potter Harry had seen and imagined before: mischievous, confident, incorrigible James Potter. Head Boy. Pride of Gryffindor.
Snape hadn’t moved since before Potter had pulled out of him, but when James stepped close, he turned his head to look at him.
“Take care of yourself, Snape,” Potter said solicitously, as if he really cared. “I’m not through with that tight arse of yours just yet, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.” Potter reached over and gave Snape’s balls and softening cock a friendly pat, then he winked and headed out the door. When it closed behind him, Harry heard him start whistling.
When the door clicked shut, Snape shivered and drew his long, white limbs together, curling up on his side and wrapping one arm around his knees. He laid his other arm across his face, let go a long, deep, shuddering sigh and mouthed one word. If Harry hadn’t been so close, he wouldn’t have heard it.
When Snape dragged his arm away from his face, his eyes were bright, like black diamonds, and blinking rapidly.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, his voice hitching. “Stupid, stupid fool.”
It was that moment – the moment before impossible tears slid from eyes that Harry had never believed could cry – that he realized his father had left the room. That he couldn’t even hear James Potter’s fading footsteps any longer, and he was alone in the room with Snape.
That this wasn’t James Potter’s memory.
It was Snape’s.
In the next instant Harry felt himself pulled away, tumbling back through darkness and landing in his own two feet, then stumbling back and sitting down hard on the wooden floor of his room at Grimmauld Place. He blinked and stared around.
He was still alone. It was still a December afternoon. The Pensieve still sat on the bedside table, just where he had put it.
His brain was whirling, his stomach was churning, his heart felt strange and dry and tight and his cock – Oh Merlin! – his cock was hard as iron.
“Bloody hell!” he hissed, pressing the heel of his hand against his groin, determined to ignore the erection until it went away. He couldn’t even think of wanking just then. He knew what images his mind would conjure, and no, no that he couldn’t think of; that was as likely to make him sick up his breakfast as it was to make him come.
Or worse, make him cry
“Rough seas, young Potter?”
Harry stared around. Crossbones was eyeing him from the lid of his father’s Bachelor Box. Harry slowly got to his feet, brushing off the back of his jeans and sitting down on his bed to stare at the painted skull on the wooden box.
“I don’t understand,” Harry said. “That memory… I thought these were my dad’s things.”
“Aye, they were,” Crossbones agreed. “They are. James Potter’s possessions. Things he bought. Things he was given. Things he treasured.” The skull paused. “Things he stole.”
Harry blinked at the skull, feeling a chill go down his spine, feeling the pit of his stomach unraveling. Maybe he was going to be sick after all.
“Right,” he nodded, swallowing. “Right.” Then he sighed and put his head in his hands. When he looked up over his fingers, Crossbones was still looking at him. Expectantly, Harry thought.
“Did you know?” he asked it. The skull rolled its eyeballs full circle around its sockets in answer.
“Then, why didn’t you tell me?” Harry wanted to know, chagrinned.
“Ye didn’t ask.”
Harry rolled his own eyes.
“Sides,” Crossbones added with a sort of verbal shrug, “t’isn’t me place to tell you what’s what. T’isn’t me job. Mine’s to lock down what I’m given. Keep it safe. Not open to anyone t’ain’t a Potter.”
“Yeah. Got it. Not your job.”
“That bad, was it?” the skull wondered.
Harry sighed. He felt further away from it now, but his insides still twisted with the memory.
“Pretty bad,” Harry admitted. He looked at the Pensieve and winced a little to realize what was still swirling around in it. He took his wand and went over to stand by the silver bowl, not daring to bend over and look again.
“Now what?” he asked himself. “What am I supposed to do about…with this?”
“Do what your father did,” the chest’s guardian answered matter-of-factly. “Put it back. Lock it up. Forget about it.”
“I can’t do that!” Harry shouted, whirling around to glare at the box, his anger suddenly coming to the fore. “I can’t just forget what I saw! I can’t! That was….” Harry stopped, breathing too rapidly, wand gripped tightly in his fist.
“That was a long time ago, laddy-buck,” the skull told him. “Happened a long time ago.”
“But it happened,” Harry said dully, looking at the floor, then pushed his hand into his hair with a sigh. “And other things happened, too,” he added, looking back at the skull. “There are two other bottles in there.”
“Aye, so there are,” Crossbones agreed.
Harry chewed on his lip for a moment.
“The things in those other bottles; are they better than this one,” he indicated the Pensieve with a nod, “or worse.”
The skull actually heaved a sigh.
“Yer askin’ me things I got no answers for, young Potter. I’m just a bit of a Jolly Roger painted on a box. I’m no judge o’ ‘better’ from ‘worse’.” Crossbones paused. “Only one way to find out, y’know.”
“No!” Harry shouted, then exhaled and pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes. “No,” he said again, softer, looking back at the Pensieve. “Not after that. Not…not today.”
Harry’s head jerked up as he heard a door slam, and voices, and footsteps rattling along stairs. Harry and the skull looked at each other.
“Lock it up, young Potter. I’ll guard what I’m given.”
Without a word, Harry fished the memory out of the small Pensieve with his wand and put it back in its bottle.
“Bugger!” Crossbones cursed as Harry threw the lid of the box back and nestled both Pensieve and bottle back in the bottom. He grabbed everything else off his bed, dumped it inside, then slammed the lid shut. “Careful there, eh?” the skull admonished him with a glare.
“Sorry,” Harry apologized as he clicked the lock back on. He and Crossbones shared a look.
“When you’re ready, young Potter,” the skull told him gravely. “Til then….”
“Dead men tell no tales?” Harry offered, a smile hooking up one corner of his mouth.
“That we don’t,” Crossbones agreed.
“Thanks, then,” Harry muttered, and shoved the chest back under his bed.
There were voices downstairs when Harry got to his feet. He shoved his wand into his jeans pocket and opened his door a crack to see what was going on.
“This is still my house, damn it!” Sirius was shouting downstairs. “And I won’t have you disrespecting me in my own home, Snivellus, Order business or not!”
Harry stepped out onto the landing and peered down.
“Then perhaps you should behave as if you deserve some respect, Black,” came Snape’s reply, and there was some heat in that usually icy tone. “Dressing as something other than a Muggle scarecrow would be a good start.”
Sirius gave a mocking laugh. “You’re the last person I’ll take fashion advice from, Snivellus.”
Harry moved quietly down the staircase, trying to see more, as a door slammed and heavy footfalls grew louder. Snape and Sirius exchanged more words, but they weren’t shouting, so Harry couldn’t hear them. He paused half-way down.
“Fine!” Sirius was shouting again. “Fine! You delivered your message, you did your duty, now get the Hell out of my house! I’m sick of looking at you!”
“The sentiment is mutual, I assure you.”
Harry pasted himself against the wall as Snape swept down the hallway to the front door. He paused there, looking cross and readjusting his traveling cloak, then lifted his chin and glared back down the hallway.
“Since you can’t be bothered with common courtesies, Black, I’ll just see myself out.”
“You do that, Snape,” Sirius called out from somewhere near the kitchen.
Snape snorted and started to open the door, turning to leave, when he happened to look up the staircase. Fathomless black eyes met shining green. Harry opened his mouth to say something, and found that he couldn’t. All he could do was stare at Snape, his eyes seeing the tall, grim, bitter figure of the feared Hogwarts Potions Master, but his mind seeing something very different.
Harry’s eyes registered the straight-backed, cold-eyed man, but his head showed him an angry, black-haired boy who gripped his books too hard; a slim, white figure standing naked with clenched fists and bowed head; pink lips whispering hateful litanies, long limbs tensed and bent, a mouth and body contorted with pain and rage and humiliated pleasure as his pulsing cock painted his chest with come.
Snape stiffened with a gasp and stepped back suddenly, thumping his back against the door, eyes going wide with horror.
“Professor?” Harry ventured, moving down the stairs one step.
What little color there was in Snape’s face drained away, and before Harry could move closer or say anything more, the man had whirled out the door and was gone. Almost as if he’d been frightened.
Harry stood there for a moment, then shook his head. He thought he might go and talk to Sirius now that he was out of his room, but he didn’t. Instead, he trudged back upstairs, stretched himself out on his narrow bed and lay there, turning over memories that didn’t belong to him and pondering the thorny question that was Snape.