The Boy Who Lived A Bit [Snarry]

Chapter Six

What in Merlin's name did he think he was doing? Snape watched the door close behind Potter and took a deep breath. It had to be the bloody war. Wars always did odd things to people, brought together bedfellows who never would have been under saner circumstances. Temptation had been put in front of him and he'd given into it in return for a night's worth of sex and release. And the closeness, too, if he was being honest with himself. Being that intimate with another person after so long had certainly been as... pleasant as Snape remembered. These needs and desires come to the fore during wartime. Faced with an uncertain tomorrow, people will take what comfort comes their way today. Perfectly understandable human behaviour.

But what was all this now? No sooner has he heard of a slight mishap in a Transfiguration class, than he's plotting a scheme to get Potter back into his arms – as if it hadn't been only this morning that the wretch was last there!

He stalked over to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous splash of scotch. The only reason Potter was here in the castle right now was because Snape had orchestrated it once the slightest hint of opportunity had presented itself. Why had he done that? Weasley's injury wasn't serious enough to warrant a mercy dash. If he had simply kept his mouth shut and stayed the hell away from the floo, Potter would still be back at Grimmauld Place (where he should be, his brain offered uphelpfully) and the question of if or when the two of them could be "together" again would still be as nebulous and unanswered as it should have been.

Snape slumped into a seat by the fire and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He wanted Potter around. That was it, wasn't it? He took a drink of scotch, mildly disgusted with himself. He just couldn't bloody wait to get his hands on the little sod again, could he?

Pathetic.

It was unthinkable, really. Unconscionable. But he hadn't been able to get Potter out of his mind for any longer than a minute or two all day. Even spending hours in his laboratory hadn't really worked. No matter what he did or tried to apply himself to, Potter's breath was on his throat, Potter's hands were gripping his thighs, Potter's voice was whispering filthy things that made his face heat and his prick swell. A walk of the grounds had hardly cleared his thoughts.

He drained his glass and checked the time. What was he going to do when the boy returned? Apologise and tell him he'd made a gross error of judgement and shoo him back to Lupin straight away? That was what he should do. Or bend him over the desk and give him a rogering he'd feel for a week? That was what he wanted to do.

Then there was the issue of what Potter had said he'd like to do. "I wanted to make love to you." The thought of Potter taking him... Dear lord. What, precisely, might Potter have meant by the term? Did he truly mean that he wanted to make love to him? Or could he simply not bring himself to say "I'd like to try fucking you"? Hm, he'd been throwing the F-word around fairly easily this morning... Wonderful influence you're having on the boy, Severus. In less than forty hours you've got him swearing, drinking, sucking cock and taking it up the arse. Excellent work. Have you ever considered working with young people? He accio'd the decanter of scotch and poured himself another two fingers.

For a good twenty minutes or more, Snape just sat there, watching the fire and sipping his scotch, unsuccessfully trying not to think about Harry bloody Potter.