Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/214769.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape, Harry_Potter/James_Potter
  Character:
      Severus_Snape, Harry_Potter, James_Potter, Albus_Dumbledore
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Spanking, Punishment, AU, Chan, Non_Consensual
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-06-24 Words: 4408
****** A Pushing, Thrusting Young Man ******
by Adbaculum_(Gnomad)
Summary
     Snape believes it is up to him to bring a wayward Harry back in line.
     (An AU in which Voldemort is dead, and Harry's parents are alive,
     well, and raising Harry. Seriously, folks, if you're looking for
     long, drawn out explanations of these circumstances with really deep,
     stunning characterizations, look elsewhere. It's PWP with paddles,
     ffs.)
Notes
     Written for masterofmercury in the 2006 Reversathon Fest. Thank you
     very much to fluffyllama and lexique for the beta.
Severus Snape believed in control. Control kept him from poisoning incompetent
students when they trampled on his last nerve. Control ensured that he did not
take advantage of the coy, seductive looks directed toward him by the young
Malfoy. Control allowed him only to glare when the interfering headmaster
offered him a sherbet lemon instead of cursing him unconscious as he wanted.
Yes, control was the skill that Snape valued most.
Which was why, when he opened the door to his office one Thursday afternoon and
saw all of his papers, jars, and books strewn over the room and a large garish
banner flashing the phrase "Snivellus Stinks!" above the desk, he was able to
stand perfectly still at the door of the office and take in the scene without
so much as a gasp of breath. And if his jaw clenched a bit more than usual or
his grip tightened around the door knob until his knuckles were slightly whiter
than they’d been before, well, he reasoned that it helped to restrain him from
storming up the stairs and strangling Potter with his bare hands.
For this could only be Potter’s doing.
Students at Hogwarts feared Snape. He silenced entire classes with nary a
glance. He could reduce even the bravest child to hysterical tears with only a
few soft-spoken taunts. He caused students to tremble with a fear that would do
any kicked puppy proud. Potter, however, was not to be cowed.
Spurred on by the boyhood misadventures of his father and godfather, Potter
sauntered into the Great Hall five years ago all spoilt impudence and
disgraceful impetuousness. Even more galling, his respect for Snape as a
professor was nothing more than a veneer under which lay a smug knowledge of
past events and incidents that no student ought to have access to.
Snape turned away the mess of his office and walked back up to the staff room
to find Minerva or Albus. This time, the boy would be dealt with. This time,
the boy would learn.
===============================================================================
"Severus, please," Albus said rubbing his eyes haphazardly with his hand. The
tableau that evening in the headmaster's office was one of frustration and
sullenness. Potter had been slouched in the seat in front of Albus' desk for
the last 20 minutes still protesting his innocence regarding the mess in
Snape's office. Minerva sat next to him, his own little guard tabby, ready to
spring into action in his defense. Severus stood against the fireplace calmly.
Unlike the old cat in front of him, he knew the importance of lying in wait for
one's prey.
"This year alone," he said, shifting away from the fireplace and moving slowly
toward Potter until he was mere inches from his chair, "Potter has had more
detentions and lost more points than any other student in the school. He's
willfully disregarded nearly every rule imposed on him and has endangered other
students on more than one occasion. He has gone beyond simply being an arrogant
twit and has become a dangerous menace."
"What would you recommend we do, Severus?" was Albus' worn out reply.
Snape turned his head to look directly at the glaring Potter and quietly
offered, "I think we should be discussing expulsion."
At Snape's statement, Potter sat up and looked frantically over to Dumbledore.
The action had the unintended effect of putting him several inches away from
Severus' chest.
"But sir! I didn't mess up Snape's office, I swear! You can't expel me for
something I didn't do."
"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore automatically corrected as the boy started
erratically fidgeting in his seat. He wrung his hands, his foot began making a
sliding, twisting motion as though it couldn't decide whether to bounce or
kick, and he gnashed at his lip causing them to slicken and swell in
irritation. Snape's fascination with the nervous dance before him caused him
nearly to miss the brat's disrespect. Nearly.
"Sorry, sir." The apology was directed at Dumbledore.
Unfortunately, before Snape could do much more than glare, Minerva took the
opportunity to chime in:
"Honestly, Severus. I think expulsion is going a little far. I agree that what
was done to your office was a horrible prank, but Mr. Potter claims to have had
nothing to do with it. We have no way to prove otherwise."
Severus could think of many exciting ways; he mentioned none.
"I sent a letter off to Harry's parents a few days ago regarding the hinkypunk
incident," she glanced disapprovingly at Potter again, "and he is already in
detention for the next month. I believe that's enough for now."
"I agree," Dumbledore said. He looked sternly at the little monster for a
moment before continuing, "I'm not sure what's got into you this year, Mr.
Potter, especially with your OWLs coming up so quickly; however, you should be
aware that if I hear of any further misbehavior from you, it will indeed result
in a serious discussion about expulsion."
A muttered 'yes, sir' to the office floor, a parting glare to Snape, and the
boy was dismissed.
It was up to him, then, Snape reflected a few minutes later as he walked back
to his quarters, to do something about Potter. Cyclone Potter had been whirling
about wreaking havoc since he came to Hogwarts, and Snape was tired of the
excuses, the blind eyes, and the insincere apologies. Yes, he would knock some
sense into the boy if it was the last thing he did. Tonight, he would skip
dinner and stay in; he had plans to make.
===============================================================================
Snape stood at the windowsill of an unused classroom holding a glass filled
with a gurgling brown sludge. He took very little notice of the potion,
however, and was instead staring intently out the window at the dirt road
leading to Hogsmeade.
Yesterday, Potter garnered his sixth consecutive Saturday detention when Mr.
Malfoy's cauldron spectacularly exploded in potions class. Potter may have been
halfway across the room when it happened, but levitation spells and time-
released ingredients weren't that difficult to employ.
Last night, Peeves procured a set of QuikStick Quidditch Paints and proceeded
to deface the unused classroom adjacent to Snape's current classroom. As to how
Peeves had obtained those paints and why he chose that particular classroom, no
one could guess.
One hour ago, Potter accompanied Filch to that same unused classroom and was
left to his detention for the day: cleaning said classroom without magic.
A half hour ago, students and many staff queued up for the latest trip to
Hogsmeade. Potter's usual accomplices were among them, as were Minerva and
Albus.
Fifteen minutes ago, Snape entered the room to watch the Hogsmeade crowd
shuffle out of reach and to prepare for his encounter with Potter. He listened
to the scruff-scruff of Potter's soap brush on the adjacent wall for a moment
more before setting his potion on the windowsill and retrieving a folded black
cloth from his pocket.
Four months ago, he'd taken it on a whim. It was an easy grab while sitting in
the windy Quidditch stands among staff and noisy parents. And, though he'd
chided himself for being so impulsive at the time, he was glad he'd had the
sense to save it. Snape carefully unwrapped the handkerchief and examined the
single black hair that lay within. Course. Thick. Unruly. Just like its owner.
The potion fizzed and gurgled when the hair finally dropped into the glass.
He downed the entire thing without even a wince and mused that perhaps
occasional slips of control could be forgiven.
===============================================================================
Despite it being February and rather cold outside, the room in which Harry
worked was warm and stuffy. Clouds of dust rose off the unused desks and
glittered when it crossed the sunlight from the single window. Student desks
were scattered here and there and there were a few covered pieces of furniture
toward the back of the classroom; however, the front was dominated by a large
oak desk and a half-cleaned blackboard covered in garish yellow and green
paint.
Snape took a moment to stare before entering the classroom. Potter was kneeling
on top of the teacher's desk in old Muggle clothes—a pair of jeans and a blue
t-shirt. His scrub brush dripped soapy water haphazardly onto the desk and
floor below him, but he seemed to pay no attention to the added mess as he
scrubbed hard at the paint. Each downward stroke of the brush would cause his
arse to thrust out a little and the continued rhythmic movements made the
brat's cleaning almost obscene.
Snape shifted slightly in an attempt to acclimatise to his new body, adjusted
the annoying glasses on his face, and stepped into the room.
"Harry?"
At once the scrubbing movement stopped and Harry twisted around.
"Dad? Oi! What are you doing here?" Harry's eyes lit up with warmth and he
smiled in a way that Snape knew had never before been directed toward him. It
brought him a small bit of glee to think that he could make sure it was never
directed toward James Potter again either.
He walked into the room, casualness and Potter-esque bravado in each step. His
new face formed into a befuddled frown and he made a point to muss up his hair
like he was working out something difficult.
This is what discipline and restraint allowed him to accomplish. Gesture,
intonation, parlance—each a carbon copy of the idol Harry Potter praised and
worshipped.
"The headmaster told me I could find you here. I got a letter from Professor
McGonagall a couple of days ago." He leaned against one of the student desks as
he talked. "I'm sure you know it's not the first letter your mum and I have
received this year about your behavior. I thought it might be more…effective if
I spoke with you in person."
Potter pivoted on the desk and frowned a bit at his father's explanation. Bits
of paint stuck up through in his hair and there was a green smudge across his
right cheek. It reminded Snape strongly of some wild heathen caught out in the
Amazon jungle. The boy only needed a loincloth to make the picture complete.
Now was not perhaps the time to dissect the image.
"Yeah, Mum sent a pretty harsh howler yesterday. I don't understand; I haven't
done anything that bad…"
"Not that bad?" Typical insensitive little terror. "You call sending Vincent
Crabbe to the hospital wing for nearly a week from that hinkypunk not that
bad?"
"It's nothing worse than you've done!" Potter jumped down from the desk and
crossed his arms over his chest. "It would have been perfectly fine too if
Crabbe hadn't stumbled upon those spiders. How was I supposed to know he'd
follow it halfway through the forest? Anyway, I did apologize later."
Snape didn't suppose even the real James Potter would have bought that pathetic
claim of remorse. Most unfortunately the idiot felt the need to continue
speaking:
"And Snape's office thing was not my fault. I mean, yeah, I hear the banner was
pretty funny." Potter grinned mischievously, his eyes sparkling with glee.
Snape, in contrast, was leaning up against the desk in perfect stillness,
afraid that if he moved, he'd hex the boy before he could stop himself. He
didn't think James commonly hexed his son; it might give the game away.
"'Snivellus Stinks.' It's kind of catchy in its simplicity." Yes, he supposed,
innuendos and human bodily functions were the typical fodder for halfwits.
"Though I think whoever it was got it wrong a bit. If I'd been the one to do
it, I'd have used a pair of old grey underpants to do up my sign. It's a small
touch, but you know, Snape is always going on about my lack of attention to
detail. I'd like to show him I can learn from his advice." Potter gave a mock
salute to the imaginary grey pants.
If ever there were any doubt in Snape's mind about the suitability of his plans
for Potter, it vanished in that instant. Memories of his own youth echoed very
clearly in his mind. The generation may have been different, but the pranks and
the excuses that followed were exactly the same.
Yes, the boy clearly needed this punishment, needed to be stripped away from
the conceit and casual cruelty and taught what it was like to be weak,
humiliated, and helpless. And Snape needed to be the one to teach him.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he made no attempt to show any amusement at
Potter's quip and instead studied his 'son.' Potter was still smiling at Snape,
but stopped when he realized that his father wasn't going to respond. Snape
took that as his cue and, with an exaggerated sign, he stepped forward and
began his speech.
"Sometimes I think I made a mistake telling you all those stories about my time
at Hogwarts. We—Sirius, Remus, even your mum sometimes—were idiots as children
and we did spend a lot of our time pulling pranks and making trouble. But
Harry, even we had our limits. We realized that we were hurting people and the
more we did it, the more we were becoming like the people we hated.
Antagonizing people you dislike, pranking them, making fun of them without
remorse—that's how good, honest wizards start to turn bad." He raked his hand
through his short hair again and feigned a look of deep concern and agitation.
Sadly enough, Snape wouldn't have been surprised if James Potter actually
believed the trash he was currently spewing to his son. Learned the error of
their ways indeed. It took a werewolf, a near death experience, and the serious
threat of expulsion to make the Marauders learn anything. And really, if every
child who taunted, teased, or pranked another turned out dark, every student
who left Hogwarts would turn out to be the next Dark Lord.
Nonetheless, Snape leaned forward a bit so that his nose was only a few inches
away from Harry's and with a look of concern he softly finished, "Do you want
to turn into a dark wizard?"
The boy's eyes had gone strikingly wide behind his round glasses. He looked
nervous and uncomfortable, though whether that was because he was just accused
of sliding down the path of dark wizardry or because his father was seriously
invading his personal space, Snape didn't know.
The boy opened and closed his mouth for a couple of seconds before finally
forming a denial, "Dad! I—I can't—No! How can you think that? All that stuff
was supposed to be harmless and I've never, never done dark spells. You
can't—you have to believe me!"
Snape graced the boy with a small smile that he hoped was reassuring.
"I hope you're right. You know how much I disapprove of the dark arts. I just
want you to be careful. I…" Snape searched for consoling words, "worry about
you."
The boy looked relieved at James' apparent trust, and licked the sweat that had
formed on his upper lip. The child really was lovely when nervous.
"Still," Snape began and Harry's eyes shot back up to the concerned hazel ones
gazing intently at him, "I think a little lesson may be in order."
"Lesson?" Harry croaked. His lips shone where he'd licked them and he began
that annoying hand wringing habit again.
"Mmm," Snape hummed and moved away from boy and the desk. He picked up a piece
of chalk that was sitting of the ledge of the board and began tossing it around
in his hand. "You don't seem very considerate toward others' pain and, as your
father, I think it's my duty to help you become more…sensitive."
"What are you going to do? Ground me?" The boy steadied his nervous gaze on
Snape while Snape walked over to the classroom door and shut it firmly.
"No. I'm not. Take off your trousers and underwear."
"What?" Harry squeaked. "You've never—what are you going to do?" His hands
gripped the edge of the desk until they were white, but Snape looked
unimpressed.
"Teach. You. A lesson. Would you like me to force you to undress?"
Snape reached into his robe pocket and gestured as though he was going to pull
out his wand. Potter's face betrayed a bit of hurt at having his father
threaten him—something, Snape assumed Pampered Potter probably wasn't used to
from a parent—but he nonetheless began to comply with the request.
The boy toed off his trainers and socks and threw them resentfully toward one
of the student desks. He was a little slower to shuck off his jeans and
underwear and his face had turned a lovely shade of puce. He didn't look once
at his father until he was naked from the waist down. From what Snape could
see, his torso seemed well muscled, but his gangly arms and thin, knobby legs
spoke of sudden growth spurts and adolescent awkwardness. Snape felt his cock
begin to swell in anticipation and had to restrain from adjusting himself.
"Lie across the desk on your stomach and hold your hands above your head."
"Da—"
"Don't make me say it again, Harry James Potter!" Snape stabbed the stick of
chalk he held toward the desk to make his point, and silently congratulated
himself on coming up with something suitably parental.
Harry reluctantly bent in half over the desk, heedless of the soap and dust
coating the wood. He turned his still red face toward the blackboard and stared
glassy-eyed at it while Snape observed him from behind. Potter hadn't had the
foresight to remove his glasses, and they seemed to press awkwardly against his
face. No doubt they'd leave a mark later, but Snape wasn't about to remind him
to take them off: he wanted Potter to see with perfect clarity that his father
was doling out this punishment.
Snape took a moment to glory in the scene laid out before him. Potter's bare
arse stuck out at the end of the desk, pale and round. The desk was a little
too tall to comfortably bend at the waist and so his heels lifted up from the
floor. No doubt his legs would tire after a while and his hips would begin to
hurt. His thighs clenched together in a small attempt to preserve some modesty.
No, that wouldn't do at all.
"Spread your legs a bit."
They opened up a generous inch.
"More!" Snape lost his patience, grabbed the boy's thighs, and yanked them
apart. Potter made a startled cry, but otherwise complied with the
manipulation. Satisfied with the brat's position, he quickly transfigured the
chalk he still held into a long, flat wooden paddle and gave it a few test
swings.
Harry caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked up to stare
at Snape as though finally realizing what his father planned to do.
"You can't be serious! You're going to hit me? What kind of lesson is that?"
Potter's eyes darted between Snape and the paddle. His mouth seemed to be
permanently stuck open and he had a lost, panicked look as though he wanted to
run but didn't think he'd get very far.
"This," Snape swung the paddle for emphasis, "is meant to teach you humility
and compassion. To give you a taste of what you've been giving out to others
lately. Now, you will lie back down and you will not move from that desk until
I tell you."
Potter slowly did as he was told and Snape strode to the top of the desk so he
could look at the boy's face.
"If you sit up or move your hands before I release you, I will bind you to the
desk and add 5 strokes to your count. If you continue to argue with me, I will
use a silencing charm on you and I will add 5 strokes to your count. If you
hesitate or fail to follow any of my further instructions, I will add 5 strokes
to your count. Are we clear?"
The child looked pathetic. He clenched and unclenched his jaw in anger, but the
expression on his face was one of hurt and betrayal. It was beautiful. Snape
reveled in the power he'd never before held over the brat as Potter nodded
against the wood, smearing soapy dirt over the side of his face.
"Good. Every time I strike you, you will count. After each count you will say
'thank you…daddy'. If you forget or miscount, we will start again."
In a moment of weakness, he couldn't resist placing a hand on the boy's arse,
caressing slightly and stroking up and over the curves until he rested gently
on Potter's lower back. It pleased him to see the skin beneath him tense and
jerk.
Then, without preamble, Snape brought the paddle down on the boy's cheeks.
Hard.
Thwump!
Potter jerked and cried out loudly. A large red stripe blossomed just above the
junction of his thigh and bottom. It looked like he'd just had the wind knocked
from his lungs judging from the way he was gasping and twitching. Snape waited
but nothing seemed to be forthcoming.
"Harry…" he warned.
"Oh! O-one. Thank you, dad-dy," Harry finally said, voice muffled into the
dirty desk.
Whump!
Harry's fingers scraped and clawed at the wood below him trying to find
purchase against the blow.
"Two. Thank—thank you, daddy."
Thwap!
"Three. Th—thank yo-ou, daddy." Snape stroked the bright red cheek before
swinging again.
"Four! O—thank you, daddy." Potter had his eyes clenched shut and seemed to be
trying to stop a sob from escaping. Snape was completely hard now under his
robes as the bruised arse in front of him tensed and shuddered with each blow.
He alternated cheeks and set up a hard, constant rhythm. Each strike slammed
the child's hips and groin into the edge of the desk, adding to the pain. His
soft cock and loose balls audibly slapped against the wood like one melody in
an obscene symphony of thumps, gasps, and sobs.
Woomp! "Si-ix. Thank-k you, d-daddy." His grunts became louder on each hit, but
he still hadn't given in to tears. The paddling alone clearly wouldn't be
enough to get through to the boy. He needed more. Much more. Snape eyed the
genitals before him and knew exactly how to improvise.
Ceasing his strikes for a moment, he pulled out his wand and murmured a charm
at the paddle. At once the instrument levitated in mid-air and resumed its
strikes to the boy's backside, as though an invisible hand were holding its
wooden handle.
Snape shifted around with his back to the blackboard so that he was in Harry's
eye line. Then, he slowly moved his hands between Harry's legs, careful to
avoid the paddle, cupping the soft balls and flaccid penis.
"Oh!" Harry nearly jolted off the desk at the unexpected contact. He glanced
wildly back at his father and looked like he would jump up and protest, but was
interrupted by the continuing swing of the paddle.
Snape unconsciously began to thrust his hips as he fondled and squeezed the
young man's cock. It took a few more blows, but the flesh in his hand began to
swell and harden. He rubbed his thumb over the head and around the slit and
began stroking in a counter movement to the charmed paddle.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Harry wailed and thrust pathetically into Snape's hand, making the paddle's
strikes more random and spread out over his backside. Snape reveled in the
boy's pain and panic.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Snape was close. He could feel his control wearing thin and he wanted nothing
more than to open his robes and stroke himself to completion.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
The boy panted and yelled, making his count nearly unintelligible. Snape
stroked a bit of pre-come from the slit of Potter's cock onto his thumb and
twisted his hand around to circle the child's arsehole, keeping it below where
the paddle struck. At the next hit, Snape sunk his thumb into the boy, thrust
his own cock frantically against his hand and locked gazes with Potter.
And Harry gave.
He let out a high, keening scream as tears streamed down his dirt-tracked face.
He came, thrusting painfully against the desk and decorating its sides, his own
legs, and the hand that held him with come.
Snape gave himself a final press before his need became too great and he shot
in his smalls.
A panted out Finite Incantatum stopped the paddle and sent it clattering to the
ground next to the desk.
Harsh breathing and the panting sobs above him were now the only sounds left in
an otherwise silent room.
Slowly Snape regained his senses and stood up straight, drying the wet spot on
the outside of robes as he went. There was part of him that knew he should be
angry for losing control of himself like that. However, looking over at the
still sobbing Potter, he found he couldn't care.
The boy sat up and hissed when he reached behind and touched his bruised arse.
The child was a mess. Drying come decorated his upper thighs while dust muddied
from soap and tears coated his face and smudged his crooked glasses. His once
blue t-shirt now resembled a grayish brown color and his hair stuck up so much
that it looked like he'd just been struck by lightning.
Green eyes met hazel once more.
"Humiliation and pain, no matter how glibly meant, still hurts, Harry. Remember
that the next time you think of a clever trick to pull on a classmate." Potter
didn't say anything, but shakily nodded his head.
"Get dressed and finish cleaning the room. I doubt Filch would be too happy if
you left it in worse shape than you found it." Snape turned and walked to the
door, pausing when Harry called out.
"Dad? I'm—I'm sorry…about everything," Harry whispered. Snape looked back and
nodded.
"I'll see you at home for Easter."
Snape walked out the door and strode quickly down the empty hall before the
Polyjuice Potion wore off.
No, it wasn't exactly one of the methods he usually employed as a teacher, but
he thought his message hit home nonetheless.
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