Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/46856.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Albus_Dumbledore/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Albus_Dumbledore, Severus_Snape, Harry_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Drama, Established_Relationship, Adolescent_Sexuality, POV_Outsider,
      Voyeurism
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-04-16 Words: 324
****** Grey ******
by Delphi
Summary
     Harry sees something he wishes he didn't. Set during Harry Potter and
     the Order of the Phoenix.
Grey.
Harry is on his back in bed, and the ceiling is grey, and the curtains are
grey, the ghost-grey of the middle of the night, and everyone's asleep, but
Harry's awake, hands under the blankets, jerking off so hard it hurts.
But not enough.
On his back. In his bed. But with his eyes wide open, he's in the corridor at
the base of Gryffindor Tower, midnight stones under his feet and his cloak
around him, and he hears the sound—
"Ah!"
—stopping him in his tracks.
He'd thought: Quirrel. Before he knew why, because all he could see was Snape
in the alcove, leaning over someone, whispering to—
kissing
—Professor Dumbledore. Grey in the pale moonlight, grey-bearded, grey-eyed, old
grey hands clutching Snape's arms and not pushing...
...disappearing into the charcoal grey of Snape's robes.
Harry bites his lip, rocking into his fist. He doesn't want to come from this,
can't make himself, can't stop himself when he remembers the way their bodies
moved. Two men in the corridor, greasy hair, spectacles, robes between them,
but the way their bodies pressed together...rubbing.
Soft, wet kissing sounds.
Dumbledore's voice was grey like smoke, hot and drifting, too faint to be
heard, and Snape's glinted. Silver, steel, the edge of a knife:
"Albus, I..."
And sharper.
"Yesss..."
His heart pounding, how he'd wanted to be caught—he'd wanted to catch them,
wanted to see them leap apart, scalded, shameful, guilty. To know that it was
wrong, oh so wrong.
He remembers:
"Darling."
But not who said it.
Grey, he thinks. As if it makes a difference, stroking harder and harder
towards something that he can't bear to want, and he knows his cock should be
red and sore, but it isn't. It's grey under the covers, in the dark, in his
hand.
And tears come to Harry's eyes when he shuts them tight, seeing stars. The only
black and white he knows anymore.
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