Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/7891477. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Underage Fandom: Harry_Potter_-_J.K._Rowling Relationship: Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape Character: Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape Additional Tags: First_Time, Drama Collections: Ink_Stained_Fingers Stats: Published: 2015-10-22 Words: 3047 ****** Moving in His Sleep ****** by Spiderine [archived by ISF_Archivist] Summary A stray finds a home for the night. Notes This story was originally archived at Ink_Stained_Fingers, which was created in 2002 as a home for Harry Potter slash fiction. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. We e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author or artist, please contact me using the e-mail address at the Ink_Stained_Fingers_collection profile. Author's notes: Disclaimer: Everything recognizable from the Harry Potter series, including but not limited to the characters, belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros. and a whole lot of other people who are not me. My imagination, however, is mine to do with as I please. No copyright infringement or disrespect is intended; passion is its own reward. Pairing: HP/SS. Vague spoilers for Goblet of Fire. WARNING: This story is rated NC-17. It contains descriptions of sexual activity between an adult male and an underage adolescent boy. Take a deep breath and repeat after me: "This is fiction. Fiction is fantasy. Fantasy is *not reality*." The author of this story in no way condones such actions in reality any more than the author of a horror story condones gore and violence. Notes: Culpa Nikolaiae est. Moving in His Sleep Sleeping with a boy in one's bed is like sleeping with a pile of puppies. Snufflings and snugglings, wrigglings and cuddlings... and the sheer amount of space one small body can take up - dear Merlin! Every move or shift results in an elbow to the face, hot breath on the back of one's neck. There's no hope for actual sleep and far too much time to think, far too much opportunity to hear the mutterings and moans of a boy's restless dreams. Nothing as operatic as an heroic prophetic vision, oh no! Only the stifled cries of quotidian nightmares as a sleeping young brain leaks a lifetime of pain and loss. If this happened again he would be severely tempted to drug the boy. If it happened again? Dear Merlin and Morgana, what was he thinking! Snape was no monster, despite the ludicrous tales shared by the students. He was resigned to being the resident bogeyman to children too young and sheltered to have encountered true evil. And to one who had encountered true evil, repeatedly, and who would do so again and again until one or the other was defeated. There was no fear in that one, stupid, reckless boy... ============================================================================= *"Is this some kind of prank, you insufferable brat? I warn you not to toy with me."* *"It's no prank. I'm serious. Yes or no?" Looking up at him, chin thrust forward pugnaciously. His glasses were filthy.* *"You're being absurd as well as sordid. Even if I were...inclined... to accept your gracious offer, such behavior is strictly prohibited. But I suppose you are aware of that, and simply assume as always that the rules do not apply to you."* The thin body practically quivered with rash determination, barely held in check. "I reckon they don't. I think there's a rule somewhere that you're not supposed to grow up half starved and locked in a cupboard. There must be a rule against having to see one of your classmates die horribly and dragging his body back so his parents can blame you for it. I hope there's a rule against people trying to kill you every time you turn around! I guess if those rules don't apply to me, maybe this one shouldn't either." *"Potter, you are a disgusting excuse for a child."* A slow, tiny shake of the head. "I'm not a child. Not really. Not anymore." Calm appraisal from eyes that flashed too green, too familiar, so similar to eyes long dead it made his soul ache. "But you already know that, don't you?" ============================================================================= Snape was a solitary man, and well satisfied in his solitude. He was aware of the rumors circulating about him, but brushed them off as beneath notice. It was true that he would have liked to spread his academic wings a bit and take on the Defense Against Dark Arts classes. It was incomprehensible to him that any wizard of intellect and ambition would not be drawn to the vast interdisciplinary scope of that curriculum. No other discipline offered such a chance to integrate all the various fields of study that made up the Magical Arts and Sciences. Unfortunately, however, it was not to be. He had a role to play in the Epic Struggle Between Darkness and Light (it was impossible to think of it without the cynical addition of capital letters and sweeping music). Any effectiveness he might have as a presumed Death Eater and servant of the Dark Lord would be sorely compromised were he to become a professor of Defense against the very forces he was supposed to serve. He reminded himself of this fact every autumn when he was introduced to the latest feeble entrant in the doomed parade of Hogwarts Defense professors. The irony of his desire to join that parade was not lost on him. Nonetheless, with Potions he was content. Potions was the most exacting of the magical sciences; it was based on precision, research and diligence. Certainly that was the reason it was so enthusiastically loathed by the students. At the basic level they studied, there was little room for "self- expression", "creativity" and the other dubious virtues touted by modern magical pedagogues. And for good reason - until a student understood the precise nature and interreactive potential of every ingredient, "creativity" could get the entire class quite messily killed. Higher levels of the science, though, provided near-infinite possibilities for self-expression; it was a damn shame that so few of his students pursued the field that far. Transfiguration, despite its blatant flashiness, was an art; he respected Minerva immensely for her understated mastery of the form. Charms was merely an arts-and-crafts class, the equivalent of magical basket-weaving. And Divination? Pure pathetic floundering, beneath contempt. No, if one were forced to confine oneself to a single magical discipline, one could do far worse than the meditative meticulousness of Potions. ============================================================================= *"But in Merlin's name, boy - why? With every friend and admirer and protector in England at your feet, why in Merlin's name do you come to me?"* *"Because you won't tell. And you won't use it against me." A small, foxy smile stole onto his face, reminding Snape that this boy had seen far too much ever to be presumed innocent. "And because you won't say no."* Snape drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose. "You're so sure of that, are you?" The smile bloomed into a grin. "Oh, yes. Or you would have said no already." Truly, what a loss to Slytherin this boy was. ============================================================================= Snape was not a "nice" man, but he was far from an evil man. He was also far from stupid. The appeal of smooth, pale skin, barely formed muscle, bodies growing into coltish adolescence - oh yes, he was not unaware of the temptations inherent in supervising a hormonal hothouse such as Hogwarts. He was also privy to the studied licentiousness of the Death Eaters and had trod a fine line between what was expected from a servant of the Dark Lord and the dictates of his own carefully preserved morality. The Malfoy boy had been placed at his disposal, but despite repeated urgings from both father and son he had yet to make use of that reprehensible "privilege". He had couched his refusals in the most tactful manner, stressing the discretion required by his position of trust at Hogwarts, feigning regret so successfully that the boy repeatedly had to be sent packing from his quarters after sneaking in and splaying himself provocatively on the bed. Each dismissal was accompanied by a sweet and a reluctant caress, since it was sure to be reported back to Malfoy pere. He also knew his refusals confused the boy, who was far from unsullied and quite cognizant of his own supposed charms. Since the boy thought himself irresistible, he could only believe that Snape's desires were ignited by passions far more esoteric than those provided by mere mortals; as a result, the rumors floating around Slytherin house regarding the Potions master's preferences were ingenious and inventive. Snape wished to no avail that all that imagination and verve could have been applied to his students' homework. Snape sighed and shifted in his bed, thinking that perhaps he would have to drug himself as well as the boy if either of them were to sleep soundly tonight. Beside him, Potter thrashed in his sleep and sank a bony knee into his side, making him grunt loudly. At the sound the boy sprang up to a sitting position, breathing hard, myopic eyes wide and staring, not quite awake. Snape sighed and touched his shoulder. Said, not unkindly, "Potter. Harry. It's all right. Go back to sleep." The boy's head whipped around to face him; the eyes focused; unbelievably, the boy reached out to him. "No. Come on!" "Harry," Snape said deliberately. "This isn't necessary." But the boy squirmed into his arms and rubbed a beardless cheek against his chest. Of its own accord Snape's hand found itself stroking through the thick dark hair. Merlin and Morgana, what did he ever do to deserve this torment? And was he referring to himself or to the boy? "It's all right," he repeated inanely, automatically petting. Potter looked up at him, the hero's legendary scar peeking out through the boy's unruly fringe of hair. "Is it really?" he asked knowingly. "Are you going to spend another hour lecturing me about adolescent biology and the history of pedagogy and Muggle theories of morality and child-rearing?" Snape shook his head. "No," he whispered, a promise to himself as much as to the boy. Snape was accustomed to the gloom of his quarters. There were no windows in his dungeon; damp drafts whistled forlornly through narrow air shafts, causing flickers in the torches and candles. Snape was comfortable with this.  It was better for his potions and ingredients, he reasoned; nearly everything he worked with flourished when stored in a cool dark place. He supposed that was true for himself as well. He had never paused to consider what effect this might have on students and visitors. They knew very well what to expect when they came to his quarters, he told himself. And no student was ever improved by cosseting. He reached out the hand not occupied with petting the boy to grasp his wand on his night stand. "Circumlumos ater," he whispered, and the room was suffused with a dim, warm glow. Blinking owlishly in the sudden shadowless light, the boy reached up and gently brushed Snape's lank hair back from his face. "Come on then," he softly urged. "It's all right." The green eyes searched his - what the boy saw there, Snape did not know, but he felt a brief flush of shame and rage that Harry Potter of all people would think it was necessary to reassure him. There were no shadows in those green eyes, no haunted corners, no tears. Only the same honest regard Snape saw every day, the same stalwart frankness that was just short of defiance, a refusal to look away that Snape always found almost but not quite infuriating. Come on then, those eyes said, bring it on, whatever it is. I can do it, fix it, fight it, save it. Whatever it is, I'll live through it. And that was the crux, was it not? This was, after all, The Boy Who Lived. For the first time it occurred to Snape that the verb might not be in the preterite tense but the imperfect. Or perhaps the progressive. The Boy Who Kept Living. Possibly it was even a continuously active verb. The Boy Who Stubbornly Refused To Die. The Boy Who Just Might Outlive Them All. Snape shuddered, and told himself that the shudder was caused by the boy's skin skating over his chest to catch on a nipple. It was not a shudder of premonition, caused by ghosts walking over his grave. Certainly not. Premonitions were in the sphere of divination, and divination was beneath contempt. ============================================================================= Potter looked up at him and said softly, "You can kiss me if you like." And the insolent boy did not wait for permission before surging up to catch Snape's mouth in his soft, full lips. His tongue flicked inside quick as a dream. Snape gasped, the gasp accompanied by a yearning in no way related to the coupling of bodies. A yearning for something unnamable, something that broke deep within him and made him know with a dreadful certainty that he would deny nothing to this stubborn, audacious boy. ============================================================================= Snape did not believe in Hell, save as a Muggle legend. He had seen the fiery pits of the Dark Lord's domain, the demonic glee of Dementors, the protracted torture of the innocent. That was hell enough for any man, surely. And yet, in that moment, Snape knew as surely as he knew the properties of wolfsbane that he was going to Hell. And knew just as surely that Potter, no matter what occurred between them this night or any other, was not. "Obscuros," he said, returning the room to darkness, and felt a kind of sick relief. Carefully he slipped from Potter's clutching arms and bent over the boy, who lay back on his bed looking up at him with eyes so wide, dark and guileless that Snape could easily see them through the gloom. He ran one hand over the smooth cheek and down the neck - gently, so gently - along the prominent collarbone and back up the front of the throat to rest his fingers softly on the full mouth. Potter's tongue flicked against Snape's fingertips. Snape's mind flashed to other beds, other lovers, to whom he would easily have given orders and made imperious demands. He had opened many a compliant mouth and commanded, "Suck," and seen his fingers made wet and ready for other intrusions. But he could not, would not do that here. He was already hard and aching, yet unwilling to immerse himself in his own physical pleasure. Hesitant to instruct the boy to abet his own corruption, even if the brat had instigated it. The boy had approached him in the first place after all, come to him for some form of simple pleasure and comfort - Yes, of course, Snape thought. Be a scientist, not a maudlin fool; return to first principles. Pleasure the boy, and let them both sleep. With a renewed resolve, he brushed the hair from Potter's forehead and bent to claim his mouth in a determined kiss, tasting pumpkin juice and chocolate. The boy opened his lips, moaned softly and squirmed beneath him, seating Snape at his narrow hips and thrusting instinctively. Snape flinched and grunted when the searching bluntness nearly caught him in the testicles, but Potter seemed oblivious, eyes now squeezed shut, rubbing against him in typically single-minded concentration. The height difference between them was forcing his back into an excruciating curve in order to continue the kiss; on the other hand, to relax his weight would be to crush Potter's body beneath him. He tore his mouth away and arched his back, wresting a tiny whimper from the boy, before collapsing to one side and rolling to his back, levering the boy up and over him. Potter's eyes flew open and he breathed, "Oh," as though just realizing where he was, but then wriggled to reposition himself comfortably atop Snape's body and returned to his agitated grinding. Snape spread his legs and settled the smaller body against him, cradling the boy against his chest with one arm, and reached between their bodies to grasp both their sweaty cocks with his other hand. Once again, Potter breathed, "oh," and then more distinctly, "oh, yes," panting into Snape's chest as his thrusting grew more frenzied and rhythmic. The boy's hot breath ghosting over Snape's nipple, the sweaty skin smooth against him, the eager friction of the boy's cock against his own and the soft way their balls bumped together let Snape finally begin to lose himself in his own body's sensations and ride toward his peak. He bent his head and nuzzled the boy's hair, kissing gently, softly groaning as he pumped their cocks. Slowly, he felt the sweet tension and heat boil up through his body from his groin. But then of course Potter, the little horror, went ahead without him, shuddering, bucking and breathing "ahhhh" in the near-silent climax of a boy whose habitual private pleasure was found behind bed curtains in a shared dormitory. Snape snarled and cursed the mindless selfishness of pubescent pricks everywhere as the gluey warmth spurted between them, and then opened his eyes to see Potter's flushed face staring back at him in rapt attendance. The boy's damp hair dangled into his eyes and his mouth was slightly open, panting in a silent "o" as he watched in apparent wonder. Snape turned his head away with a growl and attributed the sudden heat in his face to his frustrated arousal. Potter wiggled atop him, slipping his sticky penis from Snape's grip, making Snape turn back to glare at him as the boy's small warm hand joined his own around his engorged shaft. "Like this?" the boy whispered, stroking. The question was tentative, but the stroke was not. The hand was small and soft, but strong. The boy regarded him openly and would not look away - would never look away. Would never, damn them both, let him look away. Their fingers entwined together and brushed each other as they moved, and Snape came convulsively, shocked at himself, burying a moan under bitten lips. The boy did not look away. He just grinned impudently and said, "Good, huh?" then wriggled back down against his chest, snuggling and settling, evidently intending to spend the remainder of the night. Snape lay beneath him at a loss. He felt he should dismiss the boy, but could not bring himself to do so. Yet it felt absurd to lie there, somewhat ridiculously stunned, covered with the cooling, tacky puddle of their combined mess. Well, yes. At least there was something to be done about that. He fumbled with his clean hand, searching for the wand on his night stand. The boy never stirred, already fast asleep with the ease of sated adolescence. A quick muttered "abstergeo" and their bodies were clean. He dropped the wand and sighed. As if in response, the boy sighed as well - a satisfied "mmmm..." - and cuddled further into the curve of Snape's arms with his hands tucked under his chin. Like some kind of stray puppy who had cozened a home for the night and was milking every brief moment of warmth. Damn the boy. Damn them both. Snape's dungeons would never know the light of day. But Snape knew the movement of every shadow and the shifting whisper of every passing draft. He knew exactly how long the boy could safely rest before the first grey lick of dawn sent him stealing back to Gryffindor tower. There was no hope of sleep tonight. Snape watched the passing shadows and cradled his small stray moment of warmth. Soon the sun would rise, whether or not it ever reached his rooms. Soon it would be dawn. But not yet. 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