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A Man of Habit
by
switchknife
It's moments like these, when your hands are slipping on the moist skin of his hips, when
your mouth tastes of nothing but thirst and sweat, that you realize this is all you need. It's
nourishment, after a fashion--it's relief. Potter makes strange, hurt sounds as he works
himself down on your cock--his hands are tight claws on your shoulders, heart a frantic pulse
of heat. It starts out fast, as always, because Potter's pain is bright and knife-like, and you
have to close your eyes to it--but eventually the pace slows, and your eyes open, and you
can't look anywhere but at Potter's face. Pale. Luminous. He rides you like he was born for
it; like there was nothing else he was taught, these past four years, except the rhythm and
pace of a cock.
Yes. You find yourself smiling. That much is true.
Sometimes, even when you're alone in your chambers--when you've come back from a
meeting with Dumbledore and your mouth thirsts for firewhiskey--sometimes, even then, you
take out your pensieve and settle at your desk, fingers smoothing the cool wood, cradling
your drink as you watch the scenes play.
Potter, eyes slit and green as a cat's, languid, hips moving in lazy circles on your lap. This is
after the initial burn--you can recognize it easily now, that moment when pain slips into
pleasure--when everything, absolutely everything, melts from Potter's face and mind except
what it is he's doing. There is no Voldemort here, no Dumbledore, no gaggle of
condescending friends--there is nothing, absolutely nothing, but the hot slice of your cock in
and out of him--and he's free, you can see it, you can see it in the way he tosses his head
back, black hair sleek with sweat, thighs trembling--you can see it in the way his gaze loses
focus, as though he's not even fucking
you
anymore, just a spectre, an automaton, a mere
toy he impales himself with.
Well. Potter's childhood might have been deprived, but he certainly has enough to play with
now.
Potter isn't himself in these chambers. How long did it take you to realize it? To relish it?
You'd hated his hesitance the first time--hated that crooked school tie, the poor black robe--
hated those knobby knees that spoke too much of boyhood.
But Potter melted, soon after--and it became apparent to you that Potter wasn't that knobby-
kneed boy after all--what he
really
was, despite everything, was this glittering white snake
marked with sweat and tears and come--this quiescent warm body that wrapped around
yours, tangled with yours, hissing and arching and smooth.
You tell yourself it's getting out of hand.
You tell yourself that it's getting too much, that you need too much, that the detentions or
three you dole out to him every week aren't enough--that even in Potions, when his green
eyes smoulder with anger behind those glasses that mark him
too much, too much
as
himself--that even then the open collar of his shirt draws your gaze, the soft shadow under
his throat invites your tongue.
You're different people out here--sunlight paints in different colors, and he isn't himself. You
want to tell him this, sometimes--you want to draw him aside, after another one of those
ridiculous meetings in Dumbledore's office--you want to tell him that this...
child...
this
impudent, callous child isn't him. That where he belongs is the bedroom--every hour,
continuously--that he really is nothing but relentless heat, soulless, the cruel clasp of flesh
around your cock. For a few moments, when Potter burns in the white flame of ecstasy--
there, finally, he is a creature of grace--he is something that rises above his name, his title,
his duties, his limitations--he is something that rises above itself.
A phoenix.
You're a man of habit--you always have been. That's why you've always been so careful, or
so you believe, in choosing your habits--you can't afford to want something you can't have,
you can't afford to expect something out of your reach.
But Potter.
Is Potter within your reach?
No.
But still you want him--you've
grown
to want him, past that first fumble in your office with him
gasping against your throat--you still expect him, sharp at eight, just in time for the last
detention. Whenever he's late you plan to whip him, slap him, teach him a lesson--but then
those robes are off, and those glasses, and he stands smooth and white and carved of light,
and he's not
Potter
anymore, so there's no need to punish him.
This is getting out of hand.
It's not so much that you can't do your duties--that you can't bark and hate and spit at him
during the day--that you can't berate him at precisely the right time, just when Weasley and
Granger are within hearing range, and Weasley's ears turn a painful red.
It's not so much that you can't teach--that you can't look away from his thin shoulders, from
his feet, under the desk, that are placed just the
right
distance apart...
Rather it's the temptation, even when there's little scope for it, to grant Potter another
detention. To break the habit of being in control--of being safe. You've even considered
shattering a vial with a hidden flick of your wand, so that the pieces that glitter on his desk
match the shocked shine of his eyes, and you can step up to him, looming just a
little
too
close, and hiss: 'Detention, Potter. Eight tonight.'
You know you can't do this--you know it'll be just that step too far--and that Potter might go
along with it, but others will find out. Frequency, frequency... It's all about frequency, all
about timing, all about playing the predator. Patient, dark-robed, waiting in your rooms. If you
venture out too often, if you let your claws, your eyes gleam in the light of day--then they'll
know--Dumbledore, McGonagall, the rest of them--because they're not blind, merely
ignorant, and caution is imperative.
So you are a man of habit--no more than three times a week, and careful, even then--your
appetite fed regularly, at timed intervals, like that of a caged beast's.
You glance at the clock.
It's five minutes past eight.
You wonder idly what you'll do--berate him? hurt him?--but no--you know you can't, not
because of kindness, or affection--but because of
need--because
the moment he steps in,
the moment his robe slides off to reveal that pale shoulder--oh, Merlin, that moment--you'll
be on him, mouth hungry and impatient, and all thoughts of punishment will have long fled
your mind.
You sit tensed--hand curled a little too tight over the sham that is your quill--you're supposed
to be marking essays, of course, but the ink is a mere black mess before your eyes. You
imagine it--that first footfall, that shuffle--not nervous, but anticipatory--outside the door, and
that soft voice tinged with resentment, calling: 'Professor Snape?'
You imagine how it'll feel--no, you don't need to, because you know--that doorknob slick with
sweat under your palm, because you have to be as close to him as possible when he enters,
and it won't do any good to unlock the door with your wand.
'Enter,' your cool voice will say--smooth, not hoarse--not hoarse--and he'll be stepping in, a
shadow of black robe, eyes impudent and jaw firm as always. And you'll hate him--for
reminding you of
who he is--for
those glasses, that black hair, that scar--but then his thin
hands will be at his collar, and you'll be closing the door, and he'll be slipping off his tie.
You imagine it: this slow loss of identity, the shedding of everything that is
Harry Potter
in
favor of this lovely, golden toy.
The clock ticks. Your pulse races. You think of it--this is the
first day
this week--it's been too
long--and you wonder what you'll do, if you'll smash a jar, if you'll swipe all this parchment off
your desk, if he doesn't come.
And then: you hear it.
The footstep.
The knock.
The shuffle.
The voice, calling: 'Professor Snape?'
And your nervous pulse cools--because he's here, after all, and he's as much a creature of
habit as you are.
You stand up, walk over; the knob twists gently in your hands. The door creaks.
He steps in, silently, not glancing up at you as his fingers go to his tie--reminding you that
you are a man of habit, and that your habit has arrived.
You smile.
* FIN *

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