Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Book of Shadows	By : lux Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 12583 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Harry likes to watch his schoolmates. He watches as they play jokes on each other and talk about their classes. They don't bother including him but he still feels like one of them sometimes. Perhaps if he tries hard enough he can be one of them again. It's fruitless, he knows, but he can't help hoping for his identity to return.
Harry doesn't like being watched, though. It makes him jittery and prone to dropping things. He can feel several strong gazes on his back. They're all coming from the head table. Without a word, Harry leaves the table and the Great Hall. His footsteps are light but quick as he moves towards the tower. He knows that standing around only gets him noticed and he hates being noticed; always has.
It's Sunday so he grabs his cloak, a thick book of drawings, and slips the little bag of charcoal into his pocket. Crookshanks blinks slowly at him from Harry's bed as he puts on the shimmering cloak. He feels comfortable beneath the warm folds of it and sometimes he thinks it smells a little like his father. He slips out of the castle, past his housemates. He likes being outside when no one else is around. It's windy but the breeze is warm and smells like the flowers from Professor Sprout's greenhouses.
Once the castle is considerably smaller behind him, Harry takes off the cloak. There's no one around to see him now that he's far away from the school. He pulls off his shoes and socks, wiggles his toes and feels the crisp grass beneath them. He takes the coal from his pocket before folding his robe and placing it on the ground. He sits on it and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt so he can draw his arm. He gets a rush when he draws himself. Over the summer before his sixth year, he discovered that he liked to draw and was moderately good at it. He likes to think about spending the rest of his life drawing and painting for people; showing them the art of driving a knife into your own skin and watching it bleed. The thought makes him shiver.
He opens his book to a crisp new page and begins to draw his hand. He sketches his knuckles and the pads of his fingers until he branches onto his wrist, creates an arm to give his hand life. Carefully, he mimics the gashes on his own arm to coal on paper. Each drawing is a little different. The position of his hand or the pattern of scars gives individuality to each one. When he is finished, he puts his signature in the corner: a bolt of lightning like the one on his forehead. It seems strangely appropriate.
He lies on his back, stares up at the sky and feels his eyelids grow heavy and for the first time in days, he sleeps. The breeze keeps him warm as his body rejuvenates. Harry doesn't dream of anything but when he wakes, he feels a tiny spark of something he can't quite put his finger on but it feels good. His body doesn't feel so heavy and dead.
He gathers his things as the sun begins to set and pulls on his robe. The walk back to the castle is longer than he remembers but eventually he climbs up the stairs and slips into the Entrance Hall. He can hear the rest of the school in the Great Hall for the evening meal. He turns away and heads towards the tower. He'll go to the kitchens later after everyone is asleep. He hates eating in the hall. He can feel all their eyes on him and it makes him nervous.
"Potter." Harry stops. He can't believe that he walked right past Professor Snape without even realizing it. He turns slowly and stares at his professor. He clutches the book closer to his chest and hopes it's hidden in the folds of his robe. "Why aren't you at dinner?"
"I'm not hungry." He knows to give simple answers; make himself look stupid because Professor Snape likes it when he's stupid and bumbling like a fool. Harry thinks it's funny that he knows how to make his professor happy without even trying.
Professor Snape steps forward and Harry takes a step back. His arm is beginning to hurt and he thinks the cover of his book might be cutting into his fingers he's clutching it so tightly. Snape cocks his head. "What is that in your hand?"
"This?" He makes it look like he's hardly noticed he was even carrying it.
"Yes. That book you seem to be guarding with your life."
He takes a shuddering breath. "It's just a book, sir. Fuh-from the library."
Snape sneers. "Books from the library aren't to be taken out of the school, Potter. Even the First Years know that."
Harry dries his sweating hand on his pant leg. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It won't happen again." He turns to leave but a strong hand lands on his shoulder. Harry stops breathing.
"What book is it?"
Frantically he searches his brain for a book he might read that would placate Snape. "It's - uh - Hogwarts: A History, sir." The silence is deafening and Harry swears that the whole school can hear his heart beating. "May I go, sir?"
The hand lifts and Harry misses it for a second. It's the closest thing he'll ever get. He doesn't dare move until Professor Snape says that he can go. "It's a good thing you weren't placed in Slytherin, Potter. You're a horrible liar." Harry can't breath as Snape plucks the book from his hand too easily.
"No!" His plea echoes through the empty corridor as he makes a grab for his drawing book but the several inches Snape has over him makes it impossible. "Please, give me my book back. It's mine."
Professor Snape looks at the cover skeptically. "Is it a journal, Potter? All your little secrets penned down for someone to read? What are you hiding?"
"I'm not hiding anything, I swear. Just, please, give it back." He doesn't care that he sounds desperate because he is desperate. It's his book. He made it. He did it all himself and he needs it. If Professor Snape looked inside his whole world would be shattered in a few precious minutes. "It's private," he whispers.
Snape is fascinated by this change in Harry. The boy who once defied him is now so nervous it looks painful and Snape almost feels sorry for him. He holds the book out to Harry. "Here. Take it." Gratefully, Harry snatches the book and cradles it close to his chest with both arms and he looks like he's been reunited with an old friend and Snape wonders if this is truly the only friend that Harry has left. "Get out of my sight," he orders and sweeps away in the other direction, leaving Harry terrified but relieved.
Harry runs to the tower and to his bed. His pounds up the endless flights of stairs before finally pulling back the curtain. Crookshanks blinks at him as he jumps onto his bed, closes the curtain and holds the book as he rocks back and forth. Crookshanks stretches and steps forward, rubs his head against Harry's knee and mews lowly. He drops the book, scoops up the cat and holds him; presses his face into the animal's fur and listens as Crookshanks purrs and vibrates against his chest. His breath is cg ing in quick, hard pants and he's scaring himself. It was too close. Snape was too close to finding out his secret - his most guarded secret of all. Deep in the depths of the book is another picture that isn't of himself but of the man who comes into his dreams when he gets a chance to sleep. The man with strong arms and sturdy hips who makes Harry feel alive, the man who makes Harry cry when he wakes up because he knows that the man only exists in his dreams. Crookshanks mewls because Harry is holding him a little too tightly. He lets the cat go but Crookshanks only shakes out his fur and settles next to Harry's knee.
Harry takes out his knife and lies down on his side. Carefully he makes shallow little cuts on his arm. They don't bleed but the pain is enough to make him feel a little better and to calm his nerves. He doesn't make a pattern, just scatters them along his skin. Afterwards, the knife lies next to him like a faithful lover and Harry thinks about strong arms and sturdy hips. He wonders if Severus Snape is as good of a lover as he is in Harry's dreams. He turns onto his back and stares at the new cuts. It's the first time he's cut in front of Crookshanks and he knows that it's okay; Crookshanks won't tell anyone. He puts the knife away and thinks about what will happen once the school year is over so he can leave; disappear into the Muggle world. He doesn't mind them so much and he could paint. All he wants is to paint and bleed. He doesn't need anything else.
Harry begins to hum softly as he pulls his sleeve back down and allows the heavy feeling to take over. It feels good and maybe he'll dream of arms and long black hair, milky skin and a soothing voice before he awakens again. One day Professor Snape will see that he needs Harry and that Harry needs him and everything will be wonderful and perfect. Crookshanks licks his hand lightly, stares at him with huge yellow eyes and Harry wishes that Crookshanks could talk just so he could have an understanding ear. He feels silly talking to a cat.
The door to the dormitory opens and he hears whispering and clothes rustling. Soundlessly, he sits up and peers through a fold in the curtain. His eyes widen and he grabs his book and bag of charcoal. Barely looking at the page, he sketches what he sees. He can't believe he never noticed before but the thought is fleeting as his own breath catches. Dean smiles at Neville and the rest of their clothes are gone and Harry goes to a new page so he can draw their flawless skin as they mesh together and he knows he isn't the only one creating in the room now as they move fluidly.
Harry isn't even turned on by this even though he knows he should be. The artist in him is pushing the arousal away and all he sees is the beauty and the perfection in front of him. There's no room for his hormones when the air is permeated with the scent of sex. He wants to capture this moment. He wants to make their feelings tangible on paper. He draws the arch of Dean's back and the way Neville throws his head back, his mouth open in a silent moan. Harry can't draw fast enough but he knows he won't forget this moment until he's long past dead. He never noticed before how beautiful Dean and Neville are.
Too soon, the boys finish and lie together on Dean's bed. Harry barely breathes as they re-dress and leave the dormitory. He lets out a whoosh and flips through the pages. He smoothes out some of the edges and thinks tmaybmaybe he should've told them that he was in the room, maybe he shouldn't have watched when Dean slid inside of Neville, he definitely shouldn't have drawn them but they were beautiful and looking at the drawings now, he knows that it's okay because it's art and everything is okay when it's for the sake of arte cle closes the book and puts the charcoal away. His hands are black but he leaves the residue because it's his trade, it marks him as an artist.
He leans back on his bed and thinks about other people he could draw. He's never had people model for him before and he doubts he'll find that here at Hogwarts but he wonders where he could watch people like he did with Neville and Dean. The only place he knows of, that he's heard of couples using, is the Astronomy Tower. He thinks he'd like to watch them and draw them. He looks at the clock and wonders when people go to the Tower to fuck. It never occurred to him, before now, that he could draw them. He's never been to the Tower after dark, never been there to fuck, either. He throws on his father's cloak and takes along his supplies. He nearly skips all the way to the Tower, terribly pleased with himself.
When he arrives, Harry settles in one of the corners in the room. From his corner he can see everything and he intends to. Couples will begin to arrive soon, he hopes, and he is prepared to draw them. It doesn't occur to him that it may be privacy infringement and that he shouldn't be drawing their intimidate moments but the artist whispers that it's okay, that he's doing nothing wrong because he is an artist; it's his right, his duty to capture a moment on paper. They would understand, he thinks, if they knew. He waits patiently for someone to show up. He can't be selective; he'll draw whoever shows. He hopes, though, for at least one girl. He's never drawn breasts before but he'd like to try.
Finally, the door opens and two people climb through the floor. He smoothes out the page from beneath his Invisibility Cloak and takes out a fresh piece of coal as the couple comes into view. Harry doesn't recognize them but he can make out their faces in the light of the moon coming from the window. She is short and blonde, petite. He is tall and gangly and reminds Harry of a puppy. They're nus aus at first, only kissing tentatively but he watches as their inhibitions slowly fall away. Harry draws as quickly as he can, wishes he had a camera so he could really study the position of his couple. He makes due though and nearly jumps with joy when her shirt comes off. He shifts and sketches her small breasts. Her skin is flawless and pink. He darkens the shadow of her areola. He doesn't notice that the boy is nearly naked now. Harry knows how a man looks. He thirsts to draw her full form; make the curls of her pubic hair and the delicate curve of her thigh. He hopes he can recreate her once he gets back to the dorm.
He's fascinated by the way they move together. The boy takes on a dominant but protective position over the girl. He is gentle but sure in his movements and Harry looks on in awe at the way she trusts the boy's every move and caress. Harry has a perfect view as the last of their clothes are stripped away and he lays her down on the floor. Harry can't help but take a moment to stare at the mound between her thighs. It's exquisite but foreign to him and for a fleeting moment he wishes to touch her body, to feel her quiver under his hand. He thinks that this is what being an artist is about - creating beauty and being enchanted by it at the same time. Yes, he will make her the most beautiful woman in the world but she will be flawed, she will be human. This comforts him.
Later on after the couple has dressed and left and Harry has gone back to the dorm, he will make a dozen portraits of her. She with her perfect smile and shimmering, diamond eyes of the clearest blue. He will give her flaws; make her beautiful and ugly. He mares her smooth papery skin with purple bruises and cuts on half of her body, the contrast. All they will see are her flaws but to Harry she is magnificent, so human it's almost painful.
But there is one that he wants to draw more than anyone else in the world. He wants to immortalize Professor Snape in one of his drawings. Perhaps paint him one day. Slowly, he goes back to his book and beings the outline of a body. He molds it and a face appears with deep black eyes and a unusually shaped nose. The neck is thin and branches into equally thin shoulders and thin arms. Harry always imagined his professor to be slightly emaciated. Almost bashfully, he creates a torso and hips. Between the thighs he draws a modest cock with a thatch of hair around it, covering it. He pays close attention to the way it curves and the thickness of the head. The rest of the drawing is nearly forgotten. He wants the real thing.
He slams the book shut with a 'bang' and takes out his knife. He is drained but he aches to bleed so he tears open his skin and sighs as the blood comes. He watches it until it begins to clot. This one will heal into a nice scar. He thinks about what his teachers would think if they knew of what he did. If they got a hold of his book and saw his masterpieces, the passages he writes in between each picture. Maybe they would have theiroritorite drawings as he has his. He could send the picture - his adaptation - of Snape to the man. He might like Harry's creation. After all, who doesn't want to be drawn and admired? Made immortal? Harry sighs, knows it's hopeless but he can dream forever and that's what he intends to do. A small part of him wishes for someone to see, someone to notice but the risk is too high and he's through with taking risks.
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Book of Shadows