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Snape's Curse	By : JanisJ Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 24342 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own anything having to do with Harry Potter fandom, JKR's characters or the books and movies of the series. This is purely fiction and I make NO money from writing this story.

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Harry’s Curse

A companion piece to ‘Snape’s Curse’, as told from Severus’ point of view.

~~~~

Potter. Harry Potter.

Arrived and sorted at Hogwarts at age eleven. Gryffindor. Big bloody surprise. It would take a moron not to see that coming, Trelawney’s triumph at an accurate prediction be damned; we all saw it happening.

NOT the original bespectacled Potter I knew and loathed (and lusted after), no. But he looked the part close enough-- The spawn of my cruelest tormentor, the most confident, gorgeous, and fit Pureblood of our year (most of my schoolmates would argue Sirius Black fit that bill with James falling in a close second place, but not for me-- It was always James, ever since that first train ride to Hogwarts).

Plus, this fresh-faced little boy was the firstborn son of my only and all-time best friend that eventually, publically shunned me, the last rejection that helped push me down a most regrettable path. (And people wonder why I’m a bitter asshole? Dark Lord or not, that would have been enough.)

HARRY: The junior Potter who was a thorn in my side since he was conceived, simply because he existed, was now thrust upon me. He’d survived my First Master’s attack, led to his downfall a decade ago and now was being thrown in my face…. He was always meant to be a scourge, a reminder of the failures of my youth; a pest to me, no more, no less.

I can admit now that I felt resentful about the misfortune of having my refuge from the memories of the Dark Lord, Death Eaters and sinister history by “Junior” living here at Hogwarts-- my first real home. It was now tainted. His being here as he gets his education, while I’m teaching at my sanctuary, my somewhat precarious salvation, would now be further sullied by the next generation of miscreants….

But of course I shook my head in resignation after that initial thought at the Sorting Ceremony: This asinine petulance was ridiculous. I must complete my penance…. I vowed to myself: I would pay this too.

I was bound by my mission for the Light and personal yearning for my own damned soul’s redemption: Forever paying for the shameful envy and attraction to the cruel, handsome father and undying devotion to the kind, beautiful mother…. It is always first and foremost in my mind…. It is the reason I persevere; the hot and vivid potion of passion steeped in the sweet and sour past that drives me.

Thrice daily I must’ve thanked all the Gods ever known that Lupin, Black and Pettigrew never had the chance to procreate! I could not tolerate another happy union of DNA with any one of them, save for if Lily were involved somehow. Any other female never, ever measured up. Despite her genetics and upbringing—there was no better example of a superb specimen of witch and woman!

I let a sneer cross my sallow face; “Harry”—the pathetically named spawn of James (a homonym for “hairy”, for which the diminutive, pre-pubescent boy I was forced to see day in and day out was any thing but, save for the unruly mop on his empty head) made me bitter.

But in some ways made me oddly happy…. It was like a new spark or spirit breathed fresh life into me. It encouraged me to look forward to each day, if only to dream up new ways to torment him.

Yes, that boy was just a weakling, hiding behind his heritage, strutting about the castle…. Acting everything like his father, of course, the perfect Pureblood: Everything handed to him on a silver platter-- Proud, handsome, arrogant, disrespectful, and condescending. Everything that would make his mother cringe if she knew. I felt sorry then, for Lily, that she had borne such a despicable child; I was thankful she’d never known.

And I was glad that I could use my position to intimidate the lad, (‘Something you were never able to do to the almighty James Potter when we were in school’, offered the unhelpful voice in the back of my head).

I would enforce my authority at every turn, which I had every right to do, and I would enjoy it. And I did, oh yes, I DID! I wielded my long-suppressed power and it felt good!

Finally! I had a Potter at my mercy….

****

For the first year and a half, it was wonderful. I’d loom over his tiny form, belittle him in front of his adoring classmates and he’d flush with anger. Sometimes he offered some cheeky retaliation. I liked the insolence best because I could deduct house points with impunity and administer the ridicule and humiliation I never could to James and his friends. Harry’s barely concealed outrage pleased me.

Other times he would remain silent, (ridiculously urged by his know-it-all friend Granger), but frustrated against my onslaught; you could see that he was holding back an impotent fury. That was satisfying too. Those times I wondered where he took out his anger…. Did he relieve it in the same ways I had at his age? What was swirling around in that dim-witted head of his?

(Ohhhhh, I wished to use Legilimency, but held back—just barely. I knew the meddlesome Old Man would check if he suspected and he was far too involved with the boy’s welfare as it was).

Then there was a night when I’d tormented the boy within the constraints of a professor/student relationship and realized the past couple weeks it had been rather unfulfilling. He’d been lacking his usual “fire”. He looked ill, flustered and---dare I say it—defeated somehow…. No matter… I’d continue the campaign of my vendetta in the same vein none-the less.

But I didn’t actually want to break him just yet, not this soon…. I wanted to draw out his suffering, to endure years of agony and slowly chip away at his self-worth like his father before him did to me. So I simply watched what would unfold.

Much to my chagrin as an accomplished spy, he seemed to notice my eyes boring into him, trying to read him. Again, I refrained from any Legilimency, (I wanted to—Oh Salazar’s stinky ass-slit, I really, really did! But Pomfrey and Dumbledore could find out way too easily) so I relied on my skills as an outside observer.

He hadn’t been acting like this at any other time. That was the first thing I determined. I was ever vigilant; nothing escaped my notice, especially when it came to this boy. (I would know—my name isn’t “Sentinel Snape” for no reason!) He appeared his normal idiotic self when he was with his friends, at meal times or on the Quidditch pitch; his odd, confused moods only seemed to affect him when we were in close proximity.

Scrutinizing his body language—the hunching of shoulders to billow robes to be baggy at the front, the embarrassed red tinge painting his cheeks and shortness of breath, complete with the timeless classic table edge or strategic book bag placement-- I could come up with no other explanation that he was feeling the effects of pre-pubescent hormones, having witnessed it enough times (and lived through the awkward period myself).

No, an attraction from the boy was unthinkable-- and entirely too narcissistic on my part. But I kept a sharper eye on him anyway; too intrigued to ignore this new theory, unable to dismiss it yet until more evidence was gathered.

I found myself at a loss. I was determined to despise the lad, the outward appearance, the carbon copy of the boy that tormented my childhood, with both unnamed lust and outright hatred. But at the same time, I could see Lily in him. And for some terrible, ironic, revolting reason, it made me study him even more.

It got to the point where I felt myself obsessed; repulsed yet fascinated. God, how I hated that I yearned for his regard (be it good or bad)! Much like his father before him…. Did his libido get twistedly ignited from the degradation and humiliation like mine had with James? Did the heat creep up the back of his neck, prickling on his scalp and solidify in his loins too when that harsh attention was turned on him?

Whereas before I could at least justify to myself that I had a duty and an obligation to Lily’s offspring, I knew it went beyond that now. My intense interest in the sexual awakening of my one true friend’s and nemesis’ child meant I had to know all about it, even though I knew it was an utterly indecent endeavor. And, for lack of a better term, I was determined to find out what “turned him on”-- if it was, indeed, something to do with my presence.

No, I tried to convince myself, he is simply a puerile adolescent that is aroused by a female student, any student, or memory, or thought-- or perhaps a stiff breeze? Stupid to think otherwise…. But still, I couldn’t help but wonder when faced with the fact that the atmosphere was heightened and charged when we were together, him quailing under my domineering superiority, fussing with symptoms of sensual excitement.

There was a class, close on the heels of the rather disappointing revelation of his pathetic resignation to my torturous treatment of him, that I had approached him with my patented scathing reproach. We were standing only inches apart, both trying to control heavy breathing. He was silently fidgeting and squirming under my glare, and I could have sworn he tried to adjust an erection! I am loathed to admit that I faltered for a second, wondering if I had been correct and all his strange behaviour around me as of late was really, truly due to arousal for me.

I attempted to ignore my newfound unnatural infatuation, of course, but as Fate would have it, we had a detention together. (What else is new?) (Ok, it was my fault) (Not that he had detention—that I assigned-- just that I made him serve it with me) (‘You just want to study your sick hypothesis more,’ the chiding voice of my conscious supplied, ‘with the boy…. Alone!’).

That night he came in with the same mix of subservience and defiance that always got me fired up. I intoned calmness when I explained the task, clean the cauldrons, no magic and watched his face: Grim, determined, but something lurked underneath, like…. Eager anticipation?

No matter, I was in charge…. But my cool control slipped a notch as I watched him kneel, presenting his nubile rump, grumbling but compliant, to reach into the back of the cupboard for the Mrs. Skowers; his backside wriggled most delightfully as he shimmied his way back out onto the stone floor and I wanted to take him right there.

I demanded myself to snap out of such impure thoughts! He was only a kid and in no way to be an object of sexual fantasy!

However, it was easier said than done. When the brat decided to scrub his task away with his back turned to me, he was jiggling his ass and rhythmically jerking his arm in front of him—did he have any idea what it looked like he was doing?!

I sat behind my desk, thankful the thick oak provided a solid barrier that hid my growing bulge. I could not help but stare in morbid fascination. My Lord, but the boy looked like he was masturbating!

Logically I knew he wasn’t, but my filthy imagination wouldn’t let me tear my eyes away from the libertine tableau before me: His feet parted, left hand planted on the table—head hanging down in resignation, the gusty grunts, that right shoulder and arm working with youthful vigor before him, his hips thrusting at the motion, giving the task in front of him his all…..

I shuffled my ungraded scrolls occasionally just to make it seem as if I was still marking but there was no way I could have concentrated on them any more. Then he paused. I watched avidly, my breath caught in my throat. He cautiously brought his left hand in front of his crotch and gasped.

He touched himself! He must have! Right in front of me!

But then I thought I must have imagined it for he resumed his angry scouring. My concentration was shot. I was hot under the collar (and in my pants). I was mentally berating myself for becoming excited by this….

This…. awful CHILD. I let out a shaky sigh. I was cursed. (Fate is a foul temptress bitch!) I am an old, perverted, dirty, nasty man. (But he looks sooooo enticing… Not that I’d ever act upon such thoughts!)

It was an enormous relief when the boy bolted from the classroom. I summoned my decanter, Pensieve and special blend of lube that I keep at my bedside. After securely warding the room, I shakily extracted the memory of tonight’s detention and took a deep drink of Scotch. Without hesitation, I plunged into the memory and was immediately standing in the very same classroom as it was just minutes before.

I spared a glance in my own direction, quickly noting with pride that even though I could tell I was stimulated, an outside observer would most definitely not. Yes, still the stone-faced and unflappable man was sitting stoically behind the desk.

I was full of apprehension yet tantalized as my feet were compelled to circle around the worktable and gaze upon the boy from the front.

Of course he was only cleaning, despite what activity it looked like from behind. I watched his effort—the sweaty brow, lips pursed in concentration, the relentless jabs at the cauldrons that gyrated and jostled his body, his loose hanging robes swaying, obscuring any sort of view I could have had of his crotch.

It was alluring in and of itself and I could imagine, watching from the shoulders up that he was stroking himself furiously, but finally, the moment I’d been waiting for was upon us and I unconsciously held my breath: He paused, straightened and I saw the bobbing lump at the front of his trousers.

He slowly reached with his left hand…. And pinched it—he touched his hard penis! He winced and then resumed his task once again, resigned and focused, looking somber and resolute after he’d chanced a glance over his shoulder at me “grading” at the desk.

I was panting as I pulled out of the memory and reached for the vial. I fumbled my cock out of my fly and slicked my palm. Wrapping my fingers around the familiar twitching turgid length, I couldn’t stop or slow the sharp, quick tugs. With my personal patented wicked flick of the wrist at the head, it didn’t take long.

“James! Harry!” I think I may have exclaimed out loud as hot spurts of seed adorned the dungeon floor between my feet.

Several seconds went by as my heart rate and breath calmed down. (Sigh.) That’s it. I am a deplorable deviant, a perverted old man. My shoulders slumped in defeated satiation.

I was at least somewhat cheered by the thought that I knew I would never act on any of this information. It was disgusting to me. Compelling, yes, dirty to the extreme and drew me in with debauched desire, but nothing I would ever want to pursue in real life at this time; my interest sickened me, and I was glad for it.

(‘But when he gets older and is of age?’ The traitorous voice in the back my head questioned—I banished it with plenty of Scotch).

****

Then something happened that changed everything. It had been at the so-called “Dueling Club” that the cretin Lockhart had set up in response to the mass hysteria surrounding the Chamber of Secrets attacks. That silken fop came off as the total fraud that he is and it was immensely gratifying. (Seriously, the man couldn’t cast his way out of a paper bag!)

At first I thought the highlight of the evening was having the entire student body (particularly all the annoying little chits that obviously had nauseating crushes on the ineffectual wizard) seeing me easily take him down. He had flamboyantly twirled his wand, leaving innumerable open spots on his person for spells to hit and dropped his only weapon, thus, unequivocally showing the world just what an incompetent he really is.

But I was wrong. We all found out that Potter—the junior one, the current bane of my brain—speaks Parseltongue.

(Jesus H. Christ, Merlin’s balls and Circe’s cunt! Where the hell did THAT come from!?!?! It was like the words of the devil coming out of the mouth of an innocent angel!)

I swear I’d never been harder in my life. Those sibilant noises coming from the Dark Lord used to chill me to the bone, but this, coming from that particular boy, was the sexiest, most sinful music I’d ever heard. And it struck me in the worst, most wonderful way, directly to the ‘bone’.

It was probably a couple weeks after that Parseltongue revelation and I’d been somewhat unsuccessfully quashing my increasing desires that the most mortifying thing of my tenure as a Death Eater or Hogwarts professor happened.

I had my first wet dream since I was a teenager! In this night-time vision, I’d seen myself up on the dueling stage with Potter, and much to my shameful surprise, I was kneeling in front of Junior! Prostrating myself to a child!

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to introduce him to adult pleasures and give him his first orgasm! I worked my way towards his groin and when he started begging for more, he keened and prematurely released in his pants. And I, too, lost it. I awoke in a sticky puddle of semen and shock.

I couldn’t sleep well after that, nor could I look him in the eye when we crossed paths. Something was different after that night and I couldn’t stop touching myself inappropriately in my chambers at night.

Sure, during class and meal times I was the epitome of cold aloofness, the usual uncaring and untouchable Potion Master bastard façade I’d been careful to hone and had perfected over the years, but at home, alone, I came undone (came being the key word there!)

For months upon months, I was a slave to my addiction. I hid it well. I masked it. I buried it…. My private, PRIVATE exquisite agony…. I didn’t want to upset my ordered life, and I wouldn’t have given it up for anything. But this….

It was hate. It was yearning. It was disgust. It was profound needing-- as much as air or water. And when I would see or think of Junior? I’d get hard in a second like a besotted fifth-year, like I’d never done at the time in my life when my libido should have ruled this way.

But it was mysteriously plaguing me now.

Yes, I had wanted James when we were teens, though this went beyond that. I had wanted that perfect boy to subdue me, revel in my acquiescence and enjoy yearning for me—but I knew that was never what he was after, I wasn’t that deluded. He only wanted my humiliation, and to gain the laughter and sycophantic approval of his friends.

Now, all I wanted was his floundering progeny to look to me to give him all-consuming ecstasy. I let myself believe at some points that I had bended his desire to my will. I wanted to be the dominant one, the one calling the shots; my ultimate revenge, my ultimate pleasure. I indulged my flesh when I could bear it no longer….

Late at night, the special oil would come out and I had to stroke my hardness angrily, furious with myself to succumbing yet again. Visions of that impish demon danced in my fevered mind. I reveled in the rapture he would express when I tugged on his messy curls, yanking his neck back (as I’d always wanted to do to his senior) and attack that convulsively gulping column with my mouth, still too silky for any stubble….

Then, my hand became his imaginary hesitant, virgin hand. I turned to curious and gentle caresses, discovering my shaft with tentative fingertips and brushing my sac and anus completely without guile or apparent expertise, just faintly touching with (my own feigned) innocence. He’d pluck and prod at my foreskin, unsure with his exploration, but fool enough to forge ahead….

I could almost taste his pureness when I pictured his wide green eyes full of wonder …. His astonishment as he tickled over forbidden flesh and unexpected hair, surprised at the pleasure he incited in me and himself. He wouldn’t understand why he was drawn to sliding his little pink tongue through my precome, not knowing why he was drawn to tracing esoteric patterns on my shaft, over my bollocks, then further down to taste the wrinkle of my quivering pucker.

He wouldn’t be able to fathom why exactly I would be so keen to repay the favour-- or the overwhelming burst he’d feel when my mouth descended, masterfully, powerfully sucking on his bits, working him skillfully…. He would gasp in profound delight! Only then could I purge myself of the evil spunk coiling in my loins.

Nothing of this sort could happen-- EVER! I was not a pedophile! I wasn’t aroused by children! Just inordinately interested in one in particular, and in a way that was much more complicated or complex than simple lust.

And I would never act upon it, I knew that for sure (‘Or at least until the boy is closer to of age,’ the little devilish voice maintained in my mind).

And I didn’t. I was proud of that. It stayed locked behind every last mental shield I possessed.

****

Over the years, I’d ignored (or developed a passable immunity to) Dumbledore’s maddening twinkle. It was always the worst when I’d protest or complain too loudly about the Potter boy (Still such a mediocre student). Really, the eccentric Headmaster sparkled too much for his own good.

Something about me and Harry made the old coot unbearably happy despite the obvious animosity between us. He’d been hinting around at something illusive since the middle of Potter Junior’s second year, shortly after the Parseltongue incident, if I recall correctly…. Almost insinuating he knew something juicy, possibly my hideous secret, or maybe something about the boy.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now, the plotting he conceals as congenial dazzle, all the scheming he deflects with his benign grandfatherly persona, infecting those around him into complacency on a daily basis. He never did clue me in to the mystery that tickled him so and I would never indulge him by inquiring outright that I’d noticed. He’d never be forthcoming if I had, just speak in riddles and sparkle all the more maddeningly-- so I never bothered to try and decipher it, (just let the crazy man have his joyful little entertainment, I figured).

And since when does Albus need to make sense? He doesn’t. He never does…. And I’d given up trying to understand his eccentric machinations long ago and just trust him on the important things.

****

It would be a couple of more years until I realized Dumbledore’s sly implications fully, when the barmy bastard declared I would be the one to give Junior private lessons in Occlumency in his fifth year. I was outraged and incredibly anxious; it was a dread-invoking idea and an exciting prospect at the same time.

With our minds and souls joined in such an endeavor? Everything would really and truly come to a head…. (And the meddlesome old man seemed beside himself with glee, that asshole!).

And indeed, the results were both earth-shattering and explosive….

~~~~

A/N: OK, I know it was weird to switch to the first person POV, but somehow I felt like I needed to explore more in depth the motivations of Snape’s mind that it afforded.

I’m not sure if it’s worth it to continue since I am uncharacteristically unsure (I seem to be a chronic one-shotter) but I have possible future ideas for the actuality of the Occlumency lessons-- when these two would reveal and discover intimate thoughts about each other and their histories (complete with Harry’s mortifying memories of Dumbledore’s sex-ed talk demonstrated via anatomically correct sock puppets).

But from the nebulous thoughts percolating in my head, it would go back to third person, since it involves both of them. I’m just not sure if the bouncing back and forth makes for good flow…. I don’t usually do this, but: What do you think? Would it be literarily acceptable-- or complete sacrilege-- to juggle perspective so shamelessly? Should I take the time to attempt this or should I spend my precious little free time elsewhere? (*squeak!* help??)
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Snape's Curse