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The Longest Road	By : WinterRaven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 11234 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling and do not have the rights to Harry Potter. This story is written for fun. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Thanks to everyone who read, rated and reviewed! :)

Two: Lesson One

The day that unfolded was one of the worst of Harry's life, plagued with lies and painful discussion. He wanted nothing more than to run from Ron and Hermione and Ginny's confused stares, looks that burned through him, demanding for answers despite his clear exhaustion. Ginny knew of liars and he would become one for her, to spare her from the tinkling in his groin brought about the thought of Snape's leg coaxing his hardness again. The memory of Snape’s touch poked through the haze of morning and afternoon. Harry’s body was weak and shaky and he trembled with the idea of punishment as distraction. Did Snape know that this is what Harry had needed all along? How did he know before he rubbed Harry’s wanton body, before Harry even knew himself?
When the boy returned to Gryffindor tower, it was to find Ron perched on his bed, smelling like soap and a recent shower. The boys stared at each other and Harry beckoned him down to the empty common room. Harry kept checking his watch. Now it was six thirty in the morning. Over eleven hours until his first official lesson.
Ron met him in the deserted room, fully garbed in his robes. He sat down in a chair opposite Harry, the fire crackling next to them.
"So… what happened last night?" Ron asked. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
Harry explained only parts of the story, refusing to retell certain scenes, trying to suppress the images from the lake as he spoke. He remembered the darkness that suffocated him as the clammy hands of corpses grabbed hold of his wrists and tried tempt him to the blackness, swallowed along with them, forever unknowing…
Ron sat, his mouth agape, listening intently. When Harry completed his censored tale, he immediately felt dread at the thought of telling this to Hermione, having to repeat and repeat. When Harry told Ron the Horcrux was a fake, his friend swore.
"Who the hell is R.A.B. then?" he wondered out loud. Harry had no response for him.
He purposefully avoided telling Ron about Draco Malfoy or the argument with Snape or what Snape had done to him less than an hour ago… He refrained from mentioning the fact that he would spend endless future days bent at the man's will. Harry's heart thrummed in his chest and his face flushed at the very thought of looking Snape in the eye again.
"Are you okay?" Ron asked at the sight of Harry's cheeks coloring.
Harry pretended he was thirsty, clearing his throat awkwardly.
At that moment, Hermione and a few other girls pattered down the stairs. Upon seeing Harry, she rushed over, anxious to know about the Horcrux mission. Ron sensed Harry was at the breaking point, so he told Hermione the story instead. She seemed just as crestfallen about the fake locket.
"What theories do you think Dumbledore will come up with?" she whispered. She was sitting on the arm of the sofa where Ron was, running her hand through her bushy hair and giving Harry a penetrating stare.
"I don't know," Harry responded. "I get the feeling he knows more about the other Horcruxes though. Maybe he has more memories stored somewhere… but it doesn't matter, I won't be seeing him anytime soon."
"Why not?" Hermione asked sharply.
"He said he needed time to work out theories on his own before talking to me again," Harry responded.
Hermione looked thoughtful, Ron glum.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it was lucky Snape was around," she said quietly. "I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t been able to help Dumbledore."
Harry ignored her statement. Snape's rough gaze broke through his thoughts, coldness enveloping him. He forced himself to speak on a different subject.
"What happened last night with Malfoy?" Harry asked. Again, he purposefully avoided mentioning his death. Perhaps Ron and Hermione had more information that could put the pieces of Malfoy’s murder together without revealing what he knew.
Ron shrugged.
"No clue, mate. We did what you said, tried to keep an eye on him, patrolled around the Room of Requirement for a few hours. We didn't see him leave."
"As a matter of fact, we didn't see him at all," Hermione continued. "Ginny searched one corridor. We thought maybe he had hidden somewhere."
Harry gulped at the sound of Ginny's name, at the knowledge of what he would have to tell her later. He tried to reason that perhaps he could stay in a relationship with her, that he could hide his burgeoning and disgusting attraction to Snape. No, he thought quickly, guilt frothing within his chest, hot and strong. He wouldn't sink deeper into the mire of self-loathing by stringing her along with fake adoration.
With tremendous force, Harry pulled himself from those sinking thoughts. His eyes were glazed over. He immediately moved to a different subject.
"Did any of you take the Felix Felicis?" Harry asked, his voice shaking.
Hermione shook her head.
"We didn't need it. Nothing eventful happened," she said, digging into the pocket of her pants at the same time. She extracted the tiny bottle of the potion, half of it drunk by Harry when he needed to procure Slughorn’s memory. She gave Harry a concerned look but said nothing else.
Harry took the vial and tucked it into his own pocket.
"Shall we go down to breakfast then?" Ron interjected, his stomach rumbling audibly.
They agreed and made their way out of the portrait hole and down the staircases. Ron and Hermione were discussing homework but Harry remained as silent as ever. He was dreading hearing Dumbledore's announcement and worrying, even more, about seeing Snape at the faculty table.
The hall was packed with students already, hundreds of hungry mouths chewing and babbling happily, unburdened with concerns except for tests or trivial gossip. Harry chanced a glance at the Slytherin table. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were absent. Pansy Parkinson looked around for them, confused, unknowing.
Harry wondered if Crabbe and Goyle had been disposed of too. Dumbledore's words from last night came back to him: What tragedy, what loss. Harry never thought he would feel sadness for someone like Malfoy, someone he had hated for six years, but Harry never dreamed of Malfoy dying. He never wanted Malfoy to perish violently, or die at all.
Ron and Hermione were tipping eggs and sausages on Harry's plate. He didn't realize that he was sitting at the table; Harry blinked stupidly, wondering how his legs took him to his seat without his consent. Ron’s brow was furrowed at Harry’s blank expression. Hermione’s lips were pursed. Harry kept his eyes on his silver fork, refusing to look up at the faculty table.
He heard Dumbledore's soft voice asking for quiet and stillness smothered the Great Hall immediately.
"I have a grave announcement to make," came Dumbledore's voice, sad and soft. "I am sorry to announce that one of our students has died."
The silence in the hall was oppressive. Harry felt Ron stiffen next to him.
"Last night, Draco Malfoy was murdered. We do not know the exact circumstances of his death," Dumbledore continued.
Harry couldn't help it as his head shot up; he looked at Dumbledore, confused. The headmaster had just lied. He heard shrieks from the Slytherin table, loud crying. Harry couldn't bear to look over.
Dumbledore allowed the weeping students a few minutes to calm down; Pansy's voice trailed the worst of all.
"I ask that everyone in the hall please raise their glasses to remember Draco Malfoy."
The hall moved simultaneously, bodies rising as if caught in the rhythm of the most tragic of songs. Harry's hand clutched his goblet, pushing it into the air. There was a murmur of Malfoy’s name twisting through the cavernous room. He drank his fill of water. He turned to look at Ron and Hermione, both of them with grimaces of shock.
Dumbledore's next words were drowned out from Harry's ears. It seemed Crabbe and Goyle were still alive, probably mourning somewhere, for Dumbledore made no mention of their names.
When the man finished speaking, Harry felt two pairs of hands drag him up. The hall was buzzing with loud chatter. Ron and Hermione rushed Harry from the hall. The boy didn't notice Snape watching him as he left, unblinking and burning.
Hermione found a broom closet and shoved the boys inside of it, slamming the door shut. She muttered "Lumos" and light flashed around them, highlighting pale faces. She was trembling.
"You knew about this, didn't you?" she asked Harry. She was angry. Harry stared at her, grateful that he was so tired. He didn’t have strength to show any emotion, so his face betrayed none of his immediate worry. "You didn't look remotely surprised when Dumbledore spoke."
Harry said nothing; Ron flared in anger too, but it was directed at Hermione.
"Don't be thick," he hissed. "Dumbledore would have told him last night if he knew. Harry's probably just shocked, right?" He turned to Harry.
He nodded.
"I didn't like Malfoy," Harry whispered, choosing his words wisely, keeping his voice flat. "But I don't think he should have died."
Hermione scowled. She knew he was lying about not knowing, but Ron seemed convinced of his innocence.
"We need to figure out who did it," Ron said, his voice low so that nobody outside of the closet would hear them. There were footsteps rushing past in the corridor. Harry stilled when he heard Pansy's weeping. He felt a pang of pity for her.
"Of course you didn't want Malfoy dead," Hermione whispered, ignoring Ron and rounding back to Harry. "But I think you know more than you're letting on."
"Hermione, give it a rest!" Ron snarled. "There's nothing we can do about this anyway. Maybe Dumbledore will give you details next time you see him."
"Maybe, " Harry said.
"Let's get out of here," Ron whispered. "I’m suffocating and it’s nearly time for class."
Harry did as he was told but kept quiet for the rest of the day.
He caught glimpses of Ginny in the hallway as he moved from classroom to classroom, sauntering along without much coherent thought. He was already feeling dreadful about Malfoy, even worse knowing that Hermione suspected his lies. The thought of speaking to Ginny filled him with nausea. He broke away from his two friends and avoided the Great Hall at lunch, ignoring the angry rumbling of hunger in his stomach. Hermione opened her mouth to argue again, her eyes flashing, but Ron's impatient tutting stopped her.
"See you later," Harry said to them as they went their separate ways.
He looked at his watch. It was now two o’clock in the afternoon.
He thought over the rest of his classes: History of Magic and Divinitation. Grateful that he didn't have to face Snape in Defense Against the Dark Arts today, he moved aimlessly through the corridor, not knowing where to go or what to do.
The answer came to him when he saw a flash of long red hair.
"Harry!" Ginny cried, her eyes wide with worry.
She rushed to him, taking in his wan appearance, hunched back.
"I can't believe what happened to Malfoy,” she whispered anxiously, her large brown eyes swimming in shock. “Ron and Hermione and I didn't notice anything weird last night. Do you know who killed him?"
"No," Harry said flatly.
"Are you okay?" she whispered suddenly.
"No," Harry repeated. "We should talk somewhere private."
She looked perplexed but followed Harry to a deserted corner in the corridor. They tucked themselves in between two portraits of sleeping knights. Harry looked around for a moment to make sure that nobody was approaching.
"I can't be with you anymore," Harry murmured without preamble. Ginny stared at him, her mouth parted in surprise.
"What?"
"Things are getting too dangerous," Harry said, the excuse slipping to his tongue without thinking twice. He was surprised at his own smoothness, his voice trembling slightly, giving the impression that he was going through some kind of pain, some kind of grief over her.
"If Malfoy, of all people, gets killed, imagine what will happen to others..." He paused for a moment. "Imagine what could happen to you."
"I don't care," she whispered fiercely.
"But I do," Harry said softly.
This was not a lie.
Despite his confusing feelings at the moment, he wished her no ill. He couldn't bear the thought of hearing of her death too; the thought of her dying the same way Malfoy did, murdered, her body lying somewhere, alone and undignified. The image disturbed Harry to the core.
Ginny’s eyes were tearful but she did not shed any. She gave him the same blazing look that had captured his affections earlier in the year; this time, however, he felt no effect except for a twinge of annoyance. Harry wondered if she was trying to reel him in again with her intensity.
“Harry, look,” she whispered, stepping forward to eliminate the gap of space between them. Her chest was only an inch from his. “Maybe if we keep this a secret, then I won’t be in danger—”
“No,” was all Harry said. His mind flashed to Snape, his eyes, his heat. He was firm in his resolve; he would not string Ginny along, especially when he felt flatter and flatter next to her as the seconds ticked by. “I said no and that’s it.”
“But—”
“No, Ginny.”
Harry turned around and left her standing alone. He did not hear a sob or a sound emit from her. His face was flushed with anger and sadness and frustration and he was on the brink of mental collapse.
He rushed back to the dorm, knowing it would be empty during this time of day. He didn’t care about classes or homework or the fact that Ron and Hermione would probably come to find him when he didn’t show up for History of Magic. All he needed was to close his eyes and drift into dreams of forgetfulness, to ignore the crushing weight of his anguish for a few hours.

~*~
Harry woke with a start.
It was dark out, the moon’s light landing at the foot of his bed. The room was full of snoring sixth years and Harry's heart skipped, painful in his chest. Ron was asleep on the bed next to his, the curtains of his four-poster bed hanging open. It seemed Ron hadn’t bothered waking Harry up; perhaps he thought he was doing Harry a favor, letting him relax in the quiet of his dreams.
But fear filled the boy.
He slowly turned to the clock on his nightstand. It was eleven fifteen.
He scrambled out of bed, grabbed his wand in haste and strode across the room in seconds, sprinting down the stairs, twisting through corridors, the only sound his labored breathing, the slamming of his feet against the tiles.
Harry exploded into Snape’s office minutes later, the door crashing into the wall with a sound as sharp as a cannon blast. The bang reverberated endlessly on the walls, rattling Harry’s eardrums. The boy looked around the room wildly, eyes skimming over shelves of strange, pickled objects suspended in mysterious liquid; bookcases jammed with seemingly endless texts; the empty desk, the empty chair; a lamp in the corner sputtering dim flame.
Snape was nowhere to be found.
Harry clutched a stitch in his side, cursing under his wheezing breath. This was his first lesson and he had already done the exact opposite that Snape told him. Was Snape so angry that he went to go find Harry? Harry imagined Snape’s thin form viciously prowling the corridors, like a panther hunting prey…
The boy wondered whether or not he should sneak away and return to the safety of his dorm before Snape came back from wherever he was, but the decision was made for him.
The door behind him snapped shut with a smooth whoosh. The lock clicked, closed.
Harry sprang around, his wand drawn with surprising speed.
Snape stood a few feet from him, his wand pointing at Harry’s forehead. He was so tall and thin and pale that he looked almost like a ghost. Harry inexplicably thought of Inferi, but the image of dead, blank eyes was washed away at the mad glint in Snape’s. He was most certainly alive and brimming with rage.
The man stepped forward. Harry caught a glimpse of his luminous skin, his bared teeth.
“I remember telling you to arrive here at eleven, Potter,” he said, his voice so low that Harry had to crane his neck forward to hear him properly. “It is now nearly half past.”
“I—I’m sorry, I fell asleep and—”
“Quiet,” Snape responded in a whisper so frightening that Harry’s mouth shut out of fear, not because of the command. “Put your wand on the floor.”
Harry did as he was told, letting go of his weapon with a sense of burdening trepidation. He felt as though he were being crushed with the weight of vulnerability. He felt exposed and afraid, knowing his being was now at Snape’s mercy. Would Snape fling him across the room like a rag doll as he had done earlier that morning? Harry had half a mind to think he would be tortured in some horrible way.
Snape had moved closer, venom in his gaze. Harry’s eyes fluttered before he could control himself.
“Turn around and place your palms flat on the desk. Look straight ahead. Do not move. Do not speak,” came Snape’s murmur. He was not smiling.
The boy flushed. He wanted to protest and yell and lunge for his wand but there was something far too compelling about Snape’s voice, about the way his eyes roamed over him. Harry tried to search past the anger and desperately clung for some other emotion, a feeling less dangerous than Snape’s rage, but could find nothing. Nothing but the same twisted, deranged look Snape held when Harry confronted him about Trelawney’s prophecy the night before.
He turned so slowly to the desk that it seemed to take him an age to move. His sweaty palms pressed to the cold wood and he was trembling visibly. Harry heard movement behind him and suddenly stifled a groan; he felt Snape’s hot breath near his neck, felt his spine go rigid knowing that Snape was only inches away. Harry’s mind went wild with untamed thoughts, imagining what Snape would do to him, certainly things that his body had never experienced. His cock twitched in his pants without any provocation, remembering the feeling of bliss as Snape rubbed his leg in between his needy thighs, losing himself—
“Good,” Snape breathed into Harry’s ear. “It seems you can take direction after all.”
Snape’s chest was pressed directly to Harry’s spine now and his strong hand jumped up to the back of Harry’s neck without warning. Harry gave a yelp of surprise but could not muster enough will to struggle. Snape had him pinned too stiffly to the table. Snape clamped to Harry’s neck with brute strength, forcing his head down a few inches so that the boy was staring at the polished wood gleaming in the near darkness of the office, his back bent at an absurd ninety-degree angle. His glasses fell off with a thud.
“This is lesson one,” Snape murmured calmly. “You will never arrive late again or you will face my displeasure.”
Snape pushed Harry’s head down a few more inches, as if trying to break his face against the table. Harry was gasping, tears coming into his eyes from the pressure Snape put on him, but even through his haze, Harry realized that Snape was not trying to choke him. Perhaps only frighten him. His heart was beating so quickly that he thought he might collapse from its violence.
“Lesson two,” Snape continued, his grip slackening on Harry’s neck at the sound of Harry’s labored gasps. “You will address me all times as ‘sir.’ Understood?”
“Y-yes,” Harry groaned and cursed himself when he realized his mistake.
Snape snarled, noting it first. He knocked his knee into the small of Harry’s back so roughly that the boy screamed, his thighs cutting into the sharp edges of the table.
“What did I just tell you?” Snape said, his voice controlled despite the clear rage taking over his body.
“I—I’m sorry! I’m sorry, sir,” Harry gasped.
Snape yanked Harry back upright, his back cracking in pain. Harry bit down on his lip to stop himself from screaming again. He felt Snape’s hand leave his neck, but the man’s body was still pressed to his.
What had just happened? Harry was cursing himself for being so weak. He should have turned around and punched Snape in the mouth, but… that voice, the feel of the svelte body on his was too much. Snape was emitting incredible heat and Harry was sporting an erection so strong that he thought he might faint from the blood rushing to it.
More, was all Harry could think.
Snape was breathing on his skin. Harry stifled another groan when he felt Snape’s fingers ghosting over his back, but there was no physical touch.
“Mastery of the Dark Arts requires a level of skill and discipline that you so woefully lack,” Snape hissed in Harry’s ear. Harry’s cock twitched again. “This magic isn’t only about foolish wand waving and memorizing curses or theories. In order to fight off Dark forces, you must first learn self-control.”
Snape’s fingers were trailing lower, hovering an inch over Harry’s skin. Harry shut his eyes tightly, his breathing haphazard.
“I wonder how you expect to defeat the Dark Lord if you are incapable of coming to our private lessons on time.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry whispered but his response was not welcomed.
Snape swung his hand down on Harry’s ass without any pretense. The fabric of Harry’s jeans did nothing to stave off the rough sting. His skin felt fiery with prickling pain. Harry was so shocked that he could not muster a sound.
“You will only speak when I tell you to. Do you understand?” Snape growled.
“Yes, sir,” Harry said, his voice shaking.
“Good.” Snape backed away from him. “How many lashes should I give you tonight, Potter?”
Lashes? Through his arousal, Harry felt fear return. He had not expected any of this.
“As… as many as you’d like to give me, sir,” he managed to whisper, his shaking voice betraying his fright.
Snape did not smile though he felt a soft twinge of surprise in his chest when the boy’s voice floated through the room. So, the boy was scared but eager and willing. That was a good sign.
“As many as I would like,” Snape repeated. “Perhaps nine more. Now hold still.”
His fingers snaked around Harry’s hips, ripping open his belt buckle with tremendous force. Harry stole a glance down at the tent in his boxers, desperate to feel Snape touch his cock, to watch him pull it and tug it and make him come all over the table, twisting and weeping.
That did not happen.
Harry’s pants were pooled at his ankles but his boxers remained on. Snape had taken great care not to put his fingers anywhere near Harry’s burning hardness. It seemed he didn’t want the boy completely naked either. In the back of Harry’s mind he wondered why. The boy was biting his lip to the point of drawing blood, praying against all hope that Snape would wrap his fingers around him at any moment.
“How needy,” Snape whispered, his hand clenching Harry’s ass as he spoke. Harry was determined to stay still but a moan finally escaped him. He had never been grabbed like that, electric and lustful.
“I told you to stay silent, insolent boy.”
Snape pushed his groin against Harry’s ass. With a jolt, the boy realized Snape wasn’t hard. Harry felt strange disappointment well within him, as if he had failed in completing an important task.
“Lash one,” Snape said and without warning he pulled back his hand, landing it straight on the spot that he had spanked before. Harry yelped and he felt Snape’s hand shoot up to his neck again, stilling him.
The second smack came harder then the first and Harry clamped his jaw shut, tears welling in his eyes. Snape seemed unimpressed and a third smack followed. His hand was still clutched to Harry’s neck; the boy was breathing roughly through his nostrils, sweat breaking out on his forehead. The only thing he could focus on was this feeling, Snape’s smell, so intense and spicy and his unforgiving touch.
Harry gritted his teeth as Snape delivered the last few smacks, the only sound in the room Harry’s wheezing and the smarting of skin. Harry knew his ass was going to hurt like hell the following day but he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that Snape released his hand off of Harry’s neck, that he pushed his body close to Harry’s again, that his skilled fingers ghosted over Harry’s throbbing cock.
Then Snape touched him.
Harry arched his back against Snape’s chest, his head resting near his shoulder as he cried out, breaking the stillness of the room. Harry’s hands left the table momentarily. Snape palmed him through his boxers, rubbing his hand slowly against Harry’s throbbing erection, a finger brushing over the heat and the wet tip through the thin material.
“Master yourself,” Snape whispered. “You want release, you need it, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry gasped; his body was shaking.
He felt Snape’s arm wrap around his chest, over his rapid heartbeat, pulling him closer and if Harry hadn’t known any better, he would have taken that as a sign of affection. But this was Snape he was dealing with, someone so devoid of emotion that he seemed almost bored during all of this, not even entertained enough to sport an erection.
Harry’s heartbeat was out of control; with another sense of disappointment, he realized that Snape’s heart wasn’t beating quickly at all, only at a normal pace.
Snape’s hand kept rubbing Harry’s hardness slowly, careful not to move too quickly.
“Not yet,” Snape said casually. “Here’s your next lesson: orgasm control.”
Harry groaned, bucking against Snape’s hand.
“Breathe slowly,” Snape commanded and Harry tried to obey, though he was failing miserably. His body functions no longer seemed to listen to him. “Don’t give away what you want. Keep calm. You can’t continue exposing your emotions for the world to see, Potter. That is one of the traits that makes you so weak.”
“Fuck you,” Harry gasped, despite himself. Snape clutched the base of his cock through his boxers, stilling his hand over the throbbing organ. He felt Snape smirk against his ear.
“Manners, Potter,” he whispered and Harry whimpered. Snape’s hand sped its movements. Harry was bucking harder than ever.
But Snape suddenly stopped and Harry let out a yell of frustration.
“You are as impertinent as ever, Potter. If you don’t shut up, I’ll kick you out of this office right now.”
Harry quieted himself immediately, dreading the idea of parting from Snape’s touch for another day.
“Good,” Snape said quietly, his hand moving faster and faster on Harry’s hardness. “Improving already. What a surprise.”
The pattern continued for what seemed like hours; Snape getting Harry close to the brink of orgasm, somehow understanding his body’s signs, the way his back tensed and the desperation as his fingers clawed the desk… Then he would stop abruptly, gripping the base of Harry’s cock mercilessly. Harry was crying in rage without realizing it, angry and aroused and horrified all at the same time.
But he remained silent, just as Snape had instructed. Quiet and still. Snape seemed to realize this as he sped up his touch again. This time he did not halt.
“Come,” Snape commanded, hot breath in Harry’s ear and Harry did seconds later.
His scream rang throughout the office as his spunk coated the inside of his boxers. His back curved against Snape’s chest and Harry felt Snape give him one last squeeze before pulling away immediately. Harry was gasping, his side stinging, head ringing with a strange buzzing. He had never felt release so draining. His arms barely supported him and he was shaking, his back hunched, over the table.
“Turn around,” Snape whispered after a minute and Harry obeyed, not bothering to hike his pants back up. He knew he must look foolish, with his come-stained boxers and his messy hair and sweaty and flushed face but he didn’t care.
He was blissfully blank.
Snape was just as removed. His eyes roamed Harry with a locked expression. He was not flushed or aroused in any way. He ran a hand through his long hair, pushing it from his face and for the first time in all of the six years he had known him, Harry got a clear look at him.
The boy felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest when he realized Snape had rather attractive features, refined yet unusual, compelling in their darkness…
“Dress,” Snape said in a bored voice, jogging Harry back to the moment.
He walked away from Harry, moving around him until he sat behind his desk. Dazed, Harry grabbed his fallen glasses and hoisted his pants back up, wiping sweat and tears from his cheeks. He turned back to Snape when he finally buckled his belt.
The two stared at each other.
“Well, Potter? There’s no reason for you to stay any longer. We’re done for the evening,” Snape whispered coldly, his eyes glinting.
Harry blinked in shock.
“What… that’s—that’s it?” Harry said, crestfallen. He wasn’t sure what else he expected. He was disturbed that Snape was throwing him out without so much an explanation.
“I told you to address me as ‘sir’, Potter,” Snape snarled. The anger was back.
“I’m sorry sir,” the boy said, gulping.
“Leave.”
Snape pointed to the door. “Think about what you learned tonight. We will reconvene tomorrow evening at eleven. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered.
He picked his wand off the floor and with a feeling of emptiness, shuffled toward the door, his backside stinging with every moment of his legs. Before he left entirely, however, Snape’s voice found him.
“Your manners are as pathetic as you are,” Snape snarled. Harry whipped around.
“Wha--?”
“Of course, it must be above the Boy Who Lived to thank anyone who teaches him anything worthwhile,” Snape murmured, his eyes boring into Harry’s. The boy shifted uncomfortably, turning crimson.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could say. And after a moment’s disoriented thought, Harry added: “Thank you for the lesson, sir.”
Snape said nothing at this; he ignored Harry completely as he opened one of the drawers of his desk and put a stack of papers on top of it. Taking that as his cue to finally depart, Harry walked away, arms wrapped around himself, confused and exhausted.
At his desk, Snape stared blankly at the stack of essays, his arms hanging limply by his sides. He did not move again until the early hours of the morning. His mind replayed the sharp cries that had filled his normally empty, lonely room; the heat of another body next to his, arching against him in need; the thrum of Harry’s vulnerable heartbeat, of young innocence that he hadn’t felt in years.

TBC
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The Longest Road