Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Sadness of Eros	By : LoupGarou1750 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 7628 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and her business associates own the world of Harry Potter. I make no money from this, nor anything else. The words 'The open palm of desire wants everything' are from the Paul Simon song 'Further to Fly'. He owns those.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
3

Harry picked himself up off the pavement and dusted off his robes. He had more than half a mind to go back in and teach them a lesson, but maybe it was better to allow a cooling off period. For all of them, himself most of all.

He should, he knew, go home and send an owl to the Burrow – this was not the kind of news one saved for later – but Ginny would be livid when she found out. Though on some level he was spoiling for a fight, he had no desire to see the look of disappointment on her face that would accompany the inevitable recriminations. He briefly considered knocking up Ron and Hermione and then dismissed that idea as well; Ron would probably laugh, but Hermione would be appalled, and he was in no mood for a lecture from that quarter either. Without any clear idea of where he was going, he Disapparated with an angry pop!

He Apparated in a dark alley, squinting a bit as he looked around. It was just a passageway between two brick buildings, filled with the usual overflowing bins. "Hmm," he muttered, "where've I got myself to this time?" But he knew what he'd see when he rounded the corner; he'd been here before, even though it had been several years past, and there was little point in trying to deny it to himself. Excitement rippled down his spine as he shrugged off his Auror robes, shrunk them, and stuffed them in a pocket of the trousers he wore underneath.

Don't,said a small voice in his head. Go home, Potter. Just go home. Eat some dinner. Watch the telly. Go home.

It's no big deal, he thought angrily, shrugging off the scolding voice. It's been a rough day. I could use a drink. Better in a bar than home alone.

You swore,the voice nagged.

"I know I did," Harry responded out loud. "But it's just a drink. One drink and then I'll go home. Maybe see what Ron and Hermione are up to. One drink."

One drink, then you'll tell yourself you need the loo. It's the same every time. You swore you wouldn't do this anymore.

"Oh, shut it," Harry grumbled at himself, grinning sheepishly when the club's burly doorman gave him a questioning look. He waved a hand dismissively. "Work's got me down, that's all."

The Muggle club hadn't changed much; the same dim interior, the same scratched and pitted bar, the same smell of spilt beer, stale smoke, sweat, and if it seemed a little seedier, if some of the men milling around, pairing off and disappearing into rooms in the back, seemed a little young, it was only to be expected after such a long time.

Wending his way through the crowd, head down, he ordered a pint and scowled to himself as a bartender in a tight string vest and leather waistcoat gave him an appraising look, taking in Harry's neat woollen trousers, button-down shirt, and sedate tie.

"Lost, or slumming?" the bartender asked.

"Neither," Harry snapped, putting a fiver down. "Keep the change and your thoughts to yourself, and we'll both be happier."

"Suit yourself," the bartender said, twitching the note off the bar. "It's just you don't look the sort for this crowd. Shoot me for trying to be helpful."

"Oh, I don't know," Harry said, suddenly cheerful. "It looks like it might be exactly my type of crowd." He let his eyes linger on a strapping lad wearing leather chaps over well-worn jeans.

"As long as you know what you're getting into, it makes no difference to me."

"Not so much what I'll be getting into as what might be getting into me." Harry grinned, nodded at the bartender, and moved to a dark corner where he could watch everything without being noticed.

He should leave and he knew it. Wizards other than himself sometimes frequented Muggle places, and with a crowd this size the chances of being recognised before he even realised his worlds had overlapped was too great, but being here was exhilarating, and he stubbornly silenced the voice that once again told him to go home. Just the one drink and I'll go.

A sudden ruckus from the front caught his attention. Several rowdy young people, male and female, were trying to bull their way past the bouncer. "Oi. Still a free country, innit?" a high-pitched voice made itself heard above the music.

For a panicky moment, Harry thought the voice was familiar, but a quick scan of the group's faces revealed no one he knew. He took several deep breaths to slow his racing heart. It's nothing. No one. You're fine. Everything's fine. Calmer, he watched in amusement as the leather-clad man he'd eyed earlier bulled through the crowd and joined the bouncer at the door, helping to push the interlopers back outside.

Mission accomplished, the leatherman slapped the bouncer on the back and swaggered back through the crowd. If Harry'd had a type – which he didn't, as his interest was not in men per se but rather in quick, dirty, anonymous sex – the strutting, leather-wearing young buck wasn't it, but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the dark form as it moved through the bar, heading toward a door Harry knew led to the toilets.

Signalling the bartender for another lager, Harry watched the door swing shut. He feigned disinterest, but kept one eye on the back and felt himself marking time – a minute, two minutes, three. Surely if the man had simply gone for a slash he'd have returned by now. Resolutely dampening that part of him that knew he shouldn't, he downed half his beer in a single, long swallow, wiped foam from his lip, set the glass down on the bar top, and headed for the toilets.

The loo boasted chipped tiles, graffitied walls and stalls, broken taps, filthy basins, even filthier urinals, and a damp, grimy floor littered with paper, but it smelled less foul than some places Harry'd been and its grunginess suited his mood perfectly. The room appeared empty, the tall youth he'd followed not in sight, but the door to the end stall was closed and the other stall empty.

Heart racing, Harry stumbled into the vacant one and locked the door. Legs trembling, threatening to collapse under him, he sank down onto the toilet. Fumbling a vial from his pocket – refusing to think about why he happened to have one with him, why he had even brewed more after the last time – he drank the potion down, grimacing as usual over the taste and the slight numbing sensation.

Opening his trousers to expose his erection, he waited, all sweaty palms and nervous excitement, for the signal that didn't come – no finger crooked through the fist-sized aperture between the stalls, no foot sliding under the partition, nothing. Was it possible his prey had left unheard? Impatient, but cautious, Harry leant forward and peeked through the hole. Heart sinking, he sighed and sat back; blue denim and black leather framed a lovely stiff cock, but the other man was seated.

"Catcher." The word drifted into Harry's stall. It wasn't a question, but a simple statement of disappointment.

"Mmm," Harry mumbled. Not speaking was part of being careful; although he didn't think his voice was particularly recognizable, he'd done interviews for the Wizarding Wireless service several times over the years. Better safe than sorry.

Give it up and go home!his conscience scolded. Harry was finding it increasingly easy to stifle the nagging voice.

He heard a sigh on the other side of the partition, and then the familiar sounds of a zip, the kerchunk of the toilet seat catching on something and smashing back in place. "I'll leave you to it, then. Hope you've better luck with the next."

Harry remained silent.

The man laughed. "You'll have to open your mouth at some point."

Harry tilted his head back until it rested on the cold tile behind him. His erection had subsided, but he left himself exposed. I'll give it three minutes, he thought. Nothing by then, I'll go home. He began to silently count the passing seconds. At one hundred forty-three he heard someone enter the stall the muscular leatherman had vacated. Harry sat upright, startled; he hadn't heard any footsteps.

Holding his breath, straining to hear the soft noises through the wall, he refrained from putting his eye to the hole again, but instead worked his cock back to hardness as he waited. His own ministrations were silent and he could just hear the slap of skin on skin from the adjacent cubicle. After an interminable wait, long past his three minutes, a shadow darkened the hole in the partition. Harry's hand stilled and saliva welled up in his mouth as he saw the cock that slipped through the hole. What it lacked in beauty it made up for in size.

His conscience having apparently given up the ghost and gone home ahead of him, Harry leant forward eagerly, and swiped his tongue over the broad head of the proffered cock, thrusting under the thick cowl of flesh that nearly covered it. Taking a deep breath, not wanting to waste anymore time, he took in as much of the perfect thick length as he could.

The sound of a gasp filtered through the blood pounding in Harry's ears; the stranger's cock jerked and Harry heard a hoarse whisper. "Prostasy!

Panic-fuelled adrenalin made Harry suddenly dizzy. Fuck! Fuck! He pulled back, terrified. The muttered word was the name of his prophylactic potion; his trick was another wizard! Visions of banner headlines, an enraged wife, sobbing children, total ruin and embarrassment, assailed him. Heart racing, fingers tapping a staccato rhythm against his chest as he struggled for breath, Harry tried to think.

Steady on. Don't freak out. Think. It's OK. He can't see you. You haven't spoken. He can't possibly know who you are. He's a wizard, and he knows you're one, but that's all...and he really does have a lovely cock.Harry's breath evened out and he grinned to himself as the panic subsided almost as quickly as it had flared, replaced by a bright flame of pure lust. He gave an appreciative look at the heavily cowled one-eyed monk still bobbing through the rough-cut hole. Suck it. Enjoy it as if it were the last time, because it is. It really is. Finish what you've started. Make it one to remember then go home. Don't come back. It will be all right. He doesn't know who you are! Just enjoy it while you can.

Harry's own prick was rock hard, as if it welcomed the danger of discovery. Maybe Snape had been right all those years ago, maybe he welcomed, even needed, his notoriety. He would think about that later; right now he had more pleasurable things to contemplate. With the stranger's thick cock stretching his mouth, with his own full and hard and bobbing neglected between his shirt-tails, Harry could forget everything else: his failure to meet the expectations of his world, his wife, his friends; his sadness; his inexplicable loneliness. This, this was something he was good at.

"Whore's mouth." The harsh whisper seemed to dissolve the stall's walls, seemed – in spite of its muted volume – to sound directly inside Harry's head.

Harry's prick jerked at the words and he was forced to grip it tightly at the base to keep from coming. "Yes," he whispered in turn, releasing the stranger's cock from his mouth for a moment and rubbing his face against it.

The stranger thrust forward, his stiff cock nearly impaling Harry's eye. A laugh rose upward, buoyed on a wave of giddiness, and Harry stifled it with a devouring mouth, with teeth and tongue, with near overwhelming arousal.

Perhaps, Harry thought, it was the events of earlier in the day, perhaps his disappointment with the man he'd originally followed into the toilets, maybe the idea of doing it with another wizard, perhaps a fluke of perfect compatibility in the anonymous give and take, or simply the freedom of his wife and children being away from home, but Harry didn't want this encounter to end.

The thrusts came faster, harder, accompanied by guttural whispers of pure poetic filth. Deep inside, Harry acknowledged the justice in the names he was being called, felt freed by them. Somehow this stranger knew him, knew what he was, and it was clear, despite the obscene invective, that he really didn't disapprove at all.

A mad idea took hold of Harry while his lips, tongue and throat worked, and when they were done, when the trick's deflating cock disappeared back to its own side of the wall, while the traces of semen still lingered in Harry's mouth, he fumbled in his pockets for a pen. He scribbled 2:00 tomorrow? on a scrap of paper and thrust it into the hole before he could change his mind.

There was an interminable pause, as if time had stopped, as if the earth itself had ceased spinning, while Harry waited for something, anything – a long moment of fear and, surprisingly, peace. Caught in an agony of awareness, Harry absorbed every detail of his surroundings – filthy floor and graffitied walls; the soft plink of water dripping from a leaky tap; a burst of laughter from the club proper – but no sound at all from the adjacent stall. With a soft, nearly inaudible rustle, the scrap of paper Harry'd scribbled on drifted to the floor, followed by the usual banging of a stall door, quiet footsteps, running water, more footsteps, and then nothingness.

Afraid of what he might see, Harry prolonged the moment of revelation. He stood and tucked himself, still hard, back into his trousers, recovered his vial of Prostasy from his pocket and drank the remainder. Only then did he stoop to retrieve the paper. The words 2:00 tomorrow? seemed to pulse and glow. Holding his breath, he turned the scrap over, but there was nothing there.

Disappointed, he released his pent up breath in a long, whistling sigh, and mumbled, "Fuck me. I need another drink."

~*~*~*~*~
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Sadness of Eros