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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
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5

"Don't you look lovely, ducky. Such a nice rosy colour to your cheeks."

"Shut it," Harry commanded distractedly. He and Ginny had agreed on no talking mirrors in their room, but the kids liked theirs and whined whenever Harry suggested it be silenced.

He could have avoided the problem by using the en suite, but the idea seemed barbarous somehow. He never used the bedroom or loo he shared with his wife for certain activities he considered a betrayal of their relationship. He'd even stopped wanking in the shower if thoughts of Ginny's lush body were replaced with images of anyone other than her. Not that it ever fully assuaged his guilt.

"I think you should wear the green. Makes your eyes sparkle."

"I think I'll get dressed in James' room. You're beyond annoying." Using his children's rooms for this was hardly better than using his own, but he had to get dressed somewhere, and truthfully it gave him a sort of perverse, but almost innocent thrill; it made him feel naughty rather than dirty.

Harry looked at his watch and sighed. Only noon. Far too early to leave, but already his cock was putting a strain on his y-fronts. Trying to will it into a flaccid state only seemed to serve to make it harder. He didn't want to wank now; he wasn't as young as he once was, and it might send the wrong signal if he couldn't get hard later. He ran a hand over his chin, checking its smoothness. Even though he'd just had a shower, he sniffed his armpits, then shoved a hand into his pants, rubbed once, then held it to his nose for its own sniff. Shaved, showered, clean and clean smelling, there was nothing to do but get dressed.

Grinning self-consciously, he slipped into the green shirt the mirror had admired, and tucked the tails neatly into his trousers. Not wanting to risk the mirror again, he tried to see himself in the window, but his image, faint and distorted, was completely unsatisfactory. He groaned and went back into the kids' bathroom. "One word out of you and I'll hex you into a million shards."

"No need to be so hostile, ducky."

Harry drew his wand and pointed it at the glass. "I'm not joking. Not one more word."

The mirror gave a deep sigh but said nothing further.

Chewing nervously on the inside of his lip, Harry looked at his reflected image. He couldn't wear these clothes! He looked like a fucking accountant. Just do it. This one time. She won't know, and you can't go out looking like that.

With another groan, Harry darted out of the loo and ran hurriedly up the stairs. Each step made his cock bounce, each bounce made it stiffen further. Ridiculously holding his breath, he plunged into the master bedroom, rummaged in his drawers for jeans and a black t-shirt, his closet for his soft Chelsea boots, and hurriedly changed into them. He didn't loose his breath until he was halfway down the stairs again.

His watch read 12:10. Walking slowly, trying to avoid the accusing click of his bootheels, Harry went to the kitchen and switched the kettle on. A simple spell would have had it boiling instantly, but time was already hanging much too heavy on his hands.

He brewed a pot and drank a cup, then another. His watch said 12:21. He toasted a muffin, and then distractedly looked around for the butter that was right in front of him. Biting into the toast, he nearly choked as his throat closed. He poured another cup of tea. His watch said 12:26. He was going to go mad.

You could always change your mind. You don't have to do this. Not like it's going to happen in any case.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."

You don't needthis. You don't. Call Ginny now. At least send her an owl. Make things right, Harry. Best years of your life.

His watch said 12:27.

Did he look all right? The boots were good. He knew the boots were good. Supple, soft, expensive but not ostentatious, and they made him taller. The T-shirt was a bad idea, maybe. Didn't want to come off as mutton dressed as lamb. Not that anyone would ever make that mistake; his face was still boyish, but he had a few grey hairs and the beginnings of crow's feet at his eyes. Harry sucked in his gut a bit. Not too bad for a man rapidly sliding into middle-age. If only that fucking mirror...Did he look all right? Maybe he should risk the mirror again.

His watch said 12:27. He tapped it. The second hand continued its slow, steady sweep around the face.

"Don't be an idiot. You've already been in and the earth didn't swallow you." Before he could talk himself out of it, he was back up the stairs and in front of his own blessedly silent mirror.

Yeah, the boots were good. His stiff prick made an attractive bulge against his thigh. Arse still good, not at all bad for an old man. The T-shirt was OK, too; made him look like he wasn't trying too hard. He arranged his fringe to cover his scar and looked at his watch. 12:30. Maybe the boots weren't the thing. Maybe his red high-top trainers. Youth was, after all, always at a premium. He leant forward, examining his face closely in the mirror. No whiskery shadow, crow's feet not too pronounced; perhaps he should use a glamour? Don't be stupid. No one's going to be looking at your face, or your feet for that matter. Well, maybe your feet. I mean, after all...OK, red trainers, no glamour. Don't let your ego get the better of you. He looked at his watch. Still 12:30. How was that even possible?

He wasn't going mad, he was mad. Dejectedly, Harry left the room, pausing to look back as if it were the last time he would see it. Get caught and it willbe the last time you see it. Don't do this. Don't do this to Ginny. He pushed the thought away; he didn't want to think about Ginny. This isn't aboutGinny, it's about me, what Ineed. And what she doesn't know...

Another cup of tea. 12:40. And fuck all, now he had to pee and his cock was hard as fucking Gibraltar. He took another bite of his cold toast and then spat it back out on his plate.

What a mess his life was! There was a chasm between him and Ginny these days. A wall of silence and secrets. How in hell had they ever ended up together? Why exactly had Harry thought them perfect together? Wishful thinking. Ginny was everything good and smart and beautiful. She deserved better than him, nasty, filthy, sneaking fucking pervert that he was.

If only once, just once she had indicated some interest in a variety of sex outside the usual marital version of a slap-and-tickle. She showed an adventuresome spirit in every other area of life.

Harry looked at his watch and sighed. A wave of sadness washed over him. How had he got so fucked up?

Slow, scrupulous washing of the teapot, cup and plate consumed another two minutes. Harry stared out the kitchen window, ruthlessly censoring every thought that entered his head, trying to ignore the ache in his balls.

Fuck this!His balls weren't aching, they were killing him. Much more of this and he wasn't going to be able to walk.

He looked around the kitchen; with the same sense of naughtiness he'd had while dressing in his son's room, he unbuttoned his jeans and slid them and his pants down to his knees. His cock jerked and bobbed but he didn't touch it. Wanking could kill some time, he should take it slowly. He closed his eyes.

Ginny's, uh, we're naked.His cock wilted slightly. OK, no. Just no. Don't think of her. Not now. Not when you're going to...

You don't have to. You shouldn't. Cheating on her makes you feel ill? Then don't do it. It's really that simple.

It's not that simple. I'm not thinking of her. I'm thinking, I'm thinking of the first time.

I'm walking, alone and aimless, through Muggle London on a bitterly cold night, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket much too thin for the weather. We'd been fighting, me and Gin. No. That isn't true; memory is a funny thing. I want to remember it as the aftermath of an argument, because it allows me to feel less guilty, but I know remembering it that way is an attempt to make Ginny somehow at fault, and she wasn't, isn't. There is no one to blame for this. He looked down at his cock. Except you, of course.

Harry twitched irritably. He'd always hated this about himself, that he couldn't even fantasise properly without his mind tangling in details that had no relevance and no place in what was supposed to be a down-and-dirty way to get off quickly.

It's cold. The wind is icy and cuts into me like shards of broken glass. Well, of course broken glass; there are no shards without the glass breaking. OK. It's bitter cold and the wind makes my cheeks burn; it's like a thousand red-hot needles pricking me. Oh, stop with the similes. It was just fucking cold, all right?

Groaning, Harry let his cock fall from his hand and pulled his jeans back up over his arse. He snorted bitterly. His cock was definitely losing interest in the proceedings. Maybe that was a good thing. He should have some more tea, make himself try to eat again. He needed to relax. Stretch. Do some deep breathing. But having finally decided to go ahead and toss off, he was reluctant to give it up. He really needed to take the edge off. The kitchen clock read 12:50. Over an hour to go.

Maybe if he took it into the bedroom. No. What the fuck was he thinking? He couldn't do that! Couldn't defile the room he shared with his wife, the room where two of his kids had been conceived. The kitchen was better. The kitchen was public. Harry's cock jerked. Reminding him. He needed this. He needed to remember. Remember so he could wank, wank so he could walk, wank to forget, for a while, how much he needed it.

Grunting in frustration, Harry re-opened his flies and pushed his hand inside, through the Y of his pants, and cupped his now flaccid cock in a warm hand. Yeah, warm hand. That was better, except – he pulled his hand out again, licked his palm until it was thoroughly wet with spit, and pushed into his pants again. He manoeuvred carefully around the material, not wanting to wipe his hand dry, and rubbed up and down his shaft.

Oh yeah. Wet. Much better. Wait. Too warm. It was so cold that night. Cold is part of it.

Gritting his teeth, more irritated at himself than ever – why couldn't he just get on with it? – he pulled his hand out again, stretched to open the window above the sink, shivering a little as cold air rushed into the warm kitchen, pushed his jeans and pants back down to his knees, and hoisted himself onto the worktop, grimacing as cold granite met bare bum. It really shouldn't be this difficult. If this kept up, he was going to end up having to buy himself flowers, drinks and dinner before he could toss off. Except flowers, drinks and dinner were never part of it, and that was the whole point, wasn't it?

Sliding back across the worktop until his back rested against the wall, he closed his eyes and stroked himself slowly as he tried to recreate the very first time.

It's cold and I'm not wearing my winter coat. I'm walking around, no destination, aimless, trying to think. We were about to be married...No! Do notthink of her. It's dark out, I'm on a street that's not very well lit.

The street in Muggle London was poorly lit, every third or fourth lamp cast a weak puddle of light, the rest were broken or burnt out. The day had been warm, but as the sun sank a biting wind had risen; it swept between buildings, howled through alleyways, and Harry's light jacket hadn't been proof against it. He walked hurriedly, hands thrust in his pockets, head down, his mind an agony of spinning thoughts he really didn't want to be having.

He loved Ginny. Loved her warmth, her laughter, her sharp mind and keenly honed wit. He had known since his sixth year at Hogwarts he would marry her, and six months before, when he'd finally asked, she had said yes without hesitation. In six more months, they would be married. Perhaps by the following year they would start a family. Harry hoped so. It was all he'd ever wanted – a chance at happiness, normalcy – but now that the fulfilment of his dreams was drawing near, he found himself perversely miserable and terrified.

"Hey!"

Harry looked around and, seeing nothing, dismissed the voice as imagination.

"Oi, mate. Over here. That's right. Lonely? Looking for a little fun?"

It was beyond stupid to move towards the voice, to leave the ill-lit street and venture into the dark copse that bordered the pocket park he was passing, but the words had been said in a friendly tone and Harry felt inexplicably compelled to see the speaker of them.

"Do I know you?" he asked as he stepped off the pavement.

"Don't think so, but you could. Whaddya say? Oh, aren't you the prettiest little thing? I adore a lad in specs."

Harry bristled. Years of plentiful food at Hogwarts had not made up for the deprivation he'd suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, and his short stature was always a sore point with him; he disliked being called little. Harry turned away.

"No, don't run off. Didn't mean to offend you. Was it the pretty, the little, or the bit about the specs?"

Harry didn't answer. The moon had emerged from behind a cloud and he could now see the voice's owner. A tall, thin, loose-limbed body and a friendly face were crowned by a short mop of curly hair. He was several years older than Harry, perhaps thirty, and was clad neck to toe in black leather. A thick mat of black hair peeked from the v-neck of the vest he wore under his leather jacket.

Harry's cock stiffened before he even heard the words, "I can give you a little heaven right here on earth."

Mind blessedly silent for once, Harry tugged on the leather sleeve, pulling the man further into the trees, away from the remnants of street light. Before he could ascertain what exactly was on offer, the man had fallen to his knees and was opening Harry's flies.

"Oh lovely," the man said. "Your prick's even prettier than your face."

"I haven't any money," Harry groaned, thinking of the purse of useless Galleons in his pocket.

"I'm not a rent boy," the man answered around a mouthful of cock. "Just a talented and hungry amateur."

To Harry's mind, talented didn't even begin to cover it. The warm mouth and wicked tongue coaxed him to full hardness in a matter of seconds, and it was only a short, embarrassing minute more before Harry came, muffling his cry against his fist.

It took him longer to recover than it had to come. The man had risen, wiped his mouth, lazily stroked Harry's face, and was halfway to the pavement when Harry called, "Wait!"

In the dim light, Harry could only just see him stop and look back.

"I'd like," Harry said in a squeak. Shamed, he cleared his throat before speaking again. "What about me returning the favour, then?"

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Harry thought, wriggling his naked bum against the worktop as he nearly twisted his cock from its root. No condom, no potion. I could've caught something, given it to Ginny. No! Don't think of her. Think of his cock. Thick and salty, a weird, rubbery, alien thing in my mouth but– "God!" Harry shouted, his voice echoing in the empty kitchen as his semen arced through the air and splattered on the table three feet away. "So fucking good! It was so fucking good!"

His knees buckled as he slid from the worktop to his feet and he staggered. He tried to catch himself on the table but his hand slipped through the sticky mess of his come and he fell, catching himself a good knock in the ribs against the table's edge before sliding to the floor.

Disgusted, amused, guilty, Harry cast a weak Scourgify! and had to cast again before the mess was clean. He let himself recover on the floor, hand pressed firmly against his bruised ribs. Finally, gasping from both pain and near hysterical laughter, he rose and looked at his watch and started laughing again. 12:54. Four minutes. Four minutes to fantasise, berate himself, fantasise some more, come, clean-up, and recover from a nasty spill. Four minutes!

At quarter past one, he couldn't stand it a second longer. He looked around the kitchen as he had his bedroom, memorising every homely detail. There was something irrevocable in the air. It frightened him. Censoring that thought as well, he stepped out onto the doorstep and Disapparated.

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Sadness of Eros