Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Irony	By : roxierocks Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 5429 -:- 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
- 1-Irony
- 1
Disc:
don't own it

warnings:
slash

a/n: i
wrote this series ages ago and posted it on ff.net, but thought i'd
put it up here too. It's not all smut, but they're quite light and
enjoyable (plus short). I'll be posting them sporadically, probably
as individual stories. Enjoy!

Winter
hangs in the air around you, causing your breath to blow a small puff
of cloud which hovers infront of your face for a moment, before
vanishing like a lost dream.

You stare,
unblinking, at the bowl before you, your hand grinding the matter
within, an automatic movement. The newts tails –or were they
lizard tongues?- become smaller and smaller, until all that is left
is a messy, mushy pulp. Oops.

“Mister
Potter.”

You
stiffen as you feel his breath on your neck, sending waves of goose
bumps across your skin.

“How
is it possible you cannot manage even the simplest of task of
grinding tarantula legs without displaying your complete inability to
do anything correctly?”

The words
caress your skin, the harshness like a lullaby, soft, gentle, loving.
You can feel him behind you, so close you are almost touching, but
not quite close enough.

You don’t
look up, you daren’t, afraid of what your eyes may reveal.
Afraid everyone will be able to see your desire.

Then, as
suddenly as he arrived, he is gone, robes sweeping across the floor,
cold voice calling out “Detention, Mr Potter. See me after
class.”

Your heart
sings, but still you do not look up. Detention. See me after class.
Your favourite words in the whole world.

The irony
is never lost on you.

You are
vaguely aware that there is a class going on around you, but the idle
chatter is no more than a faint buzz in the back of your mind. You
can hear the rasp of your breath, the beating of your heart. It’s
loud, too loud; surely everyone else can hear it to? But when you
chance a glance at the others they are absorbed in their own
activities, oblivious to the hammering that fills your ears.

You know
you shouldn’t, but you can’t resist. His figure, seated
behind his desk, draws your gaze as a spider’s web draws
raindrops.

You study
his profile for a moment, hidden by your messy, too-long fringe. He
is immersed in a large book, resting on the wood infront of him. One
long fingered hand brushes the ancient pages absent-mindedly. He
seems to have forgotten he is supposed to be teaching a class full of
students.

This is
how you like him best. Away from the world he seems so much to
despise. Content.

He looks
up suddenly, and the spell is broken. You can see it on his face,
just a split second of displeasure at finding himself back in his
potions classroom, surrounded by students.

He looks
at you.

Your heart
increases, even louder than before. You feel the heat of that black
gaze scorching your skin, setting you on fire. It reaches inside of
you, reading everything there, everything.

His lips
curl in the tiniest of smiles.

He knows
what you’re feeling, because he’s feeling it too.

Then the
mask is back in place and he is observing the other students,
attention elsewhere, anywhere but on you.

Nothing
can be given away.

You know
this, and yet still feel a pang as he turns, still feel the sting of
jealousy as he offers Draco Malfoy a smile, still feel the helpless
rage as Malfoy smiles back.

Your eyes
return to the substance before you and you pound it with renewed
vigour, although it is already a useless grey slime.

You feel
the end of the lesson will never come. The seconds crawl by, and all
you do is push the ruined tarantula legs around inside the weathered
stone bowl. Every now and then you can feel he is watching you, but
you refuse to look up. Let him look at Malfoy if he wants to look at
something.

And then,
finally.

The scrape
of chairs on stone, the noise of ingredients being shoved away, the
chatter of students, eager for lunch.

You stay
seated, poking at the tarantula legs, refusing to look up.

You know
you’re being silly. Petulant. Childish.

But you
can’t help it.

Let him
make the first move. Let him come to you.

The
classroom is empty now. You wait, holding your breath. What will he
say?

“You’re
not trying hard enough.”

Hmm.
Whatever you expected it wasn’t that. You don’t reply,
eyes remaining stubbornly lowered.

“You
need to at least make a show of doing work.”

Still
nothing.

“People
will begin to suspect.”

“Why?”
you mumble to the tabletop. After all, you’ve always hated his
classes.

“So
you are speaking to me than?”

You hear
the rare amusement in his voice, and are torn between hating him and
loving him.

“Yes,”
you mutter, still to the tabletop.

You don’t
hear him move across the room, but suddenly his hand is under your
chin, forcing you to look into his eyes.

He doesn’t
say anything, just watches you for a moment.

You glare
at the wall behind his head.

“You’re
angry with me.”

It isn’t
a question.

You shrug,
try to twist away, but he holds your face still. You meet his gaze,
defiance blazing in your eyes.

He lips
move in a slow, lazy, almost-smile. He releases your chin, brushing
his fingers across your cheek in the softest of touches.

Despite
yourself, you close your eyes, relaxing into that familiar touch. His
lips press against your own briefly, leaving you wanting more. Your
hand reaches out to tangle in that too long, too lank, perfect black
hair.

The
tarantula legs are pushed aside.

Your
kisses are fierce, desperate, passionate. He pulls you closer. You
gasp with need.

“Harry.”

A thrill
rushes through your veins at the sound of your name. Such a rare
occurrence. You open your eyes and see yourself reflected back at
you. His are glassy with desire, filled with lust.

“I
want-” you gasp, the words torn from your throat.

“What?”
he whispers, running his fingers up and down your back. He presses
his forehead against yours, brushing your noses against each other.

“What
is it you want?”

He kisses
you harshly, briefly.

“Tell
me.”

“You!”
you cry desperately. “I want you!”

He laughs
softly. He knows what you want.

His lips
glide lower, caressing the skin on your neck, above the collar of
your robes. He moves around the desk. Your hips press against his.

Oh, he
definitely knows what you want.

“When
Harry?” he breathes against your neck.

“Now,”
you gasp.

“Right
now?” he asks, that hint of a smile lacing the words. “Right
here on the desk?”

You try to
reply, but all you manage is a nod. Yes, right here on the desk.

A knock
bursts through the dungeon and you freeze, momentarily stunned. He
pulls away, reaching calmly for the bowl of tarantula legs as he
steps back.

“Enter.”

A girl
stands in the doorway, arms full of books. She hesitates, unsure
whether or not to speak.

He ignores
her, holding the bowl infront of you face.

“This
is not the kind of work I expect to see in one of my lessons,”
he hisses.

You look
at the floor. You hate it. You now it’s necessary, but you hate
it.

“Come
to my office tonight at eight o’clock for your detention. Don’t
be late.”

Your eyes
connect, and for a moment it is all written there. All the passion
and heat and lust and love.

Then he is
turning away, and you know you are dismissed. You walk slowly to the
door as he addresses the girl.

Tonight.
Eight o’clock.

You smile
at your other favourite words.

The irony
is never lost on you.
- 1
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Irony