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Snape's Curse	By : JanisJ Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 24340 -:- 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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SNAPE’S CURSE        by, Qtness. Quill

Something was wrong. Very, VERY WRONG! And Harry was scared. And nothing much scared him anymore…. But THIS!

He had become used to having his penis become stiff in the mornings when he woke up. Yes, that was understandable. It was full of pee. That had become normal-- it went away when he relieved himself, emptying into the toilet and the waste and hardness was flushed away without a second thought.

But this—THIS! This was in the middle of the day and he didn’t even have to use the bathroom! He wasn’t even sure what it could be full of at that point! And it would grow too, swelling more than twice its size! And it felt so noticeable that everyone else would know what was happening to him instantly. He was just so confused about it.

He thought it must have something to do with magic. Seldom else surprising didn’t these days and he had become accustomed to many unusual things happening in his life. Yes, he decided, this HAD to be another strange magical effect.

And it soon became evident that SNAPE was behind it all. Of course. It HAD to be.

He knew the professor had an unnatural, un-matched interest and curiosity in him from the start. Those dark, hard stares; the unrestrained docking of house points for no reason….all the harsh words and insults so often directed at him, more than all other students and teachers combined. Everyone who ever saw them in the same room could sense and see the all-consuming twisted fascination he oozed underneath his hot, unmasked hatred yet tried to hide under a cold countenance.

Snape lived to make Harry miserable. Everybody knew it. That was a fact. It should be made a ‘special mention’ in the next edition of “Hogwarts: A History.”

HE did this. He must have. There was no other plausible explanation; there was no one else alive that wished him such ill-will. Except Malfoy perhaps-- but Draco wasn’t clever enough to pull something like this off; his venom was limited to verbal insults and flicking stray ingredients into his cauldron to make it melt or explode. It could only be a cruel curse or illicit potion that a truly powerful wizard could accomplish.

Who other than a Potions Master and dark Slytherin could pull off something so heinous, undetected and completely under-handed?

Who else would go to such malicious trouble? Who else would or even could execute something that made him so clumsy, tremble, feel nauseous, tongue-tied, sweaty, panting and weak-kneed? And make other bizarre things happen to his very private physiology? This was probably just the start of a slow and painful death—he would probably be a hideously disfigured mass of quivering flesh collapsed in the Great Hall within the week.

And it MUST be Snape, Harry reasoned, because IT was now happening in Potions class fairly regularly and clearly incapacitating his body and mind when in the presence of the dreaded professor.

It was when those flashing, glittering eyes glared at him and the menacing voice dripped down his spine like poisoned honey that it became noticeable; Snape’s scrutiny was invariably intense and caused a tingle in his belly and between his legs that he’d never known before. He couldn’t ignore the twisting in his lower gut as his concentration ebbed away and both his anatomy and schoolwork suffered.

This ailment was WAY too humiliating, given the particular body part involved. It was mortifying.

He was sure that Snape had cast an archaic spell on him or slipped him a potion, though he couldn’t fathom a guess as to WHY— To make him ill? The supreme discomfort of his pulse throbbing and feeling a yearning like a hunger he couldn’t quell? The desire to see him humiliated at his ultimate vulnerability? A blow to the pride Snape was so convinced he flaunted at all times? Possibly. Probably.

It couldn’t be for the odd, disconcerting spark of swooping pleasure he felt when it happened…. No. Snape would never do him any kindness. It was a dreadful, insidious sabotage on his sanity of some sort.

****

Even though he knew his classmates and teachers were noticing he was becoming increasingly distraught, he was too embarrassed to have Hermione research such a spell or counter-curse for him, (much less any potion that may cause those symptoms—the connection to the Potion Master himself seemed too obvious.) Nor could he come up with a cover story of why he himself was doing extra-curricular research in the first place.

He might’ve been able to sneak it by Ron, but Hermione would just be overly suspicious and she was clever enough to figure things out from the scantest of clues. He was still too uncomfortable from the recent Parselmouth incident. It made him wary of trusting anyone with the strangeness that kept emerging from his magic, even his best friends. He knew he was already too unusual; it would just be another thing that set him apart from everyone else. He just wanted to be normal.

Plus…. Hermione was a girl. Girls don’t discuss penises! (Boys don’t either for that matter, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him. Nobody does unless they’re sick freaks) Harry decided there was no way he was talking to anyone about the blossoming of his disease, lest they think he was even more odd. Decent people just didn’t discuss crude bodily functions (and up until Hogwarts, he never talked about himself in any way at all).

Aunt Petunia taught him early on that any thing to do with THAT part of his anatomy was private, shameful, and repulsive. She told him once, (during potty-training and when he still asked questions) that IT was called a “penis”. It was (as loathe she was to admit), unfortunately necessary in order to urinate but it was nasty and dirty and meant to be vigorously ignored at all times, especially in polite company-- And always be covered and hidden by clothing no matter what.

He was effectively silenced from asking about the hanging sack underneath it from the stern and disgusted expression she gave him having been forced to explain such vile, distasteful things, (but as it seemed to have no discernable function, he let that curiosity go).

With tight angry lips and flared nostrils, she forbade him to ever speak of it again.

And he never would have thought to, if it hadn’t been for these new problems. He was perfectly fine in accepting he should act as though it wasn’t there, much like Uncle Vernon told him to “make no noise and pretend he didn’t exist”. (And then had momentarily panicked –OH GOD!-- What if it started making noise?? How could he hide it then?)

And what if Snape was slowly making it rot off and sometime soon it really wasn’t there anymore? How would he urinate then? (Though he had the suspicion that that dreadful mental imagery was spurred on by Ron’s salamander’s tail falling off in Transfiguration during their last class)

He tried not to think about his bleak future too much and resolved to just deal with whatever popped up day by day, fervently hoping it went away on its own.

So far he’d been lucky… and very grateful for the school uniform of loose robes and Dudley’s baggy cast-offs. Thanks to waking before his dorm-mates to use the loo, some strategic placing of his book bag and hunching beside the brewing table, he’d been able to conceal his horrible secret so far. And, thankfully, his penis was still firmly attached to his body and seemed to function normally at times so he supposed things weren’t too bad. Yet.

****

Today, his “penis problem” (as he had come to think of it) was already part of the way there just from being in the same room as Snape, simply listening to him list potion ingredients and brewing instructions to the class in that low, rumbling tone. He absently mused that the curse must be voice activated as he felt the smooth baritone wash over his flushed skin. He was already preoccupied so he was entirely unprepared to receive Snape’s undivided focus.

“MISter Potter,” Snape spat, gliding up the aisle, folding his arms across his chest and imperiously looming over the work bench.

Harry gulped and felt the strength of whatever spell Snape was torturing him with step up several notches. As the professor towered above him, his truant appendage twitched with some sort of need; that attention and proximity from the man was all it took for the spell to take a stronger hold on him.

“I said ‘dice’, not ‘mangle’ those roots. Potion making is a very precise art. One false move and it can prove disastrous to you.”

Maybe it was a spell AND a potion-- it certainly seemed potent enough!

Afraid to meet his eyes, Harry hung his head, gaze glued to his cauldron. He was curious about why he didn’t have his usual feelings of anger and resentment towards the chastisement, but wondered about how he felt chagrined at disappointing his hated professor.

His groin tingled and tightened as Snape stood there for several long moments, the imposing presence making the hairs all over his body raise and prickle hauntingly. He could feel those dark glinting eyes raking him up and down, head to toe, appraising, probing…. It was unnerving.

Harry fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. His penis had unfortunately grown in an uncomfortable direction, trapped painfully against the seam in his trousers. Wincing, he tried to adjust it with a small squirm of his hips; he wanted to push at it with his fingers, but that would have been too obvious. All he could do was press the swelling that plagued him against the table’s edge to hide what would be too easily detected by the slightest glance.

Harry prayed his teacher wouldn’t notice what was happening under his robes-- and if he did, NOT to mock him in front of the whole class for it. Snape drew a breath and seemed about to make some sort of caustic comment but surprisingly didn’t (Harry thought maybe it would have called attention to the very thing Snape was guilty of).

The professor cocked his head and fixed him with a molten glare through eyes narrowed in suspicion—it pinned him to the spot where he stood, a lingering one that contained none of his usual seething hostility… then blended into something bordering on…. What was that? Sinister amusement maybe?

Instead, the snarky professor simply uttered under his breath, almost a whisper, “Come. Here. To me. Detention, tonight.   You’re sorely in need of discipline for your exquisite un-attention in my class. Eight o’clock.”

He turned abruptly, sweeping away in silence to examine the next student’s cauldron. Harry was instantly grateful to escape any potential public ridicule, though he was still left with a flush on his cheeks and heat in his pants.

Again, he couldn’t help but wonder about what this vindictive spell was. Why did he feel so feverish? He felt nervous and excited, like before a Quidditch match or exploring something new and wondrous, but hungry somehow too, like there was something that would satisfy him, but he couldn’t fathom WHAT that could possibly be.

And it almost felt like he wanted to please his professor in some way-- but that was utterly daft, considering there was nothing he could do that would make Snape like him--he knew Snape hated him! Always had, always would. And why should he care if Snape was happy or not?! He’d never cared before this….

This bewitchment was just cruel and inhumane!

To say Harry was distracted was an understatement and his work reflected that, his efforts far from gaining Snape’s approval or respect. Hermione nudged him with an elbow to get him to pay attention to his chopping and stirring. Ron shot him a sympathetic look and shrugged his shoulders. That somewhat helped the hardness in his groin and he turned back to his potion once again.

****

Detention that evening was nothing short of pure torture. Left alone with only his own thoughts, it seemed that just walking down to the dungeons exacerbated his symptoms, despite having just emptied his bladder (even though he’d found that didn’t really help these days, he still tried it anyway).

He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, his stomach was fluttering un-cooperatively and he was both repulsed and drawn in at the same time. He made sure to arrive on time in order to NOT provoke Snape’s temper for once. He convinced himself it certainly wasn’t an attempt to impress the man…. No.

Promptly, at eight o’clock, he rapped on the door to the dungeon class room, swallowing down his equal amounts of trepidation and anticipation.

“Enter,” the ominous voice boomed out, echoing within the stone chamber. Harry felt the usual tell-tale swelling in his secret organ and let out a tiny frustrated groan as the dark, fluid sound caressed him and went in with an uncomfortable shuffle. He chanced a peek up to see Snape regally sitting at his desk at the head of the room, apparently grading assignments.

Snape barely spared him a moment’s notice as he muttered, “Clean the cauldrons, no magic. Perhaps your lack of intellectual pursuits would be best remedied by menial, manual labor. The ‘Mrs. Skowers’ is in the usual cupboard.” He waved a disinterested hand at said cupboard where Harry knew the cleaning products were from past experience, the paste along with the necessary brushes and sponges.

Thankful that seemed to be the extent of their interaction, Harry numbly gathered his supplies, grumbling to himself as he had to get down on all fours to reach far into the back of the cabinet and then surveyed his work for the night—all in a row, 30 cauldrons sat on the tables in front of Snape’s desk, each in various states of crustiness.

He sighed; he was in for a long night.

Harry made a quick note that Snape was pretending he wasn’t paying him the least bit of attention and got to work. He soon found that facing the man, who would glance up occasionally with inky black eyes, mercilessly scrutinizing him, was making his hex act up. It was impossible to ignore.

He didn’t want to give his mean professor the satisfaction that he’d been successful in getting him riled, so he strode purposefully around the table-- on confidence he didn’t feel-- so he could clean with his back to the teacher. Normally, that would go against his every survival instinct-- to have his back turned to an enemy-- but facing front, he was too afraid the man would see what was happening in his robes, or at the very least, see it written all over his face.

He swiftly tilted at the waist, bending over the first cauldron to lend most of his attention to his detention task. Planting his feet firmly slightly apart and bracing his left hand on the table top, Harry felt his body jerk with each thrusting pump of his right bicep and elbow whilst completing his scouring before him.

He began to sweat and pant, moving on down the line of cauldrons, and he pushed more and more forcefully forward into his grimy job, grunting on occasion when he pushed and strained against an exceptionally stubborn bit of potion residue (burnt frog guts are most stubborn).

His cursed bit between his legs didn’t abate with all his cleaning work, but he didn’t expect it to as the man himself’s eyes were boring into his back—he could tell, he could feel it, and all he could hear was rather heavy breathing, amplified in his sensitive ears, but no reprimands, no mocking words. He was just glad his embarrassment wasn’t visible to the man that put it there.

Somehow, he wanted to prove himself to the man, that he COULD do a good job; his body jostled back and forth, hips swaying with the force of his rhythmic scrubbing, determined to prove he had some sort of value.

His penis was starting to ache the longer it hung there all heavy like that. He kind-of wanted to touch it. He paused and chanced a pinch at the tip of it, to make it hurt and maybe it would go away. He gasped; it hurt, but it didn’t go away. If anything, it made him wriggle in discontent even more, and he resigned himself to his prolonged pain—and fully resumed his task once more.

He thought he heard a sharp intake of breath from the desk behind him, but he could have been mistaken, it could’ve just been himself. He definitely heard some rough shuffling and crinkling of parchment and a distinct rustle of robes and boot heels scraping the stone floor-- And a rasped throat clearing when he attacked the dirtied pewter with renewed vigor, his entire body finding the rhythm again.

But no scathing words were forthcoming, so he figured Snape was absorbed in his grading, nothing else.

Harry was simply purely buoyed by the fact that he was in the same room with his Potions Master, that he couldn’t see his shame and had no way of knowing what was really going on with him. It was like he was getting away with his abnormality!

Wow, it must be a pretty powerfully evil spell, for him to be caring so much about this—And this was the man who had cursed him into this madness in the first place! Crazy!

When he was done with his task, he reluctantly turned to face his professor. Snape actually looked ill; he glistened in perspiration despite the coolness of the dungeon air, face flushed and lips pursed, devoid of his usual vicious sneer but he wasn’t about to ask about it (perhaps it was guilt at the discomfort his curse had caused?)

Harry nonchalantly clasped his hands over his traitorous crotch. He tried to put on an “innocent” face, with wide, guileless eyes. “Sir? I’m done. Would you like to do your inspection now?”

Snape actually startled in his seat when Harry turned towards him and was spoken to.

Uncharacteristic for the severe man, he said nothing for several pregnant pauses, inhaling and exhaling harshly through his substantial nose, the sound magnified in the silent gloom of their surroundings; it was like the professor was in some sort of discomfort and just inscrutably stared at the boy before him, seeming to drink him in.

Harry shifted uneasily and looked at the floor. Then the man pointedly cleared his throat. He rearranged his crossed legs and shifted his voluminous robes with obvious effort yet he made no move to get up.

Finally, in a soft, velvet, urgent tone Harry had never heard before, he said, “No! No, just go…. I’ll inspect…. Them later…. You are dismissed. Leave…. Please.” He concluded hoarsely, like it pained him to say it, and simply stared at a fixed point on the wall beyond Harry’s right shoulder. “I implore you…. Go now!” he whispered urgently, still unwilling to meet his eyes. “Curfew and all….” He trailed of weakly.

Harry was stunned, but satisfied.   He’d made it through the detention without anything bad happening to him!

Usually Snape would scrutinize each cauldron and condemn any speck, no matter how small--but this time he just let him go! Perhaps Snape felt he’d tortured him enough for one night? Harry turned and fled the classroom; he never saw Severus summon a large, shallow stone basin with ancient runes carved in it, a small vial of oil and a crystal decanter of scotch.

Harry was halfway to Gryffindor tower before he realized he was happy about Snape’s acceptance of his work, like he trusted him, and if he could get that, he would work his hardest at anything to gain such acceptance again.

And then he realized that revelation was troubling in and of itself, (that was completely daft! Right?), just as the abnormality cemented in between his legs was-- and how it made him walk funny…. But he was pleased when his plagued penis had shriveled by the time he made it far away enough from the dungeons and closer to the Fat Lady.

When the portrait swung open he was fully recuperated.

****

As Harry was too embarrassed by the nature and location of his physical ailment that kept popping up at inopportune times to tell or ask anybody for advice, he began to inspect his school-mates, (surreptitiously of course), to see if he was normal. It appeared he was, as some DID have a certain engorgement to their penises before they urinated in the morning. Any other time it was impossible to tell since wizarding robes were so concealing and when the boys changed clothes in the dorm, they all tended to slouch and turn away from possible prying eyes.

Seeing the other boys made him feel a bit better about his predicament until one certain morning:

While washing himself in the shower it happened again-- Out of the blue. He was soaping up and his penis stiffened and grew. Evidently, whatever wicked spell Snape had hexed him with was getting stronger; the man was not even close by (although he HAD been thinking about his Potions essay and Potions Master just then!).

Face burning with humiliation, he quickly tried to think of anything else—McGonagall, Quidditch, the Dursley’s…. And thank Merlin, the curse subsided and he shrunk, going flaccid once more, the curious ache gone.

He was lulled into a false sense of security as the days passed and his newfound technique for combating the curse continued to work— just think of random, neutral or unpleasant things and it would disappear. But then something a few nights later happened that frightened him to his very core.

****

It was a dream:

It started out simple enough. He was doing the dueling club again with Lockhart and Snape chaperoning, like a couple of weeks ago.   He was up on the stage when he saw the thick black snake Malfoy had conjured and it was writhing, slithering, undulating and throbbing before his feet. But for some reason he wanted to reach down and stroke it, to please it somehow.

He kept saying over and over, “I want, I need…” in Parseltongue until the serpent uncoiled and wound around his legs, twining tightly, and headed towards his crotch.

The sight as he gazed down made him gasp out loud. He should have felt alarmed—he should have been completely aghast-- it felt dangerous…. and forbidden…. but really, really….it felt… Nice. Compelling somehow…. He didn’t want it to stop—but it also wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Exactly more of what he didn’t know; it was too swarming and confusing, heady and swirling. But it really felt….well…. good! His entire body felt.…alive.

Something was sizzling in his soul….

Then everyone else fell away in a hazy fog that sudden moment. And it was only Snape there, kneeling and putting his hands on the snake’s smooth scales, tickling and teasing up against the taut, tensing muscles of his thighs with his fingertips, urging all feeling upwards, creeping and floating up like raw bubbles of pleasure and there was a mad pulsing of blood pushed down from his dizzy brain, all converging and crashing in his middle….

That melting, mellifluous mollases voice flowed over him like his favorite sweet-- a tantalizing, agonizing, delicious torture-- trickling like treacle, “Don’t worry Potter,“ Snape smirked lazily like he liked seeing him standing there motionless, “I’ll get rid of it for you.”

“More!” Harry ground out from quivering lips, (whether it was proper English or the sibilant snake language, it didn’t matter). He was grasping, straining…. he clamped his clammy palms on top of his professor’s creeping hands. Just a little bit further, just a little bit more…. And then those strong, sure, potion-stained digits went farther towards his hips and homed in, finding his center.

“Pleeeeeeeeease!” Harry’s hiss moaned and reverberated in his ears. His desperate plea dribbled from his lips, begging his professor in Parseltongue, and he found himself perched on curled tip-toes in his ratty trainers.

Everything felt hot and humid. The man’s fathomless eyes were boring into his, driving into his magical core deeper and deeper. He couldn’t look away. And he didn’t want to.

That stern face shone pale in a background of blackness. It consumed him.

It shook loose something inside him that had been missing-- something feral in his body-- something like a fury-- wild and un-tamed-- turning somersaults in his gut (and lower), actually wrenching his whole body from within and setting his skin ablaze….

Something juicy and gushing, as pure as animal instinct, was about to explode.

The dark man softly drawled—no purred—“Potterrrrrrrr.”

****

Harry woke up with a start, temporarily blinded by a searing, sparkling, white-hot flame, panting as if he’d just run a mile or done a dodgy Wronskei Feint.

And he felt inexplicably dirty—Wet, sticky. Oh NO! He’d soiled his bed! He was twelve years old, not a toddler! How could this have happened? But when he furtively looked, peeling off his pants and starting to clean up, it wasn’t pee that he was puddled in. It was something else entirely.

Damn Snape! He must have hexed him pretty fierce to make his penis do such strange things and have it eject a weird, thick, gloppy substance such as this! Did he hate him so much to make him physically ill? Why does he want to humiliate me so? Why does he have to go and make my life even harder?

And then a little voice in Harry’s head added quietly, “Why did he bother to make it feel so good?” He had to admit he actually felt better, relieved, like a tension had eased; there was an odd relaxation that kept him from total panic.

Harry started to wipe himself off when a stroke of genius cut through his confusion. This must be the potion working itself out of my system! He swiped a finger full of the goop from his tummy and smushed a smear of it in an empty water glass on the night stand-- He could get the sample tested and get to the bottom of all this terrible business! He would find out once and for all what had befallen him! And better yet, how to combat it and get himself healthy again. Yes!

****

He hurriedly pulled on clean clothes, (noting with gratitude his dorm-mates were still fast asleep), and sprinted like the dickens to find Madam Pomfrey. He skidded into the infirmary at top speed. She took in his disheveled appearance and the late hour. The concerned witch had him sit on the closest bed and take a few deep breaths.

“What is this all about Mr. Potter?” she asked, trying to inject some calm into the situation while waving her wand delicately over him, casting a whole host of diagnostic spells. She wasn’t finding anything obvious in her first, preliminary sweeps. There was absolutely nothing amiss in his magical signature, except for slightly raised blood pressure, but that was easily attributed to his recent exercise of racing through the halls.

“It’s Snape! He’s cursed me and I don’t know what to do!” Harry yelled. His anger and turmoil had returned with the pounding of the blood and adrenaline in his veins from his midnight run.

“Professor Snape.” Madam Pomfrey gently corrected him.

“Yes!” Harry shouted, panicking. Somehow saying it out loud was making it all seem too real and frightening. He couldn’t back out now. “Professor Snape has done something to me and it’s terrible! It’s a bad spell! Maybe a dark potion!”

Poppy took in his agitated state. She didn’t really think Severus would ever harm a child in their care, but this WAS James Potter’s son after all…. She was well aware of all the animosity between those particular Slytherins and Gryffindors; she shook her head and thought to herself, “The number of times I had to sort that lot out after their so-called ‘pranks’ and hexing duels….”

Harry’s accusation was very strong indeed and raised several red flags in her mind. She continued to question him. “What is it you think he’s done?”

“I don’t THINK! I KNOW!” he bellowed adamantly, his temper and fear flaring palpably as his magic crackled around them. It sounded like she didn’t believe him and that frightened him even more; what if she wouldn’t help him? Then he whispered, “Sorry. I-I can’t tell you. Just…. Can you tell me if I’m going to die?”

Poppy raised an eyebrow at his dire perception, his serious conviction that Snape had done something so drastic, malevolent and possibly fatal to him. It was alarming, to say the least. She cast a few more in-depth spells, mostly for internal damage and complex chemical alteration, but some other esoteric ones as well—one couldn’t be too careful with a child that had his life threatened regularly.

Harry thrust the slimy water glass at her that she’d noticed he’d been clutching in a white-knuckled grip. “This is a sample of the deadly potion he’s dosed me with, it worked its way out of my body tonight. Or maybe the infection is getting worse. Can you please tell me what it is and get an antidote?”

He seemed near on the verge of collapse and she took pity on him and swept her wand over it and quirked an eyebrow in disbelief at what she found; her heart clenched painfully as she took in his terrified, woebegone state.

His eyes were brimming with unshed tears and plaintively besieging her, “Will you help me? Please?”

She’d had her share of hysterical patients over the years, but this was just plain troubling. Especially knowing Severus’ past. “My most thorough diagnostic spells show no anomalies in your magic and physical health or danger from Dark Arts, nor spells or potion influence, or anything else for that matter, Mr. Potter. Of that I am one hundred percent certain. However, if you are suffering from something, perhaps you can tell me your symptoms?”

“I CAN’T,” Harry stated emphatically. She observed him more closely, relying on what the body language of patients reveal, sometimes more telling than the words they won’t say. Her diagnosis hadn’t seemed to reassure him at all. He was still cringing where he sat, his face red and nervously picking at the blanket beside him. He looked skittish, about ready to jump out of his skin.

She was coming to the conclusion she desperately didn’t want to believe; she detected no bodily injury, spells, the tell-tale frayed synapses indicative of Legilimancy, conscious or subconscious thought control and certainly no nefarious potions….

But a human touch on the other hand, would not be picked up….

“Why not, Mr. Potter?” She got no response, just blank staring. “Harry?” she carefully prodded, placing a placating hand on his shoulder, hoping against all hope she wouldn’t discover anything to make her turn in her colleague to Albus and the Ministry for misconduct. The boy didn’t flinch when she touched him, which she took as a good sign, but he was certainly behaving like a victim of something.

“It’s too…. Awful…. And embarrassing….” He finally squeaked out. This confession, together with the traces of semen revealed in her scans—both on his skin and in the self-given “sample” glass-- did not bode well and Poppy was dreading what conversation she thought she’d have to have with Albus. But she put on a brave front.

“I’m too ashamed to say….” Harry mumbled into his hands that were now covering his face.

“Tut, tut, Dear. What can be so horrible?” she asked while she patted him reassuringly. She didn’t want to divulge any of the reservations and bad feelings she was starting to feel in her gut. If it was what she thought he was concealing, she would have to steel herself and be very, very strong.

Do NOT break down, Poppy, DON’T think the worst! He needs you now, more than ever!

Bracing herself, she cleared her throat authoritatively—a trick she’d learned from her mentor: make it sound like you’re in control when actually you are buying time to get your emotions in check, (the double quill tap on the chart was her own invention for lengthening the pause).

“What have you been experiencing? And why do you think Professor Snape has done something to you? Remember, I’m a Mediwitch, you can tell me anything, I’ve heard it all.” She schooled her features into a warm, accepting smile and prepared herself for his answer.

Harry didn’t see her though; he couldn’t look at her and resolutely stared at the floor, a magnificent blush coloring his cheeks. “I…. well….” He faltered, but Madam Pomfrey kept a quiet presence by his side, silently urging him to continue.

“He….makes it so I’m…. I get sweaty and my heart races…. my stomach feels…. off….And…” he took a deep shaky breath, willing himself to tell the worst part.

“My thingy…. erm…. y’know, penis….gets stiff and so swollen it gets bigger….” He mumbled, face burning. “Like I’m full-of-pee-in-the-morning…. Even when I don’t need the toilet…. In the potions class sometimes….um…. in detention with Snape, uh.…sorry, Professor Snape….and while bathing that one time….”

Poppy just nodded, silently, trying to be as encouraging as possible, without being intrusive, trying not jump to conclusions. My God, she thought, her fears churning under the surface-- what has that man gone and done?

She’d patched Severus up more times than she could count after he’d had to answer a summons from You-Know-Who; she had been one of the few staff that trusted him implicitly, having witnessed the horror and pain he went through to be a spy for the Light, but was it possible that all that past torture and debauchery caught up with him?

Could all that darkness finally have consumed him? Has he snapped upon seeing Harry, looking more and more like his old nemesis James every day? Or broke when he beheld those striking emerald eyes, the eyes of the girl he’d loved since he was…. a child…. Oh dear….

Harry paused and drew a long, shuddering breath, dreading having to explain this horrific incident out loud to the Mediwitch.

He could only whisper as he finally gushed out, “And if all that wasn’t bad enough, he made me have a dream just now…. And I think my body….my thing….is cursed…..or sick…” then slumped, as if resigned to a miserable fate. She looked at him curiously, so he morosely added, “Something weird came out of it tonight,” glumly gesturing to the drinking glass discarded on the sheets.

“I don’t understand all this, what he’s done to me and why, but I know he’s dangerous, and I know he has it in for me….” Harry trailed off meekly, wringing his hands, “I’m scared….”

Poppy tried not to breathe the huge sigh of relief she felt when she’d added up all his words against her medical data— NOT just yet, she still had to make for double-damn-sure before she dismissed the terrible molestation/rape scenarios she’d been loathe to contemplate: “So Professor Snape has never touched you?”

“No, he’s never beat me. That wouldn’t cause my symptoms. He’s used magic or a bad potion in my mind or my body. It’s the only explanation.” He sounded defeated. Poppy was disturbed that violent abuse was where Harry’s thoughts would first go and wondered what exactly had been going on in that Muggle household. She resolved to bring it up with Albus and Minerva later, but she realized she needed to be more specific in her wording right now.

Taking a deep breath, Poppy tried again. “No Harry, I mean did Professor Snape ever touch you inappropriately?”

“Inappropriately?” Harry snorted. “Well, I suppose it’s pretty inappropriate for a teacher to purposefully make a student ill….” He said thoughtfully.

“No, I mean….” Poppy paused, embarrassed at what she would have to say flat out and fighting a blush of her own. “I mean, has Professor Snape put his….erm…. hands….”   (she swallowed hard) “or anything else on you? Or in…. your body?…. Has he touched your, uh, private parts?….”

(suck it up, Poppy, you can do this!) “Or forced you to touch him…. Physically?”

“Physically?” He seemed confused by that for a moment, then his eyes widened in shock. “Touched, phys--WHAT?!” Harry screeched, apparently appalled and quickly scrambled back on the bed. “AH!-- Oh God, NO!”

He looked at her like she was quite deranged for even making such a suggestion and she had never been happier for such a stinging glare being directed at her; never was there a better relief than that sound and the body language that confirmed such an adamant statement of denial!

“No.” Harry gave a full body shudder, “Just a magical sickness. No physical touching.” (But the little voice in his head unhelpfully added, “Except in your dream.”)

“Good.” And then she was finally able to sigh (and able to successfully stifle the urge to dissolve into manic giggles). She was so grateful her fears had been allayed it threatened to burst out of her in the most hysterical and unprofessional way; her obvious relief didn’t extend to her anxious charge.

“Good? All you can say is ‘GOOD’? I’ve got a fatal illness here in case you haven’t noticed!” Harry clamped his mouth shut knowing full well that he’d been rude and disrespectful of his elders then offered apologetically, “Sorry…. I’m just really scared something’s wrong with me….”

“No, dear, you’re perfectly fine. It’s ‘good’ that Professor Snape never touched you—physically or otherwise. He hasn’t cast a spell on you or slipped you any potion or I’d have detected it straight away. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re just entering puberty is all.”

“What?!” Harry squirmed uncomfortably, frantic in thinking this was a term for some hideous magical malady that would yet again set him apart from everyone else.

Would he be doomed to be a sweaty, awkward, stiff-penised freak the rest of his life? Would his penis keep on expulsing sticky goop at random times? How could he possibly still attend classes and play Quidditch now? Why couldn’t he just be normal?!

“I AM worried and I am not ‘fine’! What is this disease? It’s only bad when he’s around so it’s got to be his fault! I only feel this way near HIM—or if I start thinking about HIM! He’s GOT to have done something! And then my dream of him made it infinitely worse! What is this evilness? What is this ‘Puberty’? Just give me the cure already!”

****

“Oh, my goodness gracious….” Madam Pomfrey muttered to herself, her nerves still jangling from the emotional roller-coaster she’d just been on. Preparing herself for a long night, she threw a handful of sparkling powder into her Floo. “ALBUS!!!!”

The ever-present benevolent twinkle behind half-moon spectacles shone through the green flames a couple moments later, “Yes, Love?”

“Harry’s here. The Muggles have explained NOTHING, Albus. NOTHING!” She screeched indignantly, stamping her heels a bit, letting off some of the steam she’d been keeping a lid on.

“No birds! No bees! No bloody ANYTHING! Certainly no ‘The Nifflers and the Doxies’!” she vented irately, pounding her fists into thin air.

“Get your wrinkly old arse to the infirmary!” she yelled, “NOW! And bring those infernal Ministry pamphlets! And those damned blasted sock puppets of yours!!-- It’s bloody fucking high time for ‘The Talk’!!!!”

******************************************************

A/N: OK, just a super-cute plot bunny that ran away screaming with me and had to jot it down:

I just never bought that Harry, given the upbringing that he had, would necessarily know what would be happening once he reached a certain age.... He never had caring parents or older brothers willing to talk about or tease him about the changes happening to his body when puberty hit (and would his British primary school actually introduce sex-ed at/before the age of 10?). And, seriously, do you think Ron would’ve re-iterated the mortifying ‘Talk’ Arthur gave him before sending him off for his second year without being forced to?!

Sure, once the dorm-mates turn thirteen and beyond, they WILL have some raunchy, straight-forward talk in the tower late at night, teasing about boners and wanking, but somehow I just don’t see the young-uns discussing it when they first start experiencing it at 11 and newly 12. And of course, nothing in Harry’s life can ever be normal or easy….

Heh, sorry, just had to let you go on the element of “Wha??” (although, I’m sure you all figured it out quite soon, just funny to think that someone could be THAT clueless, but really, wouldn’t you be freaked out if you’d had no info going into it? Not to mention, having two evil men using magic and out to get you at every turn? Really, it was the only conclusion he could’ve drawn. Ha-ha, awww. Gotta love naïve!Harry…. :)

Three cheers for Harry getting so lusty and sexy in the second half of his Hogwarts career and beyond during all our fanfic! Woo-hoo! Mmmmm…. (I’m a perv, I know!)
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Snape's Curse