Now! by seeker

<><><><><><><>

Harry Potter had never followed a rule or a professor's explicit instruction or any word out of Snape's mouth in his entire life.

This gave Severus Snape very little hope for success.

Still, the future of the combined Muggle/Wizarding world was riding on the outcome, so he would do his best.

When he failed, he'd blame Dumbledore. It never worked in the past, but there was a first time for everything.

Just as there might, if he had the grace of good luck on his side for the first time ever, be a minuscule chance that Potter might do as he was told. Once.

"You're out of your bloody tree!" the irritating little bastard yelped. At Dumbledore.

Snape shrank a little into his chair, the movement indiscernible to anyone else in the room. Mainly because everyone else in the room was staring at Potter, now standing, quivering in outrage and humiliation, face cherry red and mouth gaped open like a landed fish.

It was an oddly compelling look.

Snape could admit this, if only to himself, now that he no longer had the misfortune of having Potter for a student. Not that successfully completing his exams had rid Hogwarts of the pest. Oh, no. There was still Voldemort to consider. Which placed Snape precisely where he didn't want to be.

Reliant on Potter for a little adult consideration, mature action and reasonable logic. None of which Potter had ever shown in any form whatsoever the entire seven years Snape had known him. True, others thought Potter quite mature for his age, old before his time, robbed of his childhood by all that had befallen him.

Hogwash.

Potter was a lazy, spoilt, selfish brat whose only claim to fame was survival based on nothing more than the charm of incredible luck and the hardest head in the universe.

"I'm very sorry, Headmaster," the boy babbled, trying to dig himself out of the hole his precipitous denial had thrown him into. "But I ... I can't!"

"Am I that repulsive?" Snape let slip before he could censor himself. Potter whirled on him and Snape threw up a hand to stop the enthusiastic affirmative in its tracks. "That was a rhetorical question, Potter. Look it up. The fact of the matter is we are the only two candidates fit for this particular form of magic, and it is our duty and responsibility to see it through. So stop whinging for once and let's just get on with it!" His vaunted self-control left him as the words flowed out, until by the end of the sentence his trademark velvet hiss sounded more like the steam escaping from a boiling kettle.

Potter stared at him.

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered into the heavy silence.

Snape sniffed. Potter choked. Dumbledore sighed.

"Why you?" Potter demanded angrily. Snape glared at him.

"Because I am the only active Death Eater in the Order, and I have the necessary skills and experience to deal with the trauma of the spell, as well as the knowledge needed to apply the outcome toward destroying the Dark Lord."

Green eyes glittered at him. After another heavy moment of silence, Potter sniveled, "Why me?"

"You're the only wizard in history demonstrably able to survive the Killing Curse. You will keep me alive so that I may wield the power derived from the spell."

"So you're saying," Potter spelled out slowly, "I live, and you do all the work."

It was Snape's turn to stare. "You live, and you make bloody damned sure I live, and I do all the work!"

The glitter turned dark, and Snape blinked. The malevolence he knew he'd glimpsed was gone. But the glimpse had been enough. He turned to Dumbledore. "I don't trust him. Let me do it on my own as I'd planned." He gritted his teeth, screwed up his pride and spat, "Please."

Dumbledore was shaking his head sadly even before the hard-won plea was finished. "I'm sorry, Severus," he said in a tone that almost made Snape believe him. "But the spell specifically requires the commingled essence of both of you, for precisely the reasons you outlined. You are too unique and vital to the success of this war to allow you to take unnecessary chances. And as you know, magic of this sort is strengthened geometrically when raised by two or more bodies than by a solitary practitioner."

"Wha-?" asked Harry, completely lost by this point. Snape snapped his glare from his Headmaster to his Nemesis.

"Fucking's stronger than wanking by a power of ten." He almost said 'look it up,' but the stunned-fish look was back on Potter's face, and he didn't want to explain the terms, the magic or the math.

"Remember," Dumbledore said, waving them out the door, both men moving with great reluctance toward the little love nest behind his office set up specifically for this purpose -- or so Snape supposed, and hoped -- "in order for the spell to work, you must," he cleared his throat delicately, "ejaculate simultaneously."

Potter opened his mouth. Snape started to snarl a translation, and it was Potter's turn to hold up a hand.

"I know!" he muttered. "Come together."

Ignoring the Muggle song playing in an endless loop in the back of his mind, Snape managed not to add, 'Right now' or 'Over me,' and followed Potter to his doom.

The first glimpse of the hell hole in which he was supposed to work his magic made him wince. A mumbled, "Oh my god" under Potter's breath was icing on a poisoned cake. The claustrophobic chamber was awash in cushions, artfully tumbled satin bedclothes, and assorted wide, low, cushioned furniture. A fire roared in the corner, but even the relatively low light could do nothing to obscure the sickening multitude of shades of candy-pink glaring from every surface. Snape clenched his teeth, certain if he opened his jaw the gag he was barely suppressing would escape.

"Can we change this?" came Potter's desperate voice behind him. "'S gonna be hard enough to get it up, but this ... this ... oh my god," he moaned.

Snape glanced over his shoulder. Yes, Potter looked close to collapse. So much for vaunted Gryffindor courage that could face anything and soldier on. He sighed. Sweeping a glare across the room, muttering under his breath and swishing his wand viciously, the room rippled. Pink disappeared, replaced by austere stone walls, a wide bed covered with nothing more garish than high-thread-count cotton sheets from Egypt, a few strategically placed pillows, and several yards of chains with attached manacles. On the walls, connected to the bedposts, and hanging from the ceiling.

"Bloody hell," Potter breathed. "This is your idea of a seduction scene?"

Snape blushed. Slightly. Well, perhaps the chains and manacles were a bit much. He drew back his wand, then was jostled rudely as Potter pushed past him, wide eyes staring around the newly-made dungeon.

"Brilliant."

Snape blinked. Looked over at the bulge tenting Potter's trousers as the boy stared at the ankle-cuffs dangling off the end of the footboard, and put his wand away.

Perhaps it wouldn't be impossible after all. It appeared he might share a ... quirk or two ... with young Potter. The impression was strengthened as Potter stripped himself with flattering speed, eyes locked on the manacles the entire time.

Well, flattering for the chains, at least.

Holding back yet another sigh, Snape got to work on his buttons. Rows and rows and rows of buttons. He liked to think of them as his armor against the world, and every morning as he buttoned himself up it was as if the robes were the manifestation of all the shields he placed between himself and the rest of humanity.

Making it all the more appalling that he was having to drop them, shields and robes both, for Potter, of all people.

It wasn't even as if he had sex all that often. Usually it was at the behest of Voldemort and was comprised more of pain than pleasure. Once in awhile he suffered through Lucius Malfoy's attention, but ever since the unfortunate incident in the forest with the Cruciatus curse and the very sharp tree bark, Lucius wasn't the beguiling lover he used to be. Hard to be, really, with most of his prick shaved off. No wonder he was such a bastard any more. Close association with Voldemort, living with Narcissa and having a radish between the legs would do that to a man.

A strangled gasp cut off his meandering thoughts. His head snapped up and he stared at Potter.

Who was staring back.

And drooling slightly.

Right. Maybe it wasn't just the chains. Snape smirked. The frank regard of hungry green eyes had his prick bobbing up to meet the challenge, and Potter let loose with a sound that was quite close to a moan. Snape's smirk broadened and took on an edge.

"See anything you want, Potter?" he asked wickedly, using the whiskey voice he kept in reserve for torture, seduction, and massive point reductions to Gryffindor House.

"Gah," dribbled Potter. His body -- lithe, firm, muscled young thing that it was -- jerked involuntarily toward Snape, drawing Snape's eyes down the line of surprisingly well developed chest to a treasure trail of dusky black-brown curls, catching on a prick of unexpectedly generous proportions.

Potter wasn't the only one drooling, Snape realized, as he had to lick his lips to keep from drowning himself. The last time he'd had a nineteen year old lover he'd been nineteen himself, and too callow to appreciate the charms offered him. Unfortunately, he was under a few constrictions now, having to do with warfare and Voldemort and split-second timing, and it wasn't as if Potter was ever going to do this with him again, so he'd have to make the best of it while he had it.

Not that Potter would object, judging by the glazed look in his eyes, the flush blooming from mid-chest to his scalp, and the large, dripping, bulky prick aimed at Snape's belly like a heat-seeking missile.

As the boy continued to stand there and stare, and drip, and blush, Snape rolled his eyes and got on with it. One hand went out to wrap around Potter's balls, pulling them down before premature excitation could render all their preparations moot, the other cupping that stubborn chin and pulling Potter's face up so Snape could kiss him. It wasn't much of a stretch: Snape's perception of Potter as a whey-faced snotty eleven-year-old brat aside, the boy was an inch taller than he was now, and their bodies fit together perfectly.

The first brush of that prick, admittedly larger than Snape's -- privately admitted, that was, since he wouldn't give the boy any more reason for a swelled head than he already had -- sent a sizzle through Snape's skeleton. Had his hair been prone to do so it would have curled. His fingers and toes certainly did.

Potter reeked of magic. It seeped from his pores, sheened his skin, misted the air around him. Snape felt drunk from the first touch, and it wasn't only the work he'd already done before Potter came on the scene to set up the spell. It was Potter himself, and for the first time, Snape truly understood why Dumbledore insisted Potter be the other half of this particular spell.

No one, but no one, could pull the response out of Snape that Potter already had, and they were still vertical. Not even Snape at his inventive best, with forty years of self-knowledge, could do what Potter was already doing, simply by breathing and touching him. It was mildly embarrassing.

Wildly arousing.

Potter opened his mouth at the touch of Snape's lips, and his tongue tentatively swept out, rocking Snape on his heels. The sizzle shaking his bones extended to his muscles, as his tongue curled around Potter's and followed it back to play in the hot mouth. Over teeth and around tongue, along palate and back, stroking in what could only be described as a lazy frenzy, Snape gave himself over to the kiss.

Somewhere along the way, Potter gave himself over to Snape.

Hands tangling over bared, sweating skin, Snape pushed and Potter pulled, and they ended up sprawled over the length of the bed. Everywhere they touched, magic snapped, adding an urgent electricity to their movements Snape had never felt. Going by the whimpers whispering on Potter's every exhalation, neither had he.

Strong fingers wrapped around his prick, and the shock nearly ended him. Snape gasped, biting the soft skin of Potter's neck that had the misfortune to be under his mouth at the time. Potter screamed, a soft cry muffled in Snape's hair, and Snape spared a moment to wonder how Potter liked the taste of lemongrass oil before he managed to unclamp Potter's hand and wrench himself back from the edge of orgasm.

"Together," he growled, licking the goose-pimples that came up under his tongue at the word. Potter muttered something that could have been assent, or multiplication tables, or Quidditch scores, or potion ingredients, though knowing his scores in Potions Snape doubted the last. Whatever it was, it helped. The tension eased from the long body moving against his, and Snape was able to regain his perspective and a measure of calm.

Just in time for Potter to roll them over in a move Snape was NOT expecting, then slither down him like a snake on heat and swallow his prick down to the root.

It was Snape's turn to squeal like a pig hit by a lorry. His hand shot down, nearly taking off Potter's ear on the way, and yanked his testicles down and back so hard and so fast he nearly castrated himself. This brought another squeal, but it also kept him from flooding the sneaky little bastard.

Prying his eyes open, he looked down to see Potter, eyes closed, lashes brushing his cheeks, mouth distended, sucking him like a man dying from thirst. A jolt went through Snape, a moan burst from him, and his hands threaded through Potter's hair of their own volition. Unable to stop himself, he curved his fingers around Potter's skull and gave in to the need to fuck that insolent mouth until neither one of them could breathe.

Thankfully, and astonishingly, it was Potter who came back to his senses before all was lost. Pulling off Snape's dripping prick with a distinct pop, he surged back against Snape's hands and grinned up at him.

"Not yet, Severus," he quipped.

Snape was still trying to get breath back enough to chastise Potter severely for using his given name without permission when Potter sealed his mouth over Snape's and gave him a tongue-lashing of his own. Snape's thoughts scattered and his body quivered, his hands sliding around Potter's waist to clamp on a firm, muscular arse, the cheeks of which were simply begging to be squeezed. So he did.

The move met with approbation, as Potter moaned into his mouth and squirmed against him in a sinuous move that threatened his composure, or what was left of it, yet again. Rapidly becoming addicted to that breathy little sound, Snape kept one hand clamped on an arse cheek and ran the other down the sweaty cleft between them, seeking, and finding, the small hole. His fingertip dipped in, and he was rewarded with a whole stream of moans.

They inched closer to wails as he deepened his thrust, from tip to first knuckle, and added a second finger. The feel of heat and pressure around his fingers and the frenzied writhing against him nearly distracted him from their purpose, until Potter tore his mouth away and howled, "God! Gonna come!"

In an instant, Snape's hand was out of Potter's arse and his body was displaced a good three feet away across from Potter. Snape watched him narrowly across the expanse of bed linen, panting harshly through his mouth and fighting to rein in his need.

It took a few moments for Potter to realize he was effectively alone. A few moments of delicious sliding and humping that made mincemeat of Snape's higher reasoning function and caused him to tug at his balls yet again. Finally, dazed green eyes stared blearily around, looking for him, as Potter slid one hand down his chest toward his erection.

"Stop!" Snape commanded.

Potter froze.

"When I say you may, and only then," Snape purred.

Potter shivered.

Everywhere.

Snape tore his eyes from the prick quivering under his gaze and crab-walked over the mattress to straddle Potter's thighs, his own prick bobbing with every movement. Potter made a strangled sound and Snape chuckled.

It was an evil sound.

Potter's prick leapt and leaked.

Apparently it rather liked evil sounds. If they came from Snape, at least. Snape considered this a positive sign.

Another positive sign, or perhaps proof Potter was merely a slut, was the way the long, hair-roughened thighs parted for him as soon as he touched them. From there it was the work of a moment to insinuate one knee below Potter's balls, propping the swollen prick just so to align it with his own, then reach over, take one of Potter's shaking hands and wrap it along with his own around both pricks.

Nirvana.

Or close enough to it for the spell's sake.

Half a dozen strokes, with his eyes locked to Potter's, their hands moving together, their bodies arching as one, and it was time. Sweeping his other hand over the tops of their pricks, magicked bottle at the ready, Snape screamed "NOW!"

Perfect. As he never thought it would be. Potter came, his balls jerking up against Snape's, at the exact same moment Snape came, and Snape caught their commingled come in the receptacle awaiting it. As ever, timing was everything, and as it coated the glazed glass, he chanted the catalytic charm. Potter's free hand reached up to caress his face, and he looked down, nearly drowning in the huge, sparkling green eyes.

It was as well he did, as a backwash of vicious ruby light splintered through the prism of the glass, caught but not contained by the sticky white fluid in it. Had Snape been looking up he surely would have been blinded. As it was, nothing disturbed his concentration, on the spell, on Harry Potter, and the attack glanced off to disperse harmlessly against the stone walls.

Luck, perhaps, but it was Potter's luck, and Snape was glad of it.

Magic flowed through them, wrapping around them, concentrating on the trapped seed in the bottle, then burst out through a web of air and intent far from their dungeon nest. Snape felt his strength leaving him as the last of the words flowed from him. He fell, but not far.

Potter caught him. Potter was good at catching things. Another habit from Quidditch Snape would not again demean.

Well, he would, but not for a very long time. And then only in grumbles under his breath.

For the moment, it was enough that they'd done it. They'd completed the spell, come together as they must, and his skill combined with Potter's strength and incredible luck had done their work. Somewhere beyond the walls, Voldemort was sorely wounded, and Dumbledore's forces could close in. But there in the aftermath, Snape closed his eyes, laid his head on Potter's chest, and pretended that he wasn't nuzzling.

The rattle of chains distracted him from an afterglow he'd seldom felt and never appreciated so well. He pried one eye open to see a disgustingly enthusiastic-looking Potter, dangling a manacle over Snape's exhausted face.

"So, ready for another go, then?"

Snape's incredulous voice wavered, "Now?" He passed out cold before Potter could say, "Well, maybe later." A kiss to the end of his nose that he didn't feel, a chuckle more evil than any Snape had ever given, and Potter whispered, "Definitely later."

END