Personal Pensieve by Seeker

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Personal Pensieve: Prologue

In retrospect he couldn't say it had taken him by surprise. His paranoia and watchfulness had reached the level over the twenty years he'd been a double agent that he literally expected to be caught out at any time.

What had surprised him was the incomplete nature of the betrayal. He'd always expected full disclosure from whomever turned on him. He'd lived with doubt and suspicion for so long it was second nature. He'd had his mind and body violated so often his ability to cope should have been iron-clad.

But he was tired. Vulnerable, more vulnerable than he or his allies could afford, this close to the end. A critical juncture, words he'd heard applied by those who knew no better at much less catalytic moments than this. Here, now, at the final strategy meeting of the Death Eaters before the launch of the last battle ... Voldemort decided to make certain there were no traitors in their midst.

Which, of course, was a very bad thing for the traitor among them.

As he felt the dark will rip even his deeply imbedded mental barriers aside, in a moment of desperation, Snape called upon a private magic so seldom used there were no words for it in modern language. The closest approximation was 'to call upon a personal pensieve'. In the whirlwind of energy that was Voldemort tearing through his thoughts, the single stream of memories that contained all the Order's secrets flew from him to the nearest person with whom he had an emotional connection ... for good or ill.

On the edge of the Forbidden Forest, making their way to an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, two best friends reeled and fell. Moments later, they woke, with no clear memory of what happened. Other than a slight headache, there were no negative effects, and between them they decided it must be one more sign of the build-up of negative magic in advance of You Know Who's offensive. Hurrying to join the others, they gave no more attention to what they thought was an abortive attack by forces of evil, and got to work.

Hurrying from his office, high in the Gryffindor tower, the second-year DADA professor suddenly reeled from a piercing pain through the scar on his forehead. Tears glazed his eyes for an instant before he shook them away. Another one of Voldemort's evil little plans must have come to fruition, although by this time the migraine was practically constant. Gritting his teeth against the lingering pain, he continued on his way to the Headmaster's office where the full Order was meeting. Time was growing short.

Hanging back in the shadows out of his Lord's direct line of sight, his preferred position since joining his father, the final recipient of Snape's gift grasped his head with both hands as it felt like his brain swelled beyond the capacity of his skull to contain it. Gagging back the urge to vomit, eyes leaking tears, he gasped as quietly as he could until he regained his composure. Since submitting himself to the Mark, he'd learned more than enough about the insanity to which his family was committed. He didn't want to know what had attacked him. He was simply thankful when it didn't kill him. At that moment, the wall of bodies between himself and the Dark Lord parted, and he saw who Voldemort was torturing. A second pain struck him, this one in his chest, and his hand tightened round his wand. Before he could do anything terminally stupid, they were attacked.

Writhing under Voldemort's heavy hand, Snape decided he would worry about what he had to do to get his mind back when he had need of it again. Until then, he could do naught but sink under the weight of the Dark Lord in his mind, and wait for the agony to pass.

It was an absolute shock to wake up to find himself in Hogwart's infirmary, Dumbledore, fresh scars dissecting his beard, twinkling kindly down at him.

"What happened?" Snape croaked.

Dumbledore beamed. "We won, dear boy. We won. It's all over."

Well, not quite all.

Waiting until Dumbledore moved on, and Pomfrey turned her back, Snape snuck out of the infirmary, hugging the wall all the way down the stairs, and headed for his dungeon. The fact that the Light had conquered the Dark, and he'd survived the Apocalypse without actually taking part in it, was no doubt wonderful. But he had some memories to retrieve. The sooner, the better.

Sinking into his armchair with a sigh, bones aching still from the thoroughness of the late, unlamented Voldemort's brain-sifting, Snape took a deep breath. Muttered a summoning spell, tracing the path his thoughts had taken in their escape. To his shock, since he hadn't thought there would be that many people in the world he could consider emotionally close, the stream of sparkling dust motes split into four directions.

None of them led to either Dumbledore or Minerva, the two he'd actually expected might catch his desperate toss. No. His luck could never be that good.

He'd forgotten to specify a positive emotional connotation, and magic, being a tool well known for possessing a nasty sense of humor, went for the throat.

Remus Lupin. Literally for the throat, in that case.

Sirius Black, for Merlin's sake.

Harry Potter, of all people.

And Draco Malfoy. Apparently Lucius didn't count any longer, as far as his heart was concerned.

At least they'd all survived the War. Snape didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse. For him, at least.

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Personal Pensieve 1: Do Over

As luck would have it, the last big push by the Death Eaters fell during the full moon. Bad luck for the Death Eaters, typical poor planning by You Know Who, and a whole lot of unleashed rage leading to hours spent rinsing out his mouth the next day for Lupin.

He couldn't believe he'd actually eaten a couple of them. Although there was something uniquely satisfying about giving into his bestial nature for the first time in his life and taking it out on someone other than himself.

Besides, disgusting as it was to think about afterward, Lucius Malfoy had actually tasted pretty good. Remus shuddered at the thought, then walked back to the sink and compulsively started brushing his teeth. Again.

The only time he'd ever come close to letting rip as a wolf before was the one time poor Snape had nearly walked in on him when they were kids. Not that he had much sympathy for Severus. After all, the man had more than gotten his own back when he'd leaked to the entire school that their DADA professor was a werewolf, thereby sending his budding professional life into a tailspin. So much for a do-over. He'd hated Snape for a long time after that, but hatred was too intense and negative an emotion for a man striving for self-control to maintain for long. It ate away too much of his resolve, and he couldn't afford to lose his tight rein on himself.

Or somebody could end up eaten. Unsanctioned. And he really didn't want to spend the rest of his life locked up in Azkaban. Besides, Snape was his only pipeline to Wolfsbane Potion, and as much as he loathed the swill, it did keep him marginally sane. Not to mention legal.

As if the thought conjured the man himself, Remus looked into his mirror to see Snape glowering at him over his shoulder. His eyes widened and he dropped his toothbrush. Bubbles ringed his mouth, giving him the look of a person in the advanced stages of rabies.

"I've always thought you were in need of putting down, Lupin," Snape sneered.

Remus spat and rinsed, then growled, "Not what you said when I stopped Lucius Malfoy from throwing the killing curse at you. Oh, wait, you couldn't say anything, because you were UNCONSCIOUS at the time from whatever the hell You Know Who was doing to you!"

One inky black brown rose. "You killed Lucius?"

Wiping his mouth on the towel and willfully resisting the urge to grab his toothbrush again, Remus nodded. He didn't go into details.

"Last night?"

Another nod. His hand twitched toward the tube of toothpaste. Snake-black eyes followed every move, and a wicked smirk curved thin lips. Remus sighed.

"Yes, I ate him," he admitted, giving in to the ungovernable urge to wash his mouth out again and gargling half a cup of mouthwash.

Behind him, even over the gargling, he could hear Snape snickering. Spitting again, wiping his mouth again, he turned and leaned against the sink.

"Why are you so entertained? I thought you two were such good friends."

"Not for years," Snape admitted, moving forward until he was seriously violating Remus' personal space. "Under the circumstances, I won't waste my time remonstrating you for letting your animal nature run wild. That's not why I'm here, anyway."

Remus took a deep breath, going a little light-headed with the rush of scent enveloping him. Snape smelt of earth and healing potions and pain, the heat of his blood burning the air between them. Remus felt himself harden, and would have blushed if he hadn't been so preoccupied with holding himself back from jumping Snape bodily and humping him right where they stood.

"Then why ..." he paused to lick suddenly dry lips, no urge for brushing anywhere in evidence, "are you here?"

"To gain back that which is mine," Snape purred. "This is a one-time deal, Lupin."

"What is?" Remus asked, bewildered. Before the words cleared his mouth, Snape's tongue was in it, tasting better than all the mouthwash and toothpaste in the world, finally cleansing his palate of the lingering aftertaste of human flesh.

Of course, shock was the only reason he didn't immediately push Snape away and demand explanations. Had to be. Nothing to do with the momentary paralysis caused by Snape working Remus' trousers down to his knees, then dropping to his own and licking Remus' prick from balls to tip.

Over and over and over.

No, had to be shock, couldn't be lust, although the man certainly knew what to do with his tongue. Staring down, mouth hanging open, hands clenched round the edge of the sink, knees shaking, Remus watched Snape stick his tongue into the slit at the end of Remus' leaking prick and choked down a howl.

This was what Snape was reclaiming? Since when did his prick belong to Snape? And why hadn't Remus known it?

Then long clever fingers got into the act, stroking his balls as Snape swallowed down the length of his prick, and Remus began to pant. When his balls had been sufficiently petted, the hand delved back further and prodded at his arsehole. The panting developed a hitch, then a whimper on every exhalation.

His hips started moving in counterpoint to Snape's movement, unable to stop himself, and his eyes slid half-closed, unwilling to lose sight of the incredible image of Snape deep-throating him. He felt his balls draw up as the finger inside him pressed down firmly on his prostate, and tried to give warning, but all he could manage was a garbled, "Gaaaugh!"

Then he gave a howl, as he came so hard he saw stars. The suction never eased all the way through his orgasm, and as the last of his spunk shot down Snape's throat, the last of his energy deserted him. Remus felt his knees give, and he folded over gracefully into Snape's arms. A sudden, sharp pain ripped through his head. Somewhat gratefully, he passed out cold.

When he came to, the last thing he remembered was brushing his teeth. He never did figure out why his arse felt pinched, nor the lassitude that permeated his entire body. Not that he had much time to worry about it, for the full moon was due to rise any moment. Glancing over at the side table, he saw a steaming goblet of Wolfsbane Potion. He reached out, took it up, and gulped it down as quickly as he could, holding his nose with his free hand. Snape must have come in as he was taking his nap.

A vague suspicion that there was more to it than that flitted through his mind, but disappeared swiftly as moonlight crept into the room and his shape began to shift. Dimly he was aware of his door opening and the familiar scent of Snuffles comforted him. He'd think about it later.

Or not.

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Personal Pensieve 2: Fleas

Yawning as he wandered into his quarters half an hour after sunrise, exhaustion from the final battle made Sirius' usual sleepiness after a Snuffles/Mooney vigil ten times worse. But that was all right, because the long filthy war was over, the bastards were all dead (he'd peed on Peter's corpse himself, and he hadn't bothered transforming into Snuffles before he did it, either), his best friend and his godson made it through intact, and all he wanted to do was sleep for a week.

He'd settle for the day. After all, there was still a night's worth of full moon to romp through. Now that it was a romp, not a razor's edge tip into death and destruction, thanks to the Wolfsbane Potion. He managed to stifle the reflexive mental 'greasy bastard' that always followed on the heels of gratitude, because life was grand, and even Snape couldn't get him down.

Pulling off his clothes, he scratched absently at a few fleas he'd managed to pick up in the forest while in Snuffles form. He considered taking a bath, his years in prison having left him with a hatred of the bloody pests, but it was too much effort. Wouldn't do to live through the worst You Know Who could throw at him then fall asleep in the tub and drown.

Asleep before his head hit the pillow, he was too deep in dreams to notice when a shadow crept into his room, then into his bed. The first indication he had that he was no longer alone, and more awake than not, was when a hot mouth clamped round his prick and sucked so hard it was a wonder the vacuum didn't pull his backbone right out the end.

"Remy!" he moaned, shivering at the chuckle that moved the throat to squeeze his prick. "Lemme ..." Thought was father to deed, as, eyes still closed, he hauled himself round on the bed until he could grasp skinny hairy thighs. Nuzzling through the musky heat of his best friend's groin, the thought struck him that Remus was awfully randy for having just gotten through the worst of the moon change.

Then the prick he'd been rooting around for slid over his tongue, he closed his lips around it and sucked, and distractions like logic disappeared. All there was in the whole wide sleepy wonderful world was a magical circle of suction; his mouth worked Remy's prick, Remy's mouth worked his, his hands kneaded Remy's thighs and Remy's hand worked its way into his arse and ... holy shite, that wasn't the usual. When had Remus learned THAT little trick?

Questions disappeared in a blaze of glory as the hot button in his arse, linked directly to the pleasure part of his brain via his spine, spat lightning out through his fingertips and toes. If he could have done anything but lay there and scream in pure unadulterated bliss, he would have, but he couldn't, so he didn't bother.

As the white light behind his eyelids started to break back up into normal, albeit sparkly, darkness, he realized Remus was trying to draw his (still hard) prick out of Sirius' mouth. That was NOT part of the plan. Snuffling in a way that indicated precisely from where his canine name had come, he latched onto the prick before it could escape and sucked with all his might.

Remy's howl was delightful, if a few notes lower than it usually was. Maybe he was tired. God knew Sirius was barely hanging on long enough to finish Remy off. Swallowing all he could, lazily licking up what he missed, he was nuzzling Remy's spent prick when he felt a sharp pain lance through his skull. He tried to rear back, groaning, but long fingers clamped in his hair and wouldn't let him go.

He didn't remember passing out. He barely remembered getting blown. If it wasn't for the salty taste still bitter on his tongue when he woke up half an hour before he had to go join Remy, he'd've thought it was all a particularly vivid wet dream.

As it was, Snuffles had much more fun that night with Mooney than he'd ever had before. And when morning came, the fun spilled over. Holding Remus, Sirius decided he'd never been happier in his life. A niggling thought struck him that he had Snape to thank for it.

It was so completely insane he dismissed it as soon as he thought it. Snape, right. Never on his best day. Grinning happily into Remy's hair, Sirius scratched one last time and decided as soon as Remy woke up, they were going to have a bath. Until then, he'd lay there and watch Remy sleep.

True love was wonderful. Even if it meant putting up with fleas a little while longer.

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Personal Pensieve 3: The Man Who Lived

One would think it'd be old hat by now, but Harry never had gotten used to people staring at him. In the feverishly festive atmosphere that was the Celebration Brunch, an excuse to eat and party all day in the wake of the fall of Voldemort, everybody seemed to be staring at him.

It didn't really bother him all that much. Except for one pair of black eyes that followed his every move.

For some weird reason, the steady gaze made his scar itch. Not hurt, not like Voldemort used to before Harry'd melted him into a puddle of primordial porridge with a final, exceedingly irritated, cry of 'Avada Kedavra! For God's sake! Die, already!' It hadn't been the most elegant way to destroy his enemy, but damn, it had been satisfying.

No, this was an itch. Business unfinished. It couldn't be because Snape was a Death Eater, because Snape was a Good Guy first. The only reason he'd been able to get close enough to do Voldemort in was because the evil git was grilling Snape with some kind of mind-curse, enjoying himself so much he was drooling, and that had been disgusting enough to fuel Harry's nightmares for months. Considering the breadth and depth of Harry's nightmares, that was quite an accomplishment. So, in a very real way, Voldemort's demise could be accredited directly to Snape himself.

So if it wasn't a bad thing, this itch, then what could it be? Never one to put off a confrontation when he could leap in with both feet (usually with his eyes closed), Harry smiled vaguely at Seamus, blathering on about something or other, and excused himself. Not that Seamus noticed. There were other people there for him to collar, and he did. Harry ignored Draco's trapped look.

Served the Ferret right to have to listen to Seamus drone on. True, in the end, Draco had turned his back on the other Death Eaters, screaming how his dad made him do it and tossing his wand at the nearest Auror to keep from getting fried. If Dumbledore didn't have a heart of pure gold Draco'd be in a cell somewhere.

Judging by the way Seamus was bending his ear, he'd probably prefer it. Harry gave a grin that could only be described as evil, and made his way through the crowd toward Snape.

As soon as he saw Harry coming, Snape nodded once, then ducked out into the corridor. Harry sighed. He wanted to speak to the berk, not chase him all over the castle. To his relief, when he left the noise and bustle of the Great Hall behind him, he saw Snape loitering several feet away.

In the darkest part of the hall. Of course.

Harry controlled the urge to roll his eyes, and went to join his fellow professor. Eye to eye, toe to toe, he put on his sternest expression and asked firmly, "What's all this, then?" He'd heard a copper use it on one of the television shows Dudley used to watch, and he thought it had the right ring of authority.

Snape snorted. Reached out, traced a single finger over Harry's scar, and whispered, silky soft, "I've come to take back that which is mine."

Didn't make a lick of sense to Harry, but it didn't matter, either, because as soon as Snape touched his skin the scar flared to life. Not pain, not an itch ... this was need. Hunger. Take, give, whatever Snape wanted, Harry did too, and he wanted it now.

Grabbing Snape by the robe, he hauled the man further into the shadows, round a corner and into an empty classroom. Feverishly muttering locking spells and silencing spells and early warning spells, ignoring the surprised squawk Snape gave as he hauled them both to a halt against the far wall of the room, Harry dove in.

Too many damned buttons. Too many layers of clothes. Lots of heat and skin and hair and muscles and sweat underneath them, but the house elves would be sewing for a fortnight to put that woolen armor back together again. Then Harry had his mouth on Snape's and his hand on Snape's arse and their pricks were rubbing together and it was bloody brilliant but it wasn't quite enough.

Jacking Snape hard enough to keep him ready, slicking pre-come down the sides and around the prick he was soon going to have, he gave Snape one more deep fierce kiss then let go of him. Turned his back to the wall. Wriggled until his trousers and pants were down around his ankles, hiked his robe up about his waist and spread his legs. Braced his hands against the cold stone, and yelped, "Fuck me!"

For a bare instant, he was afraid Snape was too far gone in shock to actually move. Growling under his breath, he repeated his demand, adding a "NOW," to get the man moving. That was all it took. A heartbeat later, Snape was right up against his back, prodding at his arse. A moment after that, a careful thrust announced his arrival.

"Oh, for God's sake, I'm not going to break," Harry complained. "Stick it in!"

With a sound like a cross between a snarl and a hiss, Snape did just that, and Harry arched as he was split wide open. Good, so good, felt so good, needed that, needed it now, needed it harder, harder, faster, deeper, take it all, give it, give it harder ... the words tumbled through his brain and out his mouth, and Snape responded to the rough commands with verve.

It had been a long time since anyone had fucked Harry up against a wall, and even longer since anyone had tried to fuck him THROUGH it. Pushing thoughts of seventh year hijinks in the Prefect's Bath with Draco away, Harry stopped trying to think at all and gave himself up to being shagged out of his mind.

As the thrusts got harder and the rhythm uneven, Harry dropped one hand down to his prick and began to pull. Before he could reach blessed relief, a strong hand caught his wrist and pulled it right back up above his head. A second strong hand came down and clamped around his balls, cutting off the incipient orgasm before it could escape.

Harry was still whining about that when Snape bucked up against him and came. The dual sensation of his balls feeling like they were tied in knots and the hot fluid shooting into his gut made Harry more than a little crazy. Before he could completely lose his rag, Snape pulled out, leaving Harry's arse still clenching, trying to suck him back in, come dribbling down his thighs.

Then Snape grabbed his shoulder, turned him in one swift movement so his back slammed up against the wall, the cold stone feeling incredibly erotic against his wide-open, leaking arse. The feeling just got better as Snape slid down his body to take Harry's purpling prick down his throat, hand sliding unerringly back to his gaping arsehole and three fingers plunging in.

It didn't take much. One strong continuous suck, a punch to his prostate, and it was over. Harry came so strongly he grayed out, a first for him. As he started to come down from his orgasm, bones turning to jelly, a sudden pain hit his scar.

Pain, and an itch well-scratched, and an odd sucking sensation, not at his prick where it belonged but at his brain, somehow. His eyes closed as vertigo struck, the world swirling around him, then closing down.

When he woke the next morning, he didn't remember much after leaving Draco at Seamus' tender mercies. He had the fuzzy impression he'd had a talk with Snape about something, not that he remembered what. He lay in bed, feeling pleasantly shagged out, a smile coming to his face as he realized for once his scar didn't hurt.

His arse did, though. In a good way. Wondering muzzily where Ron went after they'd fucked, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he woke the second time, a familiar fuzzy brown head busily bobbed up and down at his crotch, and a familiar prick pushed up his bum. He sighed happily, reached down with one hand to play with Herm's right breast and back with the other hand to squeeze Ron's left arse cheek.

Voldemort was dead, Herm and Ron were in a cozy sexy knot with him, his godfather and beloved adopted uncle were safe, and all was right with the world.

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Personal Pensieve 4: Second Chance

Cursing Potter under his breath for abandoning him to Finnigan, trying not to make any of the curses executable since he wouldn't get his wand back until after the investigation and he'd NEVER get it back if a hex accidentally rebounded and hit a Ministry official, Draco survived two hours of alternately being treated like a pariah and cornered by mouthy Irishmen before he called it quits.

At least he could get some peace and quiet in the Slytherin dorms. Particularly since the majority of the House had either died on the battlefield or run very far away before it came time to fight. He'd been all FOR running, preferably all the way to Australia, but his father was too starry-eyed over the walking abomination that was Voldemort to allow it, and Draco hadn't been able to escape. Damn it.

He'd never wanted to be a Death Eater. Of course, he wanted power. Who didn't? He had looks, breeding, money, connections; acquiring power was a given on the Malfoy family to-do list. But he was also the most pragmatic Malfoy to come out of the line in four centuries. He wanted to survive even more than he wanted to win, the exact opposite of his father's creed.

So when it became blatantly obvious that Voldemort was too busy getting off on torturing Snape to rally the troops, and the Death Eaters were not only vastly outnumbered but wildly out-strategized, Draco had not a qualm about throwing his lot in with the winning side. He believed, in fact, he'd seen a gleam of approval in his father's eye right before a big filthy wolf had ripped him to shreds and eaten him up.

If he'd had any actual familial affection, he would have been devastated. Since he'd been raised by house elves since birth, seeing his father on special occasions when Malfoy senior happened to remember and wasn't on Important Dark Business (puberty had given Draco a whole new understanding of what that Business might be, and it was all pretty disgusting), there hadn't been much of a tie to sever between father and son.

No, Draco's loyalties were to, and his affections reserved for, himself. True, others were useful ... some were quite entertaining, he grinned, thinking back a couple years to Potter's creativity with clamps and manacles in the Prefect's Bath. Stamina was a quality he could definitely admire. But in the end, it was Draco, first, last, and always.

Well, Draco, and Snape.

Voldemort had always frightened the wits out of Draco, the only reason he'd given in to his father's demand to bear the Dark Mark. But it had awakened a previously unknown protective instinct in Draco to see Voldemort giving Snape holy hell for the sheer enjoyment of it. If Draco had been braver, or incredibly stupid, or had another minute to act before the battle began, he would have stepped forward and tried to put a stop to it. Since he knew without a doubt the outcome of such an action would have been him joining Snape writhing on the ground, he didn't. Obviously.

But he'd given a silent little cheer when Potter plowed through the group of wizards and witches closing in on them and blasted Voldemort to slimy slag.

Of course, then Draco had immediately had to turn over his wand in order to avoid his own messy demise, and his circumstances hadn't gotten much better from there. Now he was alone, sighing to himself in the cold clammy confines of the Slytherin dungeon, feeling ... a little confused. Where the hell was Snape?

As if heeding the mental call, the door opened and Snape staggered in. He moved as if he'd been beaten, not unexpected considering it was only a day and a half since he'd had his brain turned inside out. He didn't look like he'd slept since then, either. Draco motioned to the cushion beside him.

"Sit down before you fall down, sir," he invited politely.

Snape glared at him, but did as asked without accompanying sarcasm, a strong argument in favor of complete exhaustion. As he came closer, Draco felt the oddest compulsion rise within him. Even pasty white, his limbs shaking with fatigue, eyes red-rimmed, mouth swollen ... swollen? Draco shook off the thought before he could be sidetracked ... there was something damned sexy about Snape that he'd never noticed before. Draco wanted to hold him, touch him ... fuck him so hard he couldn't walk for a week ...

His body acted on the thought before his brain could unwrap itself from the tangle the mental images tied his thoughts into, and as soon as Snape's bum hit the cushion Draco was upon him. Snape pushed weakly at Draco's shoulders for, oh, about half a second before giving up the unequal struggle and allowing himself to be ravished.

If his mouth hadn't been so busy Draco would have smirked. He knew he was irresistible. Nice to know Snape agreed.

Then Snape's tongue curled around his, tugging it back into Snape's mouth, where he chewed on it ever so gently. Draco moaned and pushed closer, hands tugging at robes that strangely enough seemed to have no buttons. No matter, it simply made it easier to get his hands on skin.

Snape's prick was hot in his hand, but only half hard. He made little distressed whimpers deep in his throat when Draco stroked him, noises that spurred Draco on to other things. He'd get to Snape's prick in a moment. First Draco had to have his arse.

And he did. Oh, my, did he. Snape's left leg hooked over the back of the settee, his right splayed off the front, his head falling back over the arm, as Draco moved the heavy sac out of the way and worked a couple fingers deep into the heat of him. Tight and greedy, the hole pulled at his fingers, nearly sending him off as he thought how it would pull at his prick.

With a quick kiss to the end of Snape's prick, rising slowly in response to the manipulating fingers buried in his arse, Draco shifted up and forward between those widespread thighs. It was difficult, to work his way in and not come at the first squeeze of muscle around him, but well worth the effort.

More of those whimpering noises escaped Snape as Draco rocked against him, deeper and deeper with each thrust, until he was fully seated. Then he put his back into it, his hands curving round Snape's shins to hold his legs in place, his mouth falling open as he gasped for breath, his eyes glued to the spectacle of Snape's face as he was fucked. Dark eyes wider and softer than Draco had ever seen them, swollen mouth parted, tongue flickering out over and over to wet his lips, a hectic flush in his cheeks, sweat beading at his temples and dampening his hair.

He was the single steamiest thing Draco had ever seen in his entire short, but varied, sexually-active life.

Then, when he least expected it ... Snape moved. Writhed beneath him. Tightened his arse round Draco's prick as if he was dragging the orgasm out of him by sheer force of will. The last of Draco's control shattered and he rammed raggedly into Snape's arse, screaming hoarsely as he came.

Long arms came out around his shoulders, pulling him close, as a stabbing pain caught him unawares, arcing from the middle of his forehead to the center of his brain. The agony on the heels of such ecstasy overloaded his system, and he collapsed, unconscious, as Snape went rigid beneath him, bathing his belly with come.

He came round a few hours later. The torches had burnt down, the fire was banked. He was still on the settee, and Snape's arms were still holding him tightly.

"What now?" he mumbled into the damp skin of Snape's neck. A shiver ran through Snape's body, and the arms began to draw away. Not liking that idea, Draco forced his own leaden arms to snake round Snape's waist and hold him still. "Don' go," he commanded in a sulky grumble.

"Bed?" Snape asked, sounding unusually hesitant.

"God, yeah," Draco responded immediately, perking up at the suggestion. Some parts of him perked up rather dramatically, and Snape pushed up against his prick, rubbing him to full hardness before Draco was fully awake. Not that Draco had any complaints. "Yours," he added, " 's closer!"

His prick made plans the rest of his body couldn't keep, struggle manfully as he did to fulfill them. He fell asleep still humping Snape's thigh, hands clamped sleepily if firmly on Snape's arse, exhibiting a definite sense of ownership. Not that Snape had any complaints. Then, or later.

Draco made bloody damned sure of that.

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Personal Pensieve: Epilog

Snape looked at the sprawled body of the man sleeping beside him, and smiled, safely in the dark where no one could see. This was NOT what he'd expected when he'd reached out. One who would reach back, and never let go.

It had been worth it. All of it. He scratched absently.

Even the fleas.

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END