Disclaimer: Just borrowing, don't own them. Hopefully nobody who owns these characters will ever read it. I blame Alan Rickman for being so damned sexy.

Unexpected 5, by Seeker. Rated NC17.

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After Potter visited Snape on his, erm, sick bed, recovery was prolonged an extra day until Snape had energy enough to do more than pull a pillow over his head and try to think of a hex that would break the recording mirror fixed above his bed without showering himself in shards. After nearly suffocating when he fell asleep without displacing the pillow from its seat over his nose, he threw it across the room, pulled the covers up over his head and grumbled himself back to sleep.

Monday brought its own challenges. For only the second day in the eight schooldays since Voldemort's legions were toasted, Snape found himself facing a schoolroom full of students. Confidence in the frightfulness of his sneer restored, he used it to full and fatal effect on every one of his classes.

Three hundred eleven ruined potions, a gross of broken cauldrons, and eighteen students carted off to languish under Pomfrey's tender care later, he decided perhaps his mirror had lied to him regarding the ferocity of his trademark glower. It would appear that narrowed eyes, a curled lip and a scorching glare through hanging black hair, whilst terrifying at fifty, was downright electrifying at twenty-five. Not for the first time, he cursed Voldemort from the bottom of his heart.

Even worse than the utter waste of his time that the day had been was the fact that, for the first time in his entire teaching career, his students didn't flee from the classroom as soon as the bell freed them. No. Many of them *stayed after class.* To *talk* to him.

Hrmph. Moon over him, more like, and if that wasn't the most appalling thing he'd ever had to suffer he didn't know what was. Carefully refusing to think of Potter assaulting him in his own classroom (and in his bath, and in his bedroom, and in the forest ...), thankful at least that the new DADA professor was too busy fielding his own love-struck mooning students, Snape snarled and snapped at the idiots who gathered round him on all sides until they finally left.

The fact that they only did leave because the next class had filed in and there was no further *room* for them didn't ease his mind in the least. As predicted by earlier events, his seventh-years, final period, were an utter nightmare, which he only escaped by scuttling out the back door and aiming a locking spell at the door, slamming it in the over-eager faces of the horde chasing after him. Several of them bounced off. He smiled, a decidedly nasty edge to it, upon hearing their muttered curses and yelps of pain.

The day set a pattern for those to follow. He took to lecturing from the front of the class, leaving from the back, arriving via that same multi-magicked door before unlocking the front for the students to pour in. He was besieged. His fellow professors found it highly amusing, when they weren't dropping anvil-heavy propositions of their own in his unappreciative lap. The only saving grace to the ridiculous situation was that Potter left him alone, being in a similar state of siege himself.

Snape refused to admit he rather missed Potter's attentions. He'd gone without sex for years. Another few weeks surely wouldn't kill him. The fifth time he found himself staring intently at Potter over luncheon, to the point where young Professor Percy Weasley's hand was actually *on* his thigh before he was aware of the advance, precipitated a change in his eating habits. Scones and salad at lunch in his rooms wasn't that bad, considering the alternative.

Of course, such a state of affairs could not last. Called into Dumbledore's office to discuss the matter, Snape sat, tea cooling on his knee, and stared in utter disbelief at the headmaster.

"Office hours?" Are you completely insane? echoed eerily for an unspoken question. Dumbledore nodded and smiled at him. Potty. Potty as a potted plant, the man. Snape carefully placed his tea on the table by his elbow, planted both hands on his knees, and bellowed, "Over my dead body!"

"Well, if you insist," Dumbledore rumbled good-naturedly, reaching for his wand. Not quite sure in what state the Apocalyptic Battle had left Dumbledore's wits, Snape hastily demurred.

"No, no, no, that's quite all right, I'll ..." he gulped. "Office hours?" he whined, one last time. "All alone, one on one, in that little bitty dungeon with *no* *back* *door*?"

The whimsical smile on the headmaster's face broadened. "No need to fear, my dear Severus. After all, if worse comes to worst, there's always the side window."

Two days later, the first day of the ill-fated office hours, Snape resorted to exactly that. It wasn't his fault. He had no idea the fifth-year bastard cousin Malfoy raised in the wilds of Wales by a woman who made Lucius look like Mary Poppins had a crush on him, nor that he would be quite so ... pressing ... about pressing the subject. Snape backed the lad into a corner, threw a binding curse that had the boy literally chewing at his own sleeves to escape it, and, clutching his wand tight to his chest, he threw himself out the window.

Of course, being that the window *was* in the dungeons, that meant throwing himself out into a dingy, dusty, disgusting maze of underground corridors, but that was quite all right. Eventually he made his way to the surface.

Only to be surrounded by a half dozen Slytherins, ranging from third-year to seventh, who were neither put off nor even slightly slowed-down by the disreputable appearance of their house head. No, without a trace of hesitation, a couple of them giving cries much as huntsmen would upon sighting a fox (and several more sounding quite like the hounds when doing the same), they took out after him. He ran flat out for the Forest, hoping to either lose them in the trees or have them fall down and break their necks. Whatever got them off his heels would be gratefully accepted.

The solid wall that was Hagrid wasn't quite what he was expecting by way of a saviour, but when in need, anyone would do. Darting past a cowering Fang, Snape dove behind Hagrid, hanging onto his shirttails and trying not to inhale too deeply, it having been some time since the shirt had been anywhere near a laundry.

"Help!" he yelped dismally. The Slytherins closed fast. Hagrid gave a startled grunt, glanced down over his shoulder at Snape, gave him a leer that passed for a reassuring smile if one was exceedingly liberal in one's definition of reassurance, and turned on the Slytherins.

Snape had to let go his hold for Hagrid to do his work, but it was worth it. Slavering and laying about with his ham-sized fists, Hagrid made short work of the Slytherins, whose self-preservations instincts were stronger than lust and who finally departed. Whining. Snape wondered fuzzily when the house mascot had changed from Snake to Hound and why no one had mentioned it to him, then Hagrid loomed in front of him and his thoughts veered to wondering if he had exchanged one hunt for another.

Hagrid reached out a massive paw toward him and Snape cringed automatically, but all he got for his pains was a pat on the head, much as if he were a dog himself. Straightening, he glared at Hagrid for his presumption.

Oops.

If the Glare had failed dramatically to quell the students, it was positively flirtatious to Hagrid, or at least that was the only thing Snape could figure, since Hagrid immediately swept him up and covered him with kisses. Sloppy kisses. Obviously the man had spend much too much time with no one but Fang for company. Snape was just freeing his wand to throw a binding curse on Hagrid when Potter's voice rang out behind him.

"Expelliarmus!"

Damn and blast. His wand went flying before he could point it at anyone. Wrenching his head to the side, he glared wildly at Potter, grinning quite evilly at him from a few feet away. Hagrid took the change in position as an invitation and licked his neck. If it hadn't been for the drool soaking the collar of his robe, the rough caress would actually have been somewhat arousing, disgusting as the thought was.

"So, cheating on me, eh, Severus?" Potter asked, unanswerably, as he came up the last few feet to stand sandwiching Snape against Hagrid's bulk. "Bored already? We can't have that."

The last few words were spoken directly into Snape's ear, causing an involuntary shiver to ripple all the way down his body. Hagrid crooned and licked harder. Potter caught Hagrid's beard with one hand and tugged him away much more gently than Snape would have wished.

"Let's have some fun, Hagrid."

"Let's not!" Snape protested. Potter and Hagrid ignored him. Snape muttered, "Really, now, this is ridiculous --"

"Turn him around, facing me," Potter suggested, and Hagrid complied readily. Snape tried once again.

"This is outrageous! Quite enough --"

Potter took hold of his face with both hands, holding him completely still, and stuck his tongue most of the way down Snape's throat. Not being able to breathe, much less speak, Snape gave up protest and concentrated on remaining conscious. When Potter judged him thoroughly silenced, he broke the kiss. At which point Snape realized, by the breeze running across his bare arse, that Hagrid and Potter between them had rucked up his robe and tugged down his trousers.

Before he could think of any response whatsoever beyond gaping like a beached fish, Potter pushed Snape's head down and Hagrid held his hips up. It turned out to be fortuitous that his mouth was already open, because that made it quite easy for Potter to thrust in the erect prick he already had out, waiting and dripping. Snape's tongue was wrapped around it and he was sucking before he gave it a thought.

That was also just as well, because at an unseen command over his head from Potter, Hagrid sunk two huge fingers, barely wet with spit, deep into his arse. And twisted. Drew them out and plunged them again.

And twisted.

Snape's eyes closed and he screamed around the prick pistoning into and out of his mouth. Then Hagrid shoved harder, and Snape screamed again, only this time Potter thrust all the way into his throat at the same time Hagrid pushed, so when he screamed the vibrations bathed Potter's prick all the way up to his balls.

Judging by his wheezed, "Bloody hell, yes!" that must have felt good. Hagrid must've liked something about it, too, or else he really wanted young Harry to have a very good time, because they continued to fuck Snape in tandem, at both ends. Potter would pull out barely far enough for Snape to gasp a breath, as Hagrid pulled his fingers out, then they'd both drive in, Snape would scream, Potter would moan, and they'd do it all over again.

Somehow in all the commotion Snape's hands had ended up wrapped around Potter's hips, and his prick, though unattended, was rock-hard and leaking, whipping back and forth between his thighs as he was double-mounted. He tried to pry a hand away to attend himself, but before he got the chance, a huge hand reached beneath him. When the fingers wrapped around his prick, pressing it back into the wide palm, the poor erection was completely engulfed.

Potter was making incoherent noises now, echoed by Snape though no one would know it, muffled as they were. Hagrid started milking Snape's prick roughly, each squeeze feeling rather as if it would be pulled completely off, each time the thick fingers forced themselves back up his arse, redoubling his screams round Potter's prick.

Orgasm caught Snape unawares and he buckled in Hagrid's hands, arching and flopping like a mad thing. Potter's hands clamped about his jaw kept him from biting off anything important, and his thrashing carried Potter over the edge as well. As Potter shot his seed down Snape's throat, the paw at Snape's prick disappeared, and he heard a rustling like sandpaper on a log before Hagrid gave a huge groan.

In the next instant a hot stream of thick liquid gushed over Snape's flank, shooting over his hip and catching the fingers still working in his spasming arse. The stray thought struck him that Hagrid was cramming his sperm up Snape's arse without actually fucking him, and glancing out the side of his eye, he decided that was a good thing. If Hagrid had tried to shove that log up his arse Snape wouldn't have survived the experience.

Collapsed on his knees, head cradled against Potter's spent prick, Hagrid's fingers still rooting lazily in his arse, covered from ankles to mid-back with Hagrid's spunk, Snape happened to open his eyes and see, of all things, Fang. Lolling off to the side, tongue hanging out, eyes bright and happy. If he hadn't known better, he'd swear the blasted hound was laughing at him.

Then Hagrid was pulling his hand, with extreme reluctance, from Snape's arse, and Potter was pulling him to his feet. Snape tried to think of something appropriately cutting to put the fear of God and angry Potion Masters into Hagrid, but Potter trumped him. Again.

"Great fun, Hagrid! Must do this again sometime."

Snape gave a strangled groan. As usual, Potter and Hagrid ignored him. Potter added cheerfully, "But this one, you shouldn't tell anyone. Really."

Hagrid was still crossing his heart and hoping to die, a hope sincerely seconded by Snape, when Potter dragged Snape back to Hogwart's. Luckily, it was dinner, so no rabidly lustful students were lying in wait for either of them. Snape held a wounded silence all the way back. Once there, he unwound his arm from Potter's waist, pretending it hadn't been there the whole time, and stomped as well as he could, sloshing as he was, down to his rooms. Potter's chuckle followed him all the way down to the dungeon.

Life since Voldemort's downfall just kept getting better. Snape wondered if he could get away with spending the rest of his life in bed with his covers up over his head.

And if so, his libido suggested irrepressibly, then perhaps he could convince Potter to join him ...

END