Warnings: may be chan, Harry’s 17
Pairing(s): Harry/Snape
Author's Notes: This is the first of a series I’ve been working on a for awhile now and posting on fanfiction.net. They’re supposed to be light and humorous, and essentially without plot!

Summary: Harry can’t concentrate during potions…


By roxierocks


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

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

“Mister Potter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The irony is never lost on you.

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at you.

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

His lips curl in the tiniest of smiles.

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

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

Nothing can be given away.

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

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

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

And then, finally.

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

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

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

But you can’t help it.

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

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

“You’re not trying hard enough.”

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

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

Still nothing.

“People will begin to suspect.”

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

“So you are speaking to me than?”

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

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

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

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

You glare at the wall behind his head.

“You’re angry with me.”

It isn’t a question.

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

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

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

The tarantula legs are pushed aside.

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


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

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

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

“What is it you want?”

He kisses you harshly, briefly.

“Tell me.”

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

He laughs softly. He knows what you want.

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

Oh, he definitely knows what you want.

“When Harry?” he breathes against your neck.

“Now,” you gasp.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight. Eight o’clock.

You smile at your other favourite words.

The irony is never lost on you.

Return to Archive