Author's Notes: Companion piece to It's a Long Way Home. With special thanks to Babycakes for the beta and for approving of this bit of pointless smut.

Warning: Contains underage wanking in the presence of an animal

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the character that appear in this story. They belong to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros. and Scholastic. I don't make or intend to make money of them.

Wet Christmas

By Donna Immaculata


After dinner, Bill waits patiently until everyone else has washed, showered, brushed their teeth, brushed their hair, gone to the loo, brushed their teeth again because they've been nicking biscuits and were caught by Mrs. Weasley, gone to the loo again and finished all the necessary pre-bed activities, before he uses the bathroom himself.

He loves this aspect of coming home: The moment he steps into the bathroom, closes the door quietly behind himself, and turns the key in the lock, he breathes in deeply and leans back against the door. Closes his eyes. Smiles. A solitary shower seems the best Christmas present he could wish for. Bill briefly considers becoming a Prefect the next year, if only to be able to indulge in long, hot, lonely baths in the legendary Prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts.

He opens his eyes again and looks straight into the mirror over the sink. Bill holds the serious gaze of his own reflection. His face has started to change a couple of months ago: small, subtle changes. He has never been a pudgy child, and now, what little puppy fat he's had is starting to vanish. He likes to think that his features are turning sharper, more angular, and wonders what he will look like when he grows up. What his body will look like. Right now, he is too pale and too lanky, he finds: he had grown too quickly in a short time, and his arms and legs feel too long and too thin.

Bill takes off his robe and starts unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his narrow shoulders and chest, dusted with freckles. He raises his hand and traces his collar bone. Too sharp. Too prominent. His ribs are clearly displayed under the pale skin of his torso. He runs a hand down his chest, his belly. Stops at the waistband of his trousers, looking intently in the mirror. Suspiciously.

He is glad, for once, that his family is too poor to afford proper, stylish mirrors. Ones that talk to you when you stand in front of them. The mirrors in his parents' house are old, weary. Most of them have long lost the willingness or the ability to talk.

From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of something moving behind him. He turns around and detects Percy's rat Scabbers perched on top of the laundered towels.

"What are you doing here, hm? Shouldn't you be with my brother?" He reaches out and scratches Scabbers' fluffy head with his index finger. Scabbers pushes into the contact. Bill smiles. "You're a funny little beastie, aren't you?"

Bill pulls back his hand and starts fumbling with his fly buttons. He pushes his trousers and pants past his sharp hipbones and frees his feet from the material. He is already half-erect when he steps into the shower.

The hot water on his skin feels wonderful, and for a few moment, Bill remains standing perfectly still, his face turned upwards, his eyes closed, and his mouth open. He loves the feeling of water drops falling heavily on his tongue. It tickles, and Bill shivers with pleasure. His right hand comes up and starts stroking his hard cock in slow, steady motion. It has not been very long since he has discovered this delicious feeling, but he was addicted to it in an instant. He increases the pace slightly, shifting his feet apart for a better balance.

The image he had expected suddenly appears before his mind's eye. A pair of black eyes, glaring menacingly down at him. Bill gasps. He braces himself against the wall with his left arm. Squeezes his eyes tightly shut to preserve the vision of these black eyes, cold and fathomless. Eyes Bill has seen flashing up in hot fury, too. Burning painfully with passion. This intense gaze has triggered something in Bill. He does not know what it is he wants, but every time the man's glare is directed at him, he feels a burning desire for - something. For doing something. For having done something to himself. He - wants.

The dry theory of sexual behaviour is not unknown to him, but he has never before fully understood the meaning of sexual desire. The heat oozing slowly up from inside his belly, the tremors shaking his body when he touches himself *here* and *there*, the feeling of numbness in his feet, and later in his hands, when he steadily approaches the point of his release. The sensations are so powerful, and Bill wonders vaguely how he would be supposed to survive sharing this feeling with another person? Sharing this with *him*? It would probably kill him. His thoughts drift away and he wonders what the other man's body would feel like, but it's hard to imagine him naked. He knows what other boys' bodies look like, but what would a grown-up man look like and feel like? Bigger. Heavier. Rougher. His mind fails in providing details, though. He settles for what he knows: dark eyes. A glare, mind-blowing in its intensity.

Bill moans softly, moving his hand all the way down his shaft. Holding it there. His skin seems almost too soft, too delicate a barrier for all this tension, too thin to prevent his cock from bursting painfully. He bites his lip, but does not give in the temptation to come on the spot. He's not in his dormitory, surrounded by his school mates, forced to come quickly and quietly.

Here, he can indulge.

The image of dark, blazing eyes is not enough any longer. His fantasy readily supplies the image of the entire face, the elegantly arched eyebrows. The thin, cruel mouth.

Mouth. Mouth is good, Bill thinks, moaning louder. Mouth means pleasure.

He opens his own mouth again, sticks his tongue out under the gush of hot water. Thousand water drops seem to pierce his over-sensitised skin. He wants to feel the other's mouth doing to his tongue what the water drops are doing now. Vaguely, he feels they are only a poor replacement.

Breathe. His need for air forces him to lower his head again. He opens his eyes and stares at his own boyish, scratched hand curled around his cock. He focuses on conjuring up the image of it being fisted by the man's long, elegant fingers instead. He wouldn't be gentle, thinks Bill and pushes down hard. His hips jerk forward on their own accord, thrusting his cock into the mind-boggling friction of his hand. Snape's hand.

Snape's slim, talented hand. Larger than his own. Rougher. Rough is good, thinks Bill dizzily. More friction. Friction is good.

His hips are thrusting violently now. He does not want to come yet, not before his mind supplies him with the image of Snape's face instead of his hand. He concentrates hard, panting with lust and effort alike. Manages to picture Snape on his knees, mouth open. Pushes his cock inside. Hard. Comes.

The force of his orgasm blurs his vision, leaves him breathless under the hot stream of water. He rests his head on his forearm, his palm flattened against the wall. His right hand still wrapped tightly around his cock.

Sticky. He opens his eyes, watches his semen drip down to the ground in thick, heavy drops, which are instantly washed away by the running water. He turns it off.

Would he like it? The thought hits him all of a sudden. Would Snape like what it tastes like? Would he swallow Bill whole and not release him until he'll suck every last drop out of him?

Bill raises his hand slowly, takes a good look at the white, thick fluid. Brings his fingers up to his lips, sucks them in. Gradually, deliberately. When he closes his eyes, like that, he can almost imagine his fingers to be Snape's cock. Thick and heavy with semen. The idea is somehow scary, and Bill pulls out his fingers with a soft noise.

There is still spunk clinging to them, and he reaches for the towel to wipe it away. His gaze falls on Scabbers who is crouching on top of the clean towels. "Move away, Scabbers," Bill says, pushing the rat aside gently. "I need to wipe -"

He pauses. Grins.

"Or maybe you'd like to lick them clean," he whispers, bringing his sticky fingers right before Scabbers' nose. "Come on! Try it!"

He watches the rat sniff at his fingers, whiskers scratching lightly over his wet skin. Scabbers pushes closer, and Bill feels the soft, smooth rat tongue dart across his fingertips. Tickling.


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