Title: Chained Author: Anders Svartalfurinn Type: Fiction Length: ~ 13,700 words Main character or Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy Cards and Interpretations: I used the Llewellyn Web Tarot, the Celtic Dragon Deck, and got:
Page of Swords:You may have an impulsive desire for new experiences that could cause problems. Be warned of unexpected changes. This card is an advance notice of a troubled period in life.
Chains:Fear or reluctance to break from a bad situation or relationship is hindering your progress. You are chained in an oppressive situation by refusing to see the truth. A relationship in which you are involved is based on the wrong reasons and is not productive. Untrustworthy people are presenting themselves as something other than they are.
The Magician:You are discovering how to use the laws of magick, faith, and will-power to get what you need and desire. Study and practice in a new career or spiritual path that attracts you. Your thoughts and energies flow in harmony to accomplish what needs to be done. This is an excellent time to gain self-control.
Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing. Warnings: AU (canon compliant up to HBP) Summary: When trapped in Azkaban, despair seems to be the only option. Help, however, can come from the most surprising of places. Author Notes: Many thanks to my amazing betas, centaury_squill, leela_cat and perverse_idyll. You rock! My apologies to Alexandre Dumas, père. The Count of Monte Cristo was one of my favourite books when I was a child.
Azkaban was a black hole in the North Sea. The magic that guarded the prison was so powerful it absorbed everything, even the light of the sun. Waves broke against an invisible barrier and formed a veil of spray. A nutshell boat, a mere plaything of the waves, bobbed up and down in the current. The boat was getting faster by the minute. No one stood at the helm, and the oars were neglected. The three wizards who occupied it huddled in the stern, where one of them, clad in a prisoner's grey robes, fought against the chains that bound his arms and legs.
"He needs more Calming Draught," a stocky wizard in Auror robes said.
His companion shook his head. He was wearing immaculate white robes that identified him as a high Ministry official, and his face, despite the green tinge, flashed arrogance and disdain. "He's had more than enough," he said. "If we wanted to kill him, we could have saved ourselves this uncomfortable excursion."
The Auror shrugged his shoulders. "I don't care one way or the other. I've never had the opportunity to come here before. It's kind of interesting."
"Then pray to whatever higher powers you believe in that you don't have to repeat the journey under less fortunate circumstances."
"Bad memories?" The Auror chuckled and immediately regretted it as his companion smacked him across the head with the handle of his cane. The fangs of the silver snake scratched his shorn scalp. "Ouch," he said. "That was uncalled for, Mr Malfoy."
"I don't think so, Auror Goyle." Lucius Malfoy used a trough of the sea to straighten up to his full height, clutching his cane with both hands. He didn't resemble a sea-god so much as a fallen angel with a trident. "Show your superiors a modicum of respect, if you please."
Goyle nodded. "Sure," he said. When Malfoy raised an eyebrow, he hastily added, "Minister." The prisoner howled, kicking Malfoy's shin as hard as his bound legs allowed him. Malfoy fell backwards and cursed, Goyle kicked the prisoner in retaliation, and the boat rocked dangerously. "I don't understand why we can't petrify him and be done with it," Goyle said.
Malfoy had turned even greener. He fumbled for a vial in his robes and took a deep draught. "Stop being a cretin. We can't use magic inside the borders of Azkaban," he said. His voice was gruff. "Once we cross the wards, we're no better than Squibs." Abruptly, Malfoy leaned across the rail of the boat, heaving. When he turned back, he had his face hidden behind a huge white handkerchief. "Finite Incantatem won't work. Whatever we do to him with magic here can't be undone there." Goyle gave a shrug and grinned, but he left the prisoner, who was flopping about like a stranded fish, alone.
The boat neared the veil of spray that heralded the invisible barrier. The moment it made contact with the nothingness behind, a flash of lightning split the sky, forking down and creating a passageway. Thunder rolled, and the boat was gone.
Inside the wards, the sea was motionless. Not even the slightest ripple disturbed the eerie calm. A rock loomed in the distance, dark and menacing, with the tower of Azkaban Prison sitting on top of it like a raised finger. From a sky of molten silver, a diffuse grey light fell on the scenery, brushing everything with a ghostly shimmer.
"Row," Malfoy commanded in a sharp whisper, and he winced at the sound of the oars ripping the water.
Goyle had only done a few strokes before he stopped again. "What's that?" he asked, pointing ahead to where a strange vessel had cast off from the rock. It was a flat-bottomed gondola, long and narrow and painted black, and it was moving toward them. An Azkaban guard in black robes stood upright in the stern, a long pole in his hands. In front of him lay a prone figure on a bier, covered from head to toe in white bandages. Another guard sat in the bow. Malfoy nodded haughtily at the guards as the gondola passed by, and he and Goyle watched it slide soundlessly through the water, coasting to a halt close to the wards. The guards struggled to lift the bier and put it on the water without toppling the boat. As the gondola returned to Azkaban, the bandaged figure on the bier floated away and through the wards, not causing even so much as a ripple.
"What was that?" Goyle repeated.
"A burial," Malfoy said. "For most of its inmates, it's the only way to leave Azkaban." He looked down at his feet, at the prisoner who hadn't moved for some time now, and the hint of a smile flitted across his face. "The wards don't register dead matter, you see. Driftwood, seaweed, a corpse, it can all pass. Whereas a witch or a wizard ..."
Goyle reached for a small pendant dangling from a chain around his neck. It showed the letter A on one side and a boat on the other. Malfoy's smile turned diabolical. "You'd do well not to lose your permit. I'd hate to have to leave you behind."
Goyle hastily hid the pendant and chain under his robes. "Now row," Malfoy said. "I've already spent too much time in this desolate place."
Back on terra firma, the green tinge gone, Malfoy was wholly himself again. He ordered the guards who had come to greet them at the berth to take charge of the prisoner.
"Wait for me," he instructed Goyle. "I have to pay a visit to a dear friend."
As the guards dragged him away, the prisoner pleaded in a slurred voice, "I'm not the bad guy, he is. Go after him! Arrest him! I'm the Minister for Magic."
The guards only laughed.
The door crashed shut. Harry was alone. He slid to the floor, dizzy from seasickness and an overdose of Calming Draught. Determined not to despair, he struggled to his feet again. The door was solid metal; his fists barely made a sound as they pounded against it. "Let me out of here! It's a conspiracy. Malfoy's a traitor. Let me out! I'm the Minister. LET ME OUT!"
By the time Harry finally gave up, the door was covered with smudges of blood, and his fists hurt like hell. Desperate, he looked around the cell. It wasn't much bigger than his old cupboard at the Dursleys' and contained nothing but a narrow bunk bed and a plank on the floor. The plank was so heavy he could barely lift it, but he managed to lean it upright against the wall. Beneath it was a hole, not big enough to squeeze into, but so deep that he couldn't see the bottom. It emitted a stench so foul it would have made a giant sick. Harry threw up his last meal, pumpkin stew and treacle tart, knocked over the plank with a clatter and pushed it back across the hole with all the strength he could muster. Then he sat down on the floor.
He didn't know how much time had passed. The light from the window high above his head was of the same diffuse quality as when he arrived. His eye fell on the bed, which was rusty all over, the original white paint only visible at the junctions of the metal bars, where it sat in fat blobs. There was no mattress. A mouldy blanket covered the bedsprings of the lower bunk, and the upper bunk was empty.
The bed frame was relatively lightweight. Harry dragged it under the window. It protested, squealed and groaned and tilted away from the wall, but it stayed in position long enough to allow Harry to climb it and take hold of the two vertical bars that obstructed the opening.
Harry raged. "I'm innocent," he shouted. The sea below wasn't moved by his cries, and the wards, a huge grey dome over the island, mocked him. "What good did it do," he imagined them saying, "to drive the Dementors away? We're just as terrible, and now that we've got you, our maker, we'll keep you forever."
"I didn't make you," Harry said. "I may have ordered the prison to be warded ... In fact, I suppose I did, but I didn't make you."
The wards were completely silent.
"I didn't make you!" Harry shouted again.
The damp and the cold woke Harry. The bed scraped across the stone floor as he tried to huddle deeper into the blanket, and the bedsprings pierced his back. He didn't remember lying down, but sleep had given him hope.
There was a surefire way to regain his freedom, and Harry could have kicked himself for not having thought of it earlier. His scar was even more famous now than it had been during his childhood. Lucius had made it the symbol, the guiding light, as he called it, of the new wizarding world. It adorned the Ministry seal, shone from every official building in bright fairy lights, the shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade used it in their signs, and it appeared in the banner of the Daily Prophet. "It will always remind us of our mistakes and of our salvation," Lucius used to say, ruffling Harry's hair with one of those fatherly gestures Harry had missed so much as a child. Harry cringed at the memory, but he felt a huge amount of satisfaction at the fact that Lucius had outmanoeuvred himself. Azkaban might be the end of the world, a godforsaken place, yet it was still part of wizarding Britain. The guards were bound to recognise the symbol of the government. As soon as he had the opportunity to show them his forehead, he'd be a free man.
Harry rose from the bed and positioned himself opposite the door. The guards would have to bring him something to eat shortly. He waited.
Harry wanked. There were no days and nights at Azkaban, no sunsets and sunrises. The warded sky was forever the same grey, and the diffuse light never changed. What else was there to do?
As always when Harry wanked, he pictured Draco. Draco was smiling his small secretive smile, the one that made his nose and Harry's cock twitch, and his eyes were like stars. "Wait," Draco said, using exactly the same words he'd used when Harry had last seen him at Malfoy Manor. "Wait. Just a few more days, and we can be together."
Harry pumped harder. Draco waved a coquettish goodbye, and Ginny appeared in his place, looking at Harry with reproach. "Go away," Harry said.
"Pervert," she said. "Disgusting, filthy pervert." She walked out of his fantasy in a huff, leaving him to his perversions.
Harry called Draco's name, but daydream Draco turned out to be just as elusive as the man himself had always been. When Harry finally managed to force a few blobs of semen out of his sore prick, the sensation wasn't enough to allow for a pleasant sleepiness. Harry turned to the wall and closed his eyes, frustrated. There really was no escape from Azkaban.
Mere moments or hours later, the creaking sounds of a key being inserted into a lock woke him from an uneasy slumber. Harry didn't stir, didn't even move so much as an eyelid. He knew the procedure, and it was of no interest to him anymore.
The screech of metal against metal told him that the hatch in the lower third of the door was being opened. Water splashed, something scraped over the stone floor, and the stench of cabbage and rotten fish filled the cell; Harry's meal had been delivered.
"Hey, Minister," the guard called, "wanna play holding hands again?"
Harry balled his hands into fists. The knuckles of his right hand were still stiff from the clubbing they'd received when Harry had foolishly attempted to grip the hand of the guard through the hatch. Harry had given up trying to convince the guards of his identity, and he didn't respond to the taunts. When the hatch screeched shut, he scrambled off the bed and began to eat. The fish smelled worse than ever, and it looked green. Harry didn't care. He didn't know if he was hungry or suicidal.
A grey and diffuse amount of timelessness had passed when Harry once again woke to a scraping noise. This time, he couldn't identify the sound. He wondered if a rat had found its way into the cell, but decided against it; the noise was too steady and uniform to come from an animal.
Harry sat up and moved his head back and forth like an enchanted cobra, trying to locate the noise. It definitely came from the wall behind the bed. He jumped off the bed and pushed it out of the way. The squeal of the metal frame drowned out every other sound and, for a moment, Harry thought the noise had stopped. Then he heard it again: Scrape scrape scrape, deep inside the wall, as soothing as a lullaby.
Far from being sleepy, Harry pressed an ear against the cold stone. The noise was more distinct now, and it sounded like metal scratching on stone. A spoon? One of the tin bowls in which the meals were served? Could another prisoner be trying to send a message?
Harry had never wasted much thought on his fellow prisoners - they were, after all, criminals, and he was not - but the idea of communicating with one of them, with anyone, excited him. He grabbed his bowl, climbed onto the bed to dump the remaining cabbage soup out the window and scratched the bowl along the wall in a wild pattern. Breathing heavily, he sat down to listen.
Harry banged the bowl against the wall and hid his face behind cabbage-smelling hands.
Scrape scrape scrape. There it was again. Scrape scrape scrape? Who are you? Harry could hear the question as clearly as if it had been spoken.
Scratch scratch scratch. I'm Harry Scratch scratch scratch? Who are you?
Scrape scrape scrape. Scrape scrape scrape. I'm a friend. I'm a friend. I'm a friend.
Harry let himself be lulled by the melody. Scrape scrape scrape. It spoke of comfort, of touch and warmth, of companionship. It was as beautiful as daydream Draco's face. More beautiful even, since it was real. Scrape scrape scrape. Harry was in his cupboard at the Dursleys' once more, and the Hogwarts letters thudded against the windows outside. Scrape scrape scrape. Harry was in the shack in the middle of the sea, and Hagrid's fists were booming against the door.
Harry wanted to open that door. While the tin bowl made a lot of noise, it turned out to be useless for any other purpose. Harry reached for his spoon and started to scratch in earnest. He worked feverishly, but the mortar was strong. It took him three periods between meals to loosen a single stone.
Time passed, and Harry counted it in stones. The cell soon resembled a miniature construction site. For the first time, he was glad that the guards never looked inside. The wall consisted of layers on layers of stones, varying in size from pebble to infant's head. Harry piled them up in a triumphal pyramid. Each stone was a new victory.
After five stones, the spoon snapped in two. Harry rejoiced when he found out that the sharp ends of the fragments were much more suitable for digging than the whole spoon had been.
After eleven stones, his hands were so badly skinned that he believed he couldn't go on. He swore never again to touch that blasted spoon and went to sleep. Scrape scrape scrape, his companion soothed him from behind the wall, scrape scrape scrape, don't give up, and Harry didn't.
After eighteen stones, he could see a shimmer of light falling through a tiny gap in the mortar. He dropped the spoon shard and, with his hand, pushed against the stone next to the gap. About the size of a fist, the stone moved a little. By now, the hole in the wall was several feet deep, but it wasn't yet wide enough for Harry to squeeze his whole body through. He could either crouch down to look at the stone or work at it. Doing both at the same time was impossible.
The next time Harry bent down to peer through, the gap had broadened. The stone wobbled backwards and forwards, and then it was gone. For a second, a faint light flickered through the tunnel. Then something different took the place of the stone. Harry pushed his arm into the hole and encountered warmth, soft and hard at the same time. After several seconds, he realised what it was.
"Woohoo," he shouted. "Hey there. Hello." He gripped the hand of his digging companion and shook it as thoroughly as possible in the narrow confines of the hole. "I'm Harry. What's your name?"
The grip tightened on Harry's hand, and that was the only answer he got. Harry wondered if the other man was mute. It didn't matter. His touch, warm and steady and so much more comforting than anything Harry had felt in ages, was enough. They stayed like that for a long moment. The grey light of the wards didn't change - Harry's cell was still cold and damp - but it was as if the universe had taken a step to the right and given him a new, improved view. Hope, that was the word, Harry thought. Hope. He touched his face with his free hand, marvelling when his fingers encountered something wet. Tears were running down his cheeks.
Much later, he felt the thumb of his companion moving slowly across his palm, describing a triangle over and over again. Harry knew the signal, had often received it and sometimes given it himself. It was part of the secret code that gay wizards used to communicate. His companion was telling him that he was gay and fancied a fuck. Harry returned the signal. He was certainly interested. The universe had just smiled at him.
Time, when counted in stones, was dragging, and Harry could barely wait to touch more than the hand of his companion. He started to think of him as of his lover. It didn't matter that, so far, he had neither a face nor a voice to flesh out his fantasies. Long, elegant fingers replaced daydream Draco's starry eyes, fingers so dexterous they could play Harry like an instrument.
Harry wondered about the real Draco, the man who had told him he loved him yet had never touched him, the man who had promised him everything mere hours before his father committed treason. Harry didn't know what to believe anymore, and he preferred not to think about it. His lover, the only reality he now knew, was waiting behind the wall.
When, after another seventeen stones, Harry's middle finger got sucked into wet heat while suggestive slurping noises accompanied the most amazing sensation, he learned two things: that he still, like a teenager, could come without his cock being touched, and, probably more important in a situation as peculiar as theirs, that his lover could squeeze his body through his side of the tunnel.
And then, one fine day - or night, Harry couldn't tell - after fifty-three stones had gone by, the tunnel was complete. It lay before him, a hole wide enough to crawl through. Despite the low temperature of the cell, Harry was sweating. His heart throbbed violently in his chest, and his breath almost failed him when he called through the opening, "Do you want to come through, or do you prefer me to come to you?"
Heavy breathing was his only answer, and Harry was unsure what to do. After several heart-beats, the feeble light that had been shimmering through the hole vanished. The breathing was coming closer. Harry waited for his lover with bated breath.
The first he saw of him was his hand. It was as white as the underbelly of a dead fish, adorned by a pattern of red scratches, and the broken-off fingernails were black with dirt. The fingers, however, were long and elegant. A second hand appeared, followed by a head that was hidden behind long strands of hair, grey and filthy. When his lover finally managed to climb into Harry's cell, he rose to his feet and looked at Harry.
"You?" Harry imagined ice-cold fingers closing around his throat. Every word hurt. "You?" Harry repeated, "I thought you were dead."
"Think again," Severus Snape said, an ugly grin marring his face. "Do I look like a dead man to you?"
Harry thought that yes, Snape did indeed resemble a corpse. His face was a skull covered with parchment, with black holes for eyes. Only the nose , more beaky than ever, gave his identity away. "You look like Death himself," Harry said. Then he took in the rest of his appearance, the sparse beard, the sullied robes and the thin feet with nails like talons. "You make a great prison bird." Harry laughed mirthlessly. "Look how dirty you are."
Snape's voice was steel sheathed in velvet. "You can talk, Potter."
Unwilling to think about his own dirty robes, his filthy hair and the grime in his beard, Harry said, "Yes, I can talk, just like you. So why didn't you? Why did you play the mute all that time?"
"Would you have collaborated, had you known it was me?" When Harry didn't answer, Snape added, "There you are."
"Why, Snape? Why did you even go on with the digging after you had learned who it was on the other side?"
"It's good to know that some things never change," Snape said and began to move in Harry's direction. "You still believe you're special, don't you? Let me tell you something, Potter." Snape stood very close now. His breath was hot against Harry's face. It smelled of cabbage and rotten fish. "You're as good as anyone. I'm a pragmatic. My expectations aren't high."
"What do you want?"
"Didn't I make myself clear?" Snape moved even closer. His beard tickled Harry's mouth, eliciting the most exquisite sensations, and, in a parody of intimacy, the tip of Snape's tongue burned a triangle on Harry's cheek. "You already agreed, or have you forgotten?"
"I didn't know it was you." Harry cringed at his own voice, high-pitched and jarring. He tried to push his tormentor away, but Snape, thin and strong like weed, stood his ground.
"In a situation like ours, what does it matter? Under a timeless sky, warded for all eternity, what do old grudges and petty prejudices mean? This is a place without future. Don't allow the past to deprive us of comfort and companionship."
Caressing and purring, Snape's voice was velvet seduction. And didn't he have a point? Anything was better than nothing at all, and even a man like Snape, in all his ugliness, was preferable to the godforsaken loneliness Harry had lived in for so long. He succumbed to the magic of Snape's words, pressed back against his warm body, pushed his heavy cock between Snape's legs, and nearly came when a promising hardness rubbed across his belly. When Snape took him into his arms, whispering soothing nonsense into his ear, it hit Harry like a flash of lightning. "No," he said. "No. Anyone else, yes. But Dumbledore's murderer - never." This time he managed to push Snape away.
Snape stood, arms hanging loose, a look of incredulity on his face. "Does that mean my name was never cleared?"
Harry shook his head. Snape had been dead, one of the many casualties of the war, and Harry had been glad: one Death Eater less on the run. Lucius had told him how Snape had been Voldemort's second in command. His account had made it seem as if Snape had truly been the Dark Lord, the driving force behind everything, and Harry had believed it all too willingly. Lucius had even claimed that Snape had forced him to give Tom Riddle's diary to Ginny Weasley in Harry's second year. Of course, Lucius had turned out to be a traitor.
"I hoped that the Headmaster's Pensieve had been found, or that his portrait would have testified for me. Or McGonagall, Kingsley ..." Snape's voice trailed off. The velvet was gone. He sounded defeated.
Kingsley. Harry remembered an incident shortly before Kingsley had gone missing. He'd sent an Owl, asking for an interview. I have important information that should be considered before the planning of the War Memorial goes any further, information about Snape's role in the war. There's proof, but I have to talk to you in person. Lucius had promised to look into it. Then Ron, Hermione and the baby had been killed by the Carrows, and Harry had forgotten everything else. Lucius had been there to comfort him, had been a second father to him, always at his side. Lucius.
Hot rage shot through Harry. "I saw you there on the tower. I saw you killing him."
"I freely admit that I spoke the final Avada Kedavra," Snape said. "However, I didn't kill the Headmaster. The curse on his ring had already succeeded in doing so. Albus Dumbledore was a dead man the moment he put it on his finger."
Harry remembered Dumbledore's blackened arm, shrivelled like that of a mummy. He remembered the cave. Once and for all, Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your power to make me keep drinking?
"He made you do it," Harry said, and he was sure that his voice sounded just as defeated as Snape's just had.
Snape nodded, mute once more.
"Please, just leave me alone. I need some time on my own. We can talk later, all right?"
Snape nodded a second time and crawled back through the hole.
"Potter." Snape's voice came from the other side of the wall. Harry ignored it, just like he'd ignored it the last time and the time before that. Two meals had passed since their confrontation, and Harry longed to be able to count time in stones again. "Potter."
He closed his eyes. Starry-eyed Draco refused to appear. After Harry had managed to drive an irate Ginny away, the hands of his lover took over his fantasy. More skilled than ever, they teased and coaxed, soothed and incited. Harry was on fire. His whole body ached for those hands to be real. From the shadows behind his eyelids a face emerged, beaky nose and greasy hair, and - wasn't that odd? - Harry didn't find it horrible at all. "Snape," he said, full of wonder, "Snape."
There was a clatter of stones accompanied by a loud curse, and when Harry opened his eyes, he saw the face of his fantasy lover right before him. Real and distorted in anger, it was a horrible sight. "Potter," Snape said, "is it asking too much of you to keep such a tiny space uncluttered?"
"Is it asking too much of you to keep my triumphal monument intact?" Harry looked at the collapsed pyramid. "By the way, I didn't invite you in."
"You called my name," Snape said. "And I see that you're in need ..." Kneeling down in front of the bunk bed and pushing the prison robes out of the way, he touched Harry's hand, the hand that was frozen around his stiff cock. "... in dire need of my services." He lowered his head and took Harry's cock into his mouth.
"Mmm," Harry said, "mmm." He didn't know if he was trying to voice protest or approval. Snape's mouth was so good, so incredibly hot and skilled, and it had been so long. "Oh. Yes." So very long. Ginny had never done stuff like that - not that Harry had wanted her to - and Draco had never touched him. There had been a number of men, men he'd met at bars and clubs in Muggle London or in Knockturn's lowest dives, yet Harry didn't remember if they had ever been that ... "Perfect."
He succumbed to the heat and forgot everything else. His hands involuntarily moved to the top of Snape's head, not minding the dirt and the grime, encouraging his lover to take him deeper, and deeper still, into oblivion. Leaving the prison cell behind, he soared up into an endless sky, flying high above the waves. Before him was a golden flutter, the Snitch. He stretched out his hand to grasp it, "Yes, so close, yes -"
The fantasy stopped abruptly. Harry was back in his cell at Azkaban, and his balls hurt. "Ouch," he said. "What the fuck was that for?"
Snape released his balls. "Selfish brat. Don't you dare come before me."
"Don't you trust me to return the favour?" Harry's hard-on had subsided. He was vexed. Leave it to Snape to be an annoying git even in an intimate situation. "You'll get your blow job. Come here." Maybe, if they tried really hard not to move too much, they could do some sixty-nining. Harry's prick liked the idea, but the bed squealed in protest when he shifted around to accommodate Snape.
Still kneeling amid the scattered stones, Snape looked irritable, the parchment of his face creased. "I don't want a blow job," he said. "I want a fuck, a long and satisfying fuck. Can you do that for me, Potter?"
"What? I ..." Harry breathed slowly in and out to prevent his voice from squeaking. "We don't even have lube."
"Oh," Snape said, and the lines of his face switched from irritable to diabolic. "How ever could I forget? It seems you have to give me a blow job first, after all. Natural lube may not be the best, but alas, it has to suffice."
"I'm sure I made myself quite clear. Now up with you, and out of that bed. It's more comfortable when we switch places."
"For whom?" The rest of Harry's protest - This is my cell. I won't allow you to order me around. - remained unspoken when Snape got up from the floor and, in a swift movement, shed his robes.
A skeleton covered in parchment, Snape's body matched his face. The sparse body hair couldn't conceal the many scars, but the Dark Mark, Harry noticed, had completely faded. While Snape's feet were black with dirt, the rest of him was astonishingly clean. His skin was fish-belly white, and his prick - Harry swallowed at the sight - his heavy, gorgeous prick was hard and red.
Harry scrambled off the bed. Any protest would've been stupid, he now realised. Their arrangement was for their mutual gratification, and if Snape wanted to be the one in charge, Harry was happy to oblige. Who would've thought that someone as ugly as Snape had such a beauty hidden under his robes?
"Stop gawping, Potter, and get to work."
Snape settled himself on the lower bunk, his legs spread wide. Harry knelt down between them and greeted the prick in front of him with a tentative swivel of his tongue. "Hello, Gorgeous." Wrapping his hands around the shaft, he stroked slowly up and down. "What do you want?"
Snape gave a drawn out sigh. "Your mouth, idiot, what do you think? Get on with it."
Without haste, Harry licked a long line from the balls to the head. "We have all the time in the world," he said, repeating the motion.
"Yes, indeed. I've been waiting more than seven years for a moment like this. I'm not inclined to wait a second longer. Now, Potter!" Deciding to show mercy, Harry finally took the head into his mouth and sucked. Snape thanked him with a low moan. "Much better. Yes, exactly like that."
Snape's reaction fuelled Harry's own desire. He moved up and down on Snape's cock, stroking the lower part of the shaft with one hand while pumping his own cock with the other. "Mmm," he hummed around Snape's cock.
"Don't," Snape said, moaning. "Don't touch yourself. I still need your cock."
Harry had difficulty not coming from Snape's words alone. Reminding himself of the reality of Azkaban life, he managed to curb his excitement a bit. Snape was breathing heavily now, and his cock was growing even harder in Harry's mouth. Releasing it, Harry blew a stream of air across the head. He put a finger between his lips, wetted it thoroughly and circled Snape's balls. Then he made his way to Snape's hole. "Why don't you come and produce a nice amount of lube?" he said and once more swallowed Snape's cock.
"Don't tell me what to do, Potter." Snape's voice had lost its commanding tone, though. It was merely a whimper.
Harry wriggled his finger in Snape's hole. "Please," he said, and Snape came.
While Harry prepared Snape with his own semen - one finger, two fingers, scissoring, exactly like he'd seen the moving pictures in illegal magazines do it - he thought that it was probably too late now to tell his lover that he'd never done this before. He hoped it didn't show; he'd always been a hands-on learner. Making Snape a silent promise to compensate for his lack of expertise with intensity and dedication, he removed his fingers. Snape's hole twitched when he spread the last drops of come across it. Harry drooled into his hands and prepared himself.
"Don't dawdle." Snape was lying on his back, his feet holding on to the upper bunk, his arse high in the air. Aligning his salivated prick with Snape's hole, Harry thought that he was a grotesque sight. "I need you inside me," Snape said, and Harry obeyed, slowly breaching the first ring of muscle with his cock. The bed squealed when Snape pushed back. "More, Potter," he said, and Harry thrust all the way home.
The feeling was amazing. Exactly as he had imagined and, yet, so very different. Hotter. Tighter. More intense. Real. Harry's hips started to move on their own volition. He moaned. Snape whimpered. The bed squealed.
"All right?" Harry asked.
"Yes. Idiot. Harder." Snape's whimpers reminded Harry of the agonised groans of a dying man, and his face, bizarrely distorted, seemed a mask of pain. Harry remembered the night Dumbledore died. He remembered Snape's flight from Hogwarts and all the times he'd fantasised about killing Snape. Fantasy Snape had looked exactly like that, pleading for mercy.
"Beg, Snape," Harry said. "Beg me to spare you." He was so very close now, the heat was burning him alive.
"Don't be silly, Potter," Snape said between whimpers. "Give it to me. Give me everything you have. I can take it. And more." He laughed. "So much more."
Harry looked down at the ugly face, and a jumble of emotions boiled up inside him. Hatred, love, anger, joy, sorrow, passion - all at once, they shot through him like a bolt of wild magic. In his whole life, he'd never felt a connection like this, and, for a second, the chains that bound him - Draco, Lucius, Ginny, the perverse nature of his desires - everything dissolved into thin air. Howling his triumph to the prison stones, he came. The bed gave a last tormented squeal when Harry collapsed on top of Snape. Silence.
"You didn't come," Harry said afterwards, stroking Snape's half-hard prick. "I'm sorry."