Fic: Severus Snape in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing with a Probity Probe Title: Sounding Out an Attraction Author:songquake Character: Severus Snape Location: Hogwarts Hospital Wing Prop: Probity Probe Other Characters: Neville Longbottom (present) and others (not). Rating: NC-17 Warnings: OBJECT OF LUST IS 17 YEARS OLD (though not a "participant"). Also: sounding, questionable morals, D/s fantasies. Word Count: 3725 Disclaimer: Almost all the elements of this story were created by JK Rowling. What she didn't create was the kink. Because it couldn't be marketed to children if she had. Author's Notes: Thanks to our mods for hosting this fest, to J for acting as my proxy, and to T for the super-quick beta! Also, thanks to all who read this, as strange a wank as it is :)
I have sent Poppy Pomfrey off to bed. She scowled at me, of course; most of the staff have forsaken me, though I have worked with them for nearly eighteen years, now. Poppy reviles me more than most, however, since she is the person charged with putting our young students back together after Alecto and Amycus have done their best to break them.
I determined that it was best for me to guard the students in the Hospital Wing myself tonight. Poppy glared as I entered her domain and argued against my remaining without her. But it makes no sense for both of us to go without sleep, and I will not allow the students in here tonight to be subjected to the Carrows' whims.
Poppy would try, but not be able to stop them. She knows this; she's failed before. And when she fails, she has Minerva watch the children while she retreats to Sybill's tower to drink. She is unable to work well for days. Minerva cannot stand the strain, and the children cannot survive too many more of these episodes.
They think I do not care, but were a war not on, I never would tolerate such dereliction.
Then again, I have enough to concern me without playing Mediwitch on a regular basis.
I sit in the corner of the infirmary in a wing-backed chair transfigured from one of those awful stools medical offices seem to believe are the best possible seats for guests to the ailing. I suppose it stands to reason that we do not want healthy students spending too much time at the bedsides of those who have been foolish enough to become injured or seriously ill. That fails to explain the presence of such same chairs at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
The moon and a few scattered floating candles cast flickers of light and shadow over the bodies and faces of the adolescents in the row of white-draped beds. In here, there is neither Pure- nor Mud-blood, neither Dark nor Light. There are only injured children, dosed with Dreamless Sleep and hidden away to recover in relative safety until they are fit to return to the battlefield our school has become.
Of course, we do take care to keep the Weasleys of the school away from the beds of the Crabbes and the Parkinsons. The younger students, especially those in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, occupy the beds in the centre of the room.
When the moon slides into the window frame, it casts its glow upon the young man I particularly came to guard.
Neville Longbottom. His blond hair shimmers absurdly in the moonlight, mocking both myself and the circumstances the boy is in—much as the boy himself does.
Until this year, I'd never imagined him to be as courageous or strategically astute as he has shown himself to be. Nor as resilient. Rather than being the dolt I'd always seen, the boy has become an enigma to me. He is protective of other students, yes—one might expect that, as he is now the leader of all that is Gryffindorish. Yet I sense a ruthlessness about him, a willingness to turn those who would torture him and his comrades against one another, and damn the consequences they find themselves in. He seems repulsed by those who are willing to torture others, but more than willing to fight them until they are so injured as to be incapacitated for days.
He is unexpectedly complicated, this Neville Longbottom.
Rumour has it he has recently earned himself the title of Wizard Chess Champion of Hogwarts.
An enigma, indeed.
Fit, too.
I startle from my slumped position in horror of what I've just thought. Fit? Why yes, he might be fit, but that is hardly something an old, bitter man such as myself ought to be noticing about this new standard-bearer for the Light. Young warriors are always fit—it is why the hero and the anti-hero are the objects of so much infatuation.
I ought to have outgrown such childish tastes by now. Or killed all impulses to seek sensuality.
The realization of how, precisely, I am seeing the boy who represented all the Dark Lord hates sharpens my vision. Suddenly I notice the plumpness of his lips compared to the recent leanness of his arms, legs, and chest. His childhood tubbiness is nowhere to be seen now. Instead, his jaw has squared, his hair coarsened from the fine spray it was when he was eleven. His eyelashes are darker and long, veiling the shadows beneath his eyes.
You remember when he was eleven, I remind myself. Not to mention that to consider him attractive violates both conventional decency and the Dark Lord's own diktats regarding socialisation with blood-traitors.
Still my pulse is quickened. I am drawn to his strength, yes, but also to the idea of defiling him. He is still seventeen, and though of legal age and capable of who knows how many terrifying hexes, he looks remarkably innocent lying abed.
You've lost your mind, I tell myself sternly. Defiling children has never been a kink of yours. Nor has taking young men to bed. For pity's sake, Severus—I do enjoy giving lectures—he has shown every sign of being as much an idiot as Gilderoy was. Have some self-respect, man!
It is a foolish endeavour, lecturing oneself is. Another tendency I ought to have overcome by now.
He licks his lips in his sleep, stretches a bit, and rolls over. Blast. His rump is as lovely as his mouth.
I glance at the clock as I feel my face, chest, and cock heat. Thank Merlin. The children should remain unconscious for another three hours.
I wonder whether I am actually attracted to Mr Longbottom, or whether my body is finding sexual tension in this moment because it is free to release some of the tensions that coil around me like an anaconda during the daylight hours.
This is a distinct possibility. Perhaps I ought to think of a more...appropriate object for my fantasies and enjoy the holiday my libido has seen fit to grant me.
Nodding to myself, I recline a bit once more and trail a hand from my temple, around my ear, and down my neck. I imagine young Lily Evans is doing it.
Lily never had stubble when her face rubbed against my neck as she embraced me. Fuck.
That I've had relatively few lovers is not serving me well at the moment. I close my eyes once more, and decide to focus on Stubby Boardman. Stubble? Check. Though it's odd that a man who gave his band such a camp name would be scruffy.
I imagine the skinny rock star slithering down my body, planting kisses and scratches as he goes. My cock is lengthening and thickening as I create the scene in my mind. I take it out to offer to him. In my mind, I look down just in time to meet his eyes before he sucks the head between...
Impossibly plump lips resting below the shadowed blue eyes of Neville Longbottom.
This is becoming a most unfortunate fixation. I tuck myself back into my trousers and fasten them, resisting the urge to grind against the pressure. No relief for the wicked, after all.
My seeming attraction to my charge, my infuriatingly noble and cunning Gryffindor charge, is both annoying and problematic. And still—what hair is on his cheek still remains downy-soft and sparse. No stubble on him at all.
I must be losing my mind, noticing such things. But the awareness of such a discrepancy between fantasy-Longbottom and solid-Longbottom continues to feed my optimism that he is merely an archetype of the qualities I find attractive and not an object of attraction himself.
I am a Potions Master, a sort of scientist no matter how much I might proclaim Potions to be a subtle art. And as a scientist, I shall investigate where my attractions lie using empirical methods.
That is what I tell myself as I reach into the pocket of my robe to grasp two long objects: my wand and my Probity Probe. In truth, I have been curious about the inappropriate uses to which I could put the Probe for some time. The Dark Lord, once his forces had taken over the Ministry, was delighted that these objects were already in use—he knew Dolores' plans to use them to detect Muggleborns were ridiculous, but also thought it wise to promulgate the idea that a Probity Probe could detect such things. He'd also recently persuaded Ollivander to improve them so they could function to detect any prevarication, verbal or mental.
It is this last function which seems promising in my situation. Am I or am I not attracted Longbottom qua Longbottom?
My Probity Probe is, as everything else the Dark Lord has bestowed upon me, of the highest quality. It is both sturdier and springier than one would expect of a gold rod a mere millimetre in diameter. It is so sensitive that I feel it buzzing even when a student sent to the Headmaster's office lies to save his own arse, as well as when Alecto lies about an infraction in order to gain maximum punishment for a child who has drawn her ire.
I stand and levitate my chair over to the foot of Longbottom's bed. If I am to debase myself, I might as well have a good view whilst conducting my experiment. Pointing my wand at the potions cupboard, I Accio medical-grade lubricant. The sort that is not mentholated, thank-you. Eileen Snape did not raise any fools; it is why I refuse to suffer them myself.
A shiver runs down my spine as the small jar smacks my palm. I am nearly certain it is because I am turned on by the deviance of the act I plan to perform, rather than by the deviance of wanking at a student's bedside, surrounded by a half-dozen other sleeping students...
Though the thought is a bit delicious.
If I had not already earned my damnation, I am sure that idea would secure it for me. The point, however, is moot, so I worry not about my already damaged soul and trust the doses of Dreamless Sleep Poppy and I have foisted upon the students to protect my reputation, such as it is. I continue to brew for the Hogwarts infirmary; it gives me something to focus on other than the bizarre situation in which I find myself. The knowledge that the brew is my own is reassuring.
It is a sick man who knows what he is doing is perverted and unethical, and yet does it anyway with no regard for the social risks. A sick man... or one who has lost his regard for both his reputation and his well-being.
That realisation seems to have lessened the stiffness of my stiffy. Thank goodness for small mercies.
Except now I am committed: I must know whether I am attracted to Longbottom or not. And, having all the necessary equipment present, it seems the right time. So I undo the placket of my trousers and slide them off—my pants, too. I cast a sterilising charm on the Probity Probe (I am thorough and in a place of Healing, after all).
I gaze at the form in front of me. Though I have a favourite chair here, I realise I get the best view and the best, well, angle if I stand facing Longbottom's bed, so I do so. He has kicked off part of his blanket, weaving it between his legs instead as he sleeps on his side. His bum... Well, he is in pyjamas, but they do not do much to hide the shape of his bottom.
I chuckle to myself. Longbottom's bottom. Oh my, I am at the end of my sanity.
My cock begins to take some interest; I can feel the blood flowing from my heart to heat my chest and cock again, and it feels good. I stroke my cock slowly, pulling the foreskin over my glans and then back down the shaft, taking care to let the skin rub against the vein on the underside and spread around the pre-ejaculate that has already started to leak.
He snorts. It is a light snort that briefly interrupts the deep-voiced steady snoring he's been emitting. While his face retains some of the signs of childhood (childhood, Severus!), the sound of his snores is unbelievably masculine. Rich. Adult. He does not sound like the seventeen-year-old he is. Or at least I don't think he does; it has been many years since I have kept the company of sleeping seventeen-year-olds.
But the snort blows some of his hair up from his forehead, and it feathers out as it settles again. Longbottom digs his head into his pillow, seeking some comfort that only he imagines. That is the way of the potioned-up sleeper.
I find my nipples are also piqued as I consider his vulnerability.
This is ridiculous. I must find out whether my interest is in him, particularly, or in something he represents. As my erection is now full, I put some jelly into my palm and rub my hands together. Cold lube is a definite turn-off for me, at least in general. Then I use my right hand to drag the Probe through the gel on my left.
I am nervous now; I perspire. I take a steadying breath so as to still my hands. Trembling won't do, not for this experiment.
So I steel my nerves and submit to my decision. I take my penis in hand, pulling the foreskin back far enough that it will not run the risk of getting in the way but not so far that it will be tempted to slip down. It's retracted just a bit. With my other hand, my wand hand, I grip the Probity Probe about an inch from its tapered edge and, mostly by sensation rather than sight, ease it into my urethra.
It burns, of course. I knew it would; I am neither stupid nor inexperienced. I was a kinky bugger when I was young and had experienced 'sounding' when a certain lover of mine wanted to see how willing I was to bend to his desires.
I was willing. Indeed, I was eager.
Now I am not doing this for anyone's benefit but my own, and my own pleasure at the act is arguable. Yes it burns, but at the same time I feel a certain pride at being able to "take" such an exotic treatment, even self-administered.
On the other hand, it is not...pleasant to have a rod up one's penis. In case one is wondering.
Still, my erection has not flagged, and I have slid it several inches into my dick, grimace notwithstanding. I Occlude a little; it helps me refocus on my breathing so I do not tense up. It also prepares me for the next stage of the trial.
Many people think that what Probity Probes do is verify the identities of those whom it scans. And it does do that. However, the genius of the Probity Probe is that it ascertains what is known in Theoretical Charms circles as "truths of the flesh." That is, it can confirm or deny the integrity of any statement made by a body and mind: identity, taste, opinion (if it can be betrayed by physical symptoms), and desire. If I am not attracted to Mr Longbottom, the Probe will vibrate; if I am indeed attracted to him, it will lie slack in my tube. At least in theory.
I lift my head and let my eyes take in the image of Neville Longbottom now lying face-down on his cot. His arse is tilted up just a bit more than is necessary—almost as though he is ready to hump the mattress beneath him. Christ. It's as though Fate has decided to push all my buttons, tempt all my faculties. Should the boy spill, I do not know that I could restrain myself more than I already have; I find the scent of a man's emission to be quite the aphrodisiac.
This is, then, the perfect condition for my experiment.
I continue to rest my eyes on Longbottom's form as I carefully pull my foreskin back and forth along my cock. It seems to be swelling even further, swallowing up the Probity Probe as it does. I tap the edge of the Probe lightly to encourage it even further inside. The burn goes further into my self than I'd imagined it could. I am panting now, beginning to squeeze my cock harder.
The Probe remains still. Fuck.
I ought to have controls, however, so I close my eyes and picture...ah, yes. Bellatrix Lestrange. Fuck. The Probe is certainly vibrating now. Clearly, it knows my cock does not typically respond to the image of a woman or a lunatic.
I open my eyes again to gain some relief by looking on the known quantity of Neville Longbottom. I know already that wanking with him as an object.
This ought to give me enough information, but I must try another 'control' so as to be sure. A favourite fantasy, then: being shackled to a table in the Malfoy Manor 'play room,' nipples sore from clamping and chafed from the friction against this piece of furniture, and Lucius fucking me mercilessly.
I buck in my own hand. The Probity Probe remains still.
I open my eyes once more to gaze at the sleeping boy before me. He has turned to his side once more, liberating his legs and hips from the blanket entirely, so it covers only his feet. His pyjama trousers tent in front of him. I am lost.
I dismiss the Probe from my attention as much as I can; it will work its way out before I climax, or it won't. If it doesn't, the deflation of my penis will allow easy extraction. That ignored, I begin to work my hand slowly, methodically, over my cock. I twist the foreskin a bit as my hand slides back and forth along my shaft before pulling it back to run my fingers lightly along the exposed, wet muscle beneath. The heat continues to build in my belly and groin; my bollocks feel hot. I do not want to finish so soon, however, so I pull them back harshly and hold still for a moment. When I have regained control, I continue.
Wanking in a place where I could be caught is itself a turn-on, even when I have taken every precaution to avoid such a fate.
I splay a hand beneath my cock and use the other to ease myself into my chair. Ah. This is much better. I allow myself to resume my self-abuse, as it were. The Probe has been sucked all the way into my urethra, which makes the tip of my cock available for other stimulation. I lick a finger and slowly work it in fingers over the glans. Just as I like it. I try to imagine it is Longbottom's young tongue ministering to me, but a brush of fingernail disabuses me of that. Still, this is the hottest wank session I've had in quite awhile.
What would I like to do with the boy? Until this moment I have merely allowed myself titillation at the idea of seducing him, but given thought neither to the seduction, nor to the sexual exploits themselves. There would, of course, be enthusiastic kissing, plundering his mouth with my tongue and allowing him to taste my mouth, tantalise my senses, in return. Perhaps I might suck his own cock; young as he is, I bet he could get it up for a second go if necessary.
I consider pushing him down on the cot he occupies, fingering him until he opens wide enough to take my cock without too much trouble...
The Probe begins to vibrate again. Damn it. No, that would not work for me after all; it seems that while I am capable of fantasising about one of my charges and wanking at his bedside in a room of his peers, I still find rape to be distasteful.
I am, after all, the sorriest excuse for a Death Eater known to man.
What I really want is to be punished, perhaps by Mr Longbottom, for my transgressive fantasy. I want him to catch me out, look at me with accusing eyes, and frown when I beg him to forgive me. I want him to beckon me to his bed, force me to kneel beside it and suck his cock while he makes the Probity Probe vibrate constantly in my dick by saying dirty, dirty things about what the students get up to in the Gryffindor dormitory. I want him to slap me for having the temerity to self-indulge at his expense, during his convalescence of all things. I want him to pull my head back by the hair and brand my shoulder with his teeth as he fucks me hard, the Probity Probe sliding out of my urethra as I come...
And I have. Come, that is. In this strange reality, where boys are made into warriors against their own professors, and students are taught to curse one another unless they are willing to submit to torture. Longbottom moans in his sleep—why, I cannot know, unless the Dreamless Sleep I'd brewed was faulty. I am shocked by what I have done here tonight, but cannot bring myself to regret it. Should we both make it through these troubled times, perhaps I will approach him.
I wince as I pull the Probity Probe the rest of the way out of my dick and place it on a table along the wall. It will burn when I urinate for a good few days, I'm sure. This shall be my penance for being an almost-paedophile. I cast Evanesco to clean up all evidence of my night-time activities, and Levitate my chair back to its accustomed corner.
It bumps against the floor as I set it down.
Neville Longbottom stirs, but falls back into his sleep.