* * * * * * * * * * *

Ten more points from Gryffindor, and Harry silently seethed. It wasn't Neville's fault that he couldn't make a decent potion with Snape breathing down his neck. Snape knew just how intimidated Neville was by him, and yet he insisted on terrorising the boy every chance he got. Harry was quite sure the man enjoyed it. Now, Harry wouldn't mind at all if Snape came and stood right behind *him* while he made a potion. In fact, he'd *love* to have the man breathe down his neck. The thought of Snape pressed up behind him made him flush slightly and his cock twitched in his trousers. The man was a git, but a dark, powerful, sexy one, and it had been because of him that Harry had figured out he liked boys better than girls. It just figured he'd have a crush on the teacher that hated his very existence. The fact that he knew Snape hated him made what he'd accidentally seen in Snape's memories all the more confusing. During a particularly grueling occlumency lesson, he'd struck back in anger, and he'd felt himself slice right through Snape's defences. He'd been shocked, and unprepared, and had grabbed wildly at the nearest memory. It was of him. Riding his Firebolt in a Quidditch match. And then another scene, one he was sure he'd never actually participated in, because he was naked in the dungeon, on his Firebolt. Then Snape had shoved him out of his mind, and Harry had been so confused that he'd not even had the nerve to bring it up. He'd filed it away for further thought, and in fact he thought about it often. When he was alone, in his bed at night.

Snape pressed his lips together in irritation, stalking up to the front of the classroom and whirling around to glare at the two tables of Gryffindors that had somehow managed to make it into his NEWT-level Potions class. He was aware that the Slytherins were looking on smugly, but he couldn't care less. "Anyone with an unsuccessful potion will give me three feet on the proper procedure for concocting a Dreamless Sleep potion by next class." He narrowed his eyes, and glared nastily. Christmas always put him in a fouler mood than usual, as the good cheer and decked halls made him feel physically ill. "Get out of my sight," he barked before folding himself gracefully into his chair and glaring at the class.

Harry sighed as he gathered his books together, shooting one more look at Snape before he left. Not that he'd be leaving; he was of course staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. He'd been invited to stay at the Burrow, but Hermione was going as well, and Harry didn't think he could stand being around her and Ron's blissful couple-ness any more. They were unspeakably cute, calling each other pet names, and Harry was nauseated as well as envious. Not that he was attracted to either of them, but they had something he was beginning to suspect he would never have. So he claimed he needed the time to study his occlumency, and it was certainly true. In fact, he had a lesson tonight, which probably accounted for Snape's surly mood.

Snape sighed in barely disguised relief as the door swung shut, and cast a disgusted look around the ruin of the classroom. Even after seven years, most of the students were still utter dunderheads who never failed to cause chaos and ruination with even the simplest potions. There were, of course, a few exceptions. His Slytherins had continued to live up to his expectations. A few of the Ravenclaws were entirely methodical in their creation of potions, although they treated it as more of a science and less than an art, which led to perfectly functional but rather boring potions. Similarly to spells, potions reacted to the intentions of their creators, and the more passion one put into a potion, the more intricate it would be. The surprising individual in the class this year was Potter. While he had spent the first five years occupying himself with mindless pastimes, it would appear that the mongrel's (Snape still couldn't refer to Sirius as anything but) death had resulted in a change of attitude, and Potter had actually begun to apply himself. His potions, while never quite up to Snape's standards, were surprisingly adequate.

+

Harry walked up to Snape's office door, glaring at the wood as if it was the cause of his problems. He sighed, pausing to gather his thoughts before he knocked. He was beginning to doubt the accuracy of the vision he'd seen in Snape's mind. If the man lusted after him, he was sure hiding it well. As if going to a funeral, he knocked on the door, running a hand nervously through his hair.

Snape glared at the door, barking, "Enter!" before continuing the process of separating his thoughts from his mind and dropping them into the Pensieve. Ever since that one fateful afternoon, when Potter had managed to break through his defences, Snape had been especially careful to remove any thoughts that might compromise his authority and place them into the Pensieve before their sessions. He was not entirely sure what Potter had seen, but he had caught the little looks Potter had been shooting him so he gathered that it must have been something incriminating, or at least highly embarrassing. He scowled at the silvery surface of the Pensieve before dropping in yet another thought. This was sure to be a grueling session, especially since, as Harry had aged, he had become quite the attractive one, and Snape was finding it more and more difficult to ignore that fact.

Harry slunk in, casting a sideways look at his professor before setting his bag down in his customary spot. The routine never varied; Snape would make him wait while he finished whatever he was doing. There were no chairs provided for Harry's comfort, so he just stood in front of Snape's desk, trying to clear his mind in preparation for whatever the man was about to throw at him.

Snape sighed angrily as he felt another improper thought course through his mind, and seized that and dropped it into the Pensieve as well. Damn the boy! Did he always have to stand so....jauntily? Honestly. He should learn to show some respect. He straightened, setting the Pensieve inside the wardrobe and locking the door - it wouldn't do to have Potter snooping in there again - and then faced Potter. "Well," he said, his lip curling ever so slightly. "Have you been practicing?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, trying to keep the sullenness out of his voice. Yes, he tried to practice, at night when he was in bed, but that always made him think of Snape and his velvet voice, and he got distracted, and... no, don't get distracted now, Harry told himself. If only Snape wasn't so dark and sexy and brooding... "A bit."

"A bit," Snape repeated mockingly, raising one elegant eyebrow. "We shall see how much 'a bit' covers." That was all the warning Harry got before Snape whipped out his wand in one graceful movement and barked, "Legilimens!"

Harry felt more than heard the spell; he wasn't ready, as always, but he was getting better at snapping up his defences quickly. But Snape was already in his mind, the feeling of his memories being sifted through unnerving Harry as always. He clenched his wand, trying to draw his power to him, and *pushed* back at Snape. It was like hitting a brick wall.

Snape pushed back, straining just the slightest amount, narrowing his eyes in concentration. He saw fuzzier memories than usual - the boy had been practicing - but was still able to break through Harry's defences. After a few moments, he let go of the spell. "Well, Mister Potter," he drawled smoothly. "I see you have been exercising the feeble organ known as your brain, although your success has been less than adequate." In Snape-tongue, that was almost a compliment.

Harry was breathing hard, mind still reeling from the effort, and frustration seethed through him. He had been so close! But Snape's mind was just too strong. Snape's words seemed like a challenge to him, and he said, "I want to try again. I can do better." His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glittered.

Snape raised both eyebrows this time in an expression of surprise. "The famous Gryffindor courage," he sneered, but flicked his sleeves back from his wrists nonetheless. "I am certain you THINK you can do better. Let us see if this is the case. Legilimens!"

But Harry was ready this time, adrenaline still pumping and he immediately snapped back at Snape with his mind. He almost felt Snape's spell as he slipped past it, pushing through defences as if they were jelly. He kept pushing and he was through, looking wildly around, grabbing for a memory. He might not get this chance again.

Harry's impression of Snape's memory was that it was a dark one, very dark, with the barest amount of light trickling in from a crack underneath the door. A seven or eight-year-old Snape sat huddling in a corner, covered in bruises and what looked like whip marks, knees tucked up to his chest, long hair filthy and bedraggled and hanging around his tear-stained face, looking mournfully up at a heavy door. It looked to be a dungeon, what with the heavy, rough stone floors and the chains hanging from the wall.

A gasp escaped Snape's lips and he pushed back hard, almost desperately, needing to get the boy out of his mind right then.

Harry reeled; at first he'd thought he was seeing his own memories of the cupboard that had been his home most of his life, but it had never been that cold. But then he knew he was seeing Snape, locked away as he had been, and Harry felt a stab of empathy for the man, like he had after he'd seen how he'd been treated in school. He grabbed tightly on to the memory, wanting to see more, know Snape better.

Snape, disgusted with himself for allowing a mere boy to enter his mind, shoved back with a great deal of force, a soft growl tearing from his throat, pushing back toward Harry desperately, angrily, feeling the inexplicable urge to actually hurt the boy for daring to be nosy.

Gasping, Harry felt himself pushed back, *hard*, propelled out of Snape's mind with such force that he actually flew back across the room. He felt his head hit the shelf behind him and he slid down, vaguely hearing the crash of glass around him.

Snape shook his head, trying to regain his wits. "Fuck," he cursed under his breath as soon as his eyes fell upon the prone figure on the other side of the room, furious with himself for losing control in the first place and then reacting so badly. He usually didn't have a problem with this sort of thing, but nothing was ever usual when it came to Potter. He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing a phial along the way, and crouched down beside Potter, wrapping his arm around the boy's shoulders and pulling him up against his own body, uncorking the phial with his teeth and putting it to Potter's lips. "Drink that," he commanded hoarsely as he spit the cork out, a faint note of panic hidden by the gruffness in his voice.

Harry swam back to consciousness, confused for a moment as to where he was. There was a warm body pressed against him, and his head hurt terribly... He opened his eyes and got a shock. Snape. Closer than he'd ever been to the man, it was Snape holding him, his lean body pressed against him, and the shock of it made him open his mouth, following the order instinctively.

Snape forced him to drink the entire contents of the phial before shifting Potter's position in his arms, looking at him with a concerned fire flickering in his black eyes. It wouldn't do to be killing a student while attempting to teach him something, especially one as high-profile as Potter. "Potter, are you hurt anywhere?"

Harry tried to lift his head, still gazing at Snape. "I don't... ohhh..." he moaned as his head swam, the potion still burning down his throat. He felt it hit his stomach, and the pain lessened. Enough that he became more aware of just how close to Snape he was. He blushed furiously.

Snape went from concerned to uncomfortably aroused in one second, the sound of that disorientated moan going straight to his cock. The fact that Potter was pressed up against him, touching him in various places, and looking rather wanton with his messy hair, lidded eyes, and flushed cheeks, certainly was not helping. He fought to control his reactions, shifting ever so slightly to they weren't in such close contact without letting Potter go, cursing himself for feeling this way about a student, especially one as irritating as Potter...irritating and beautiful...NO! He forced those thoughts from his mind and averted his eyes as he asked, "Where does it hurt?" in a low voice to keep it from shaking.

Oh god, that voice, practically in his ear... Harry gasped softly as all the blood rushed to his cock. He hunched instinctively, although in his position it probably wouldn't show. He stammered, blushing more, "My head..." Other parts of him ached as well, but he didn't think he should mention that.

Very gently, repeating to himself over and over that it was just professional concern, Snape raised a hand to Harry's temple and began ghosting the cold fingertips over the skin. "Where exactly?" he breathed, his other arm still supporting Harry's back.

Harry barely held back the moan that threatened to escape. Snape was touching him, almost gently... his teenage body reacted, and Harry was hard as a rock now. He licked his lips, trying not to arch into Snape's touch, and stammered, "The back of my head..."

Snape tilted the boy forward slightly, supporting his chest on one of his own knees, and began sliding his fingers over the back of Potter's head, letting the rough silk that was Harry's--Potter's hair slide across the pads of his fingers and attempting to ignore the sensation, trying as hard as he could to feel only for any bumps or broken skin rather than allowing himself to notice the boy's breath ghosting over his arm, the softness of his skin, the lushness of his hair...

Harry whimpered out loud this time, Snape's graceful fingers driving away the pain and leaving only desire. God, he'd dreamed of this, being in Snape's arms, and it was all he could do to keep from kissing the man.

Concerned by the soft sound, Snape looked down at the boy, taking in the closed eyes, the mouth slightly twisted, the flushed skin. "There?" he asked, his voice still low, afraid of what it might reveal if he raised it. He knew far better than to show any interest in Potter beyond his continued vehemence toward the golden boy, but he had seen so many things in Potter's mind that reminded him of his own childhood, and while his opinion of the boy had long been twisted by his knowledge of the boy's father, he had come to realize over the last few years that Harry and James were very much alike. In fact, Harry reminded him much of himself, and the shared experiences and memories had only helped to enhance those thoughts. He couldn't help but feel a protectiveness toward the boy, who had already suffered far too much, who had been forced to grow up long before his time. There was only so long that he could delude himself into thinking his concern was entirely professional, and that he didn't feel more than just empathy and respect toward the boy.

"Y-yes," whispered Harry, gazing up at Snape. He was so hard now that he felt he could come from the slightest touch. His head did hurt but it was secondary to the ache in his groin. And Snape was still holding him.

Gradually, Snape released Harry's head, tilting him back so he was in an upright, seated position again, leaning back against his arm still, and looked down at him. *To make sure his eyes are focused all right,* Snape tried to convince himself, trying to force the blatant concern from his face. "Are you all right to stand?"

"I... don't know," admitted Harry, reluctant to lose Snape's touch. God, he liked being so close to Snape, so close he could smell the other man's scent. "I can try," he said, not wanting the older man to think him weak.

"Very well," Snape said, moving back a bit and gaining his footing before putting a very firm hand underneath Harry's elbow, keeping the other wrapped behind Harry's back, and starting to straighten slowly, giving Harry a chance to gain his footing on the floor.

Harry stood, leaning more than was absolutely necessary on Snape. Finally, he was upright, his cock still rock hard but not obvious in his robes. "Thank you, sir," he whispered, looking up at Snape.

"You're welcome, Mister Potter," Snape returned briskly, avoiding Harry's eyes, turning away and returning to the desk. "If you feel you may be suffering from any lasting damage, pay a visit to the Hospital Wing. You are dismissed."

Harry stared at Snape for a long moment, searching for some sign of what had happened, but all was as normal. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then thought better of it. He reached down to grab his bag, wincing just a little, then slung it over his shoulder. With one more look at Snape, he walked out the door, body still tingling.

Snape watched him go, keeping his face as neutral, as irascible as possible, his customary glare and sneer in place, but as soon as the door whispered shut, he sank down into his chair and brought one hand up to his face to massage the bridge of his nose. What the hell had just happened? He had lost control of the situation, lashed out, and then felt a fierce protectiveness and even lust for the boy he had all but abhorred for so many years. He was cracking. He'd even thought he'd seen a hint of reciprocation in those huge emerald eyes...but that couldn't be possible. He was a greasy old git, and Potter was the golden boy, the savior of the Wizarding World. He was certainly delusional if he even deigned to think otherwise.