Harry Potter and the Ill-Tempered Potions Master
by DragonLight & DementorDelta

It was a normal sort of summer day, the sun shining down on the orchard, light glistening on trees touched by morning dew. The smell of ripe apples wafted on the morning breeze through the cottage window, and if one had quite a nose -- such as that of the inhabitant of the cottage -- then the tiniest whiff of fresh-baked bread cooling on his neighbor's windowsill could be caught lurking just under the stronger scent of apples.

"Damned apples." Severus Snape slammed the window shut and returned to his book. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the big black cast-iron stove set against one wall--one he had never bothered to fire up. "Damned bread."

This was how it was every morning. Severus would wake up groggy, eyeing the world through the mane of black hair that had invariably fallen over his face in his sleep. After pushing his hair out of his face, he would make his way to the Spartan living area to read, until the sun became too much of a nuisance, and he closed the plain white curtains. He much preferred the dimmer light of candles.

Snape liked this cozy world in shades of black and white--the solid black of the stove, the painfully plain white-washed walls, the wainscoting trimmed in black. The candlelight intensified this effect, making it seem as though he'd never left the stark gray dungeons of Hogwarts.

Severus Snape didn't always live in this tin-roofed cottage here on the edge of an orchard; most of the year he spent teaching Potions to ungrateful, snotty children at Hogwarts, most of whom would rather be flying on their broomsticks like monkeys rather than learning anything useful. So in the summer, after the children all left to return to their families to annoy them over the holidays, and after the headmaster and his deputy became unbearable (usually within a week of the end of term), he'd vacate his gray suite of rooms in the depths of the school dungeons, and return to the cottage his great-aunt Elphaba had left to him in the middle of an apple orchard.

Apples weren't even very useful in potions.

The cottage did come with one thing that Severus appreciated. His aunt, being as anti-social as he was, had charmed her orchard of apple trees to be terribly ill-tempered. Quite often, when a stranger came too close to the tall white picket fence that cut off the edge of the orchard from the path, Severus could hear the pleasant sound of feet scrambling on the gravel and apples making loud thunks as they hit the ground, usually at quite a velocity.

The most satisfying sound, though, had to be when there was a softer thunk, as if the apple had hit something yielding like human flesh, usually followed by an "oof."

It was on one of these latter occasions that Severus found himself going to the window to appreciate the sight of someone clutching their stomach, yet still trying to run as fast as they could past the furiously swaying trees. Leaves whipped like hair as branch after branch, twigs curled like gnarled fingers, hurled apples after the trespasser.

What he did see certainly wasn't exactly what he expected. Harry Potter, former bane of his existence, was trying to climb the fence while systematically either ducking or catching the apples being hurled at him. The ones he caught, he tossed into a wicker basket on the path near a tiny, yipping ginger-colored terrier that seem terribly familiar despite the fact that he was sure he'd never actually seen it before.

Glaring, he closed the curtain, and stalked off toward the door.


"Are you sure no one lives here?"


"You know, it'd be a lot easier if you could talk instead of bark." There'd been a rumor that the ill-tempered Potions master, Severus Snape, lived in this tin-roofed house in the orchard. Seeing the sweet cottage, picture perfect in the ring of apple-laden trees, Harry thought it must just be a rumor.

He balanced on the top rail of the fence, avoiding the very pointed ends that looked like they'd been filed to razor-sharp points, and started to lean over. He pitched forward unexpectedly and had to duck back in order to save himself from a bruised arse when he fell to the ground.

Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, he caught sight of an apple flying toward him; reaching out with his left arm, he snatched it out of the air before it whizzed past him. "Aww, this one's green." He tossed it over his shoulder into the basket anyway.

The terrier kept barking, probably keeping up a running commentary on Harry's maneuvers as if this was a Quidditch game instead of almost trespassing.

"You're lucky your mum can't punish you, and that she didn't call the Accidental Magic Reversal Team."

Harry's comment was greeted with a sharp bark. Lately all of Harry's comments were greeted with sharp barks.

"Anybody with half a brain wouldn't take a piece of candy from the twins and eat it without question." He paused in his stretch to reach one of the reddest, ripest, most gorgeous apples he had ever seen, just dangling from its branch and ready to fall. "Hermione could be right though; maybe you did lose your brain when Fred beaned you with that bludger last week."

He glanced down; the terrier had its front legs up on the lower post of the fence, its jaw open and ready to bite his ankle.

Harry moved his foot out of the way just in time.

"It's just to…to…." Crash!

The dog was yipping and bouncing around on its two hind legs. On the other side of the fence.

"Shut up," Harry said, trying to get up off the ground. It seemed to have gotten dark all of a sudden, almost as if--

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Potter." Harry looked up and felt a thrill of something like terror go through him at the sight of the tall, thin Potions master. He'd taken the flash of black he'd seen near the cottage for a scarecrow. "I don't suppose you've heard of the term trespassing, by any chance?"


Snape grabbed him by his shirt collar, hauling him up off the ground, bringing Harry's face within inches of his own. "Do you realize that you are on private property and stealing, or do you think that all rules, even ones that can land you in Muggle jail, are beneath you?"

Snape's voice was deadly quiet, and Harry couldn't help but flinch. His face looked almost green with anger. Harry would have pulled away out of the grip if he could gain purchase on the ground, but he was short, and the tips of his trainers barely grazed the ground.

"Bloody hell!" Harry fell to ground as Snape's hold on him released suddenly. From his sprawled heap, he glanced at the terrier that was, at the moment, shimmying back under the fence as quickly as it could. By the time Snape reached the fence, the terrier had escaped and was running down the path as fast as its four paws could carry it. Why didn't it surprise Harry that he had been abandoned to his fate?

He heard aggravated muttering coming from Snape as he stared after the terrier. It didn't take Harry long to figure out that it was Snape's somewhat normal tirade about chopping him up for Potions ingredients, but the end was quite new, for it sounded something like "and his little dog too." Harry had to choke back a laugh, and managed to do so just in time, for Snape rounded on him a moment later.

"Come, Mr. Potter. You can compensate me for the loss of my personal property by doing some chores. Two weeks worth ought to do nicely." Snape looked back down the path at the rapidly disappearing terrier. "Your familiar can return for you in the evenings. I won't have you mucking about here after dark."

Harry glared, but picked himself up, uneasiness settling in the pit of his stomach as he took in the look of pure evil on Snape's still slightly-greenish face. Harry realized it was just the dappled light from the cluster of apple trees, which--oddly--seemed to have moved closer, leaning in as if listening to their conversation. Who'd have thought, Harry wondered, that Snape of all people would live in a tin-roofed cottage? In all the fantasies Harry had had about the man, that had never been the remotest possibility.

Snape all but dragged him into the cottage. Before Harry had time to even look around at the gloomy old place, Snape had produced a huge, ornate hour glass. Drawing his wand, he muttered some spell. The sand within glittered, moving like a waking snake, sending up sandy sparks, draining through the glass.

"There," Snape said with satisfaction. "Two weeks for trespassing and stealing."

Harry gulped. It wasn't like he had any grandiose plans for his first summer of being an adult wizard. He just hadn't imagined spending any part of it with Snape. Or at least not doing any heavy labor, he amended, looking at the way his former professor filled out his robes. Harry stifled a twinge of arousal. Damn, he'd thought he'd be over this by now. Being an adult meant he didn't have silly, childish crushes on his teachers. Only his hormones hadn't gotten the memo.

Harry forced himself to pay attention, to see the other wizard rummaging around in a cabinet with a chipped paint door until, with a triumphant noise, he pulled down what looked like Professor Trelawney's giant crystal ball and thumped it down on the wooden kitchen table.

Another pass of the wand, and a woman's face swam into view. She looked worried, eyes moving, scanning the landscape, as though searching for someone. In her chubby hands was a crumpled handkerchief.


Harry started to hear his name and realized it was Mrs. Weasley. He leaned closer to the crystal ball, suddenly anxious.

"Mrs. Weasley," Snape said, and Molly cocked her ear as if listening. "Potter has volunteered to do some work around here for me for a few weeks."

Harry shot him a disbelieving look at the patent lie, but remained silent Tow weeks. Anything could happen in two weeks.

"Has he done anything wrong?" Molly asked with concern, still peering upward as though she could see Snape's face.

"Nothing he can't work off," Snape said with evident satisfaction. Mrs. Weasley smiled and tucked away her handkerchief before she faded from sight. Harry smiled weakly and looked up at his former teacher.


The summer days, Snape reflected, no longer seemed colored in shades of dull gray. The rooms of the cottage were now sparkling clean. Even the old cast iron stove gleamed. All the laundry had been hand-washed, and all the upholstery had been cleaned of stains. And Severus Snape hadn't lifted one finger to do any of it. Hadn't even lifted his wand.

There was a bowl of freshly picked, ruby-red apples on the plain, caramel-colored wooden table, and a haphazardly arranged vase of blooming herbs, all purple and blue and dusky pink, plucked from Snape's garden no doubt, on the counter by the sink. Cabinets, once covered in chipped, fading paint, had all been given a fresh coat. The old apple press in the corner had been oiled and shined until it looked functional again.

The plain white curtains had been replaced by blue gingham ones. The yellow linoleum floor shone again, its oddly circular spiral pattern standing out more sharply after a good scrubbing. Down in the root cellar, Potter had dusted the unending rows of apple juice stored there, and had sorted them, much like Snape had taught him to do during endless detentions, by freshness date. Even the bright red poppies lining the front walk, and bordering the hedges and fences, seemed redder, bursting with new life.

Potter had willingly taken a few turns in the kitchen, producing, among other things, a creditable apple strudel with a perfectly light, flaky crust. Snape hadn't asked where the boy had got the blue gingham pinafore-style apron he wore when cooking, not being able to imagine his great-aunt ever owning such a thing. He also hadn't asked how Potter had learned to make the apple dumplings that were baking in the oven now.

Over the edge of his book, he smirked at Potter, and before the boy noticed, he looked back down and flipped to the next page of the dissertation on "Olde Potions" he was reading. The sight of Potter in rolled up trousers soaked through at the knee, on all fours scrubbing a spot that had no intention of ever coming up warmed some part of Snape's heart. He shifted on the bare wooden stool.

And then, like a happy little bluebird's song fluttering upon the breeze, a soft whistle came to his ears. The tune was cheery, cheerier than it had any right to be--coming from the little munchkin he had set to scrubbing his floors. When Snape glared over at the boy he expected some sort of defiant reply. Instead, Potter only smiled wistfully and returned to his scrubbing. And his whistling.

Potter was obviously out to annoy him, but Snape could tolerate it, could even admit he liked it, in some small never-before-known part of his heart. And, if pressed, could admit that the puckering of those red, wet lips was quite attractive. Of course, Snape would only admit this if he were hard pressed, and since he had no intention of demanding of himself such information, the thought was lost somewhere, probably out the gingham-bedecked window with the whistle itself.

"Enough, Potter." Snape snapped his book shut, determined not to be cheered up by the defiantly happy tune. "Dump the bucket, and go collect apples. There's a barrel at the side of the house you can put them in."

The whistle came to a stop, and Potter stood and stretched. The shirt he was wearing rode up enough to show a small expanse of pale skin and a narrow trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistline of his damp trousers. Severus didn't notice this of course, and he certainly didn't cast another quick glance before Potter dropped his arms, smiled slightly as though he'd put on the show deliberately, and started to the door.

"But the trees," Potter said, hesitating on the sill, then bit his bottom lip.

Snape snapped his gaze away from Potter's backside and stared at the brat His eyes were glowing, and a smile, or what masqueraded as a smile, because Harry would never, ever smile that way at Snape, was lurking at the corner of those lovely lips.

"What about the trees, Potter?"

"Well, I don't know if you knew this, Professor, but they like to throw apples at people."

"Utter rot. They never throw apples at me."

Potter narrowed his eyes. He suspected that any tree with the audacity to throw fruit at Snape would find itself a smoking stump before the next apple could hit its target. He turned the brass doorknob, the one he'd polished himself this morning, and walked out the door to the orchard.

Taking out his wand, Snape headed to the window and peeked out through the fluttering curtain. Before Potter got close enough to the trees for them to start throwing apples, Snape had cast a small spell that would keep them from attacking. As long as he didn't try to get out of hard work, that is.


Harry spent a good five minutes looking for a basket so he could carry the apples back from the orchard to dump into the barrel. At first he had thought to drag the barrel out to the orchard, but after the first foot or so he realized that he'd have to drag it back after it was full of apples. It was a very large barrel.

He'd have used the basket he'd been collecting apples in that first day, but somehow it had found its way back to the Burrow. Probably with the help of Fred, George, and one really annoying terrier. A terrier that was going to be skinned, if he didn't stop snapping at Snape's leg after showing up to escort Harry home every night. Snape had become awfully good at avoiding those sharp little teeth after the third time. Harry didn't want the last memory Snape had of him to be trying to avoid getting rabies.

His two weeks punishment was almost at an end.

And Snape was still as coolly formal as though he was still Harry's teacher. He must have been off to think that particular wizard would want to see him.

Giving up the basket for a lost cause, Harry headed back to the orchard, prepared to duck speeding apples, but none came whizzing by his head. The trees stayed perfectly still as he gathered their fruit. It was another of those perfectly peaceful days, the trees only whispering slightly in the breeze. It must have rained while he was indoors scrubbing the old yellow floor. A rainbow curved downward, its colors mingling with the tops of the apple trees.

He wondered if he should take off his shirt. He cast a surreptitious glance back at the cottage, wondering if Snape was on the little stool by the window. Dumping the first load into the barrel, he tugged his shirt up to rub the sweat off his brow, and paused, staring at the white stretch of cloth in front of his eyes.

Jogging back to the orchard, he picked up the apples and placed them in his shirt, tugging it away from his skin and using it as a makeshift basket.

Twice as many apples in each load meant half the work.

He grinned.

Not that the grin stayed in place long.

He must have been on the third or fourth load of apples when the first apple hit him in the back of the head. It didn't hit him very hard, but it did startle him enough to drop the apples he'd gathered.

Rubbing the back of his head, Harry spun around and looked at the trees. They were all swaying in the breeze, looking like perfectly ordinary apple trees. Right. He narrowed his eyes and turned to start gathering apples again. There was a recipe for applesauce cake he wanted to try…Then he remembered it was his last day here.

The next one hit him in the side. Again, when he looked, rubbing at his sore side, all the trees were still, almost too still, as though they were trying to appear nonchalant. If he knew which tree it was, he'd have set it on fire. He'd learned some really good Incendiary spells during his last year at Hogwarts. His last year of being taught by that irascible old bastard Snape. Irascible, sexy, Snape. Who'd have thought he'd have such a sweet little cottage? It had only wanted a little attention to bring it to life. He looked back toward it and thought he saw a flutter of something move away from the window.


It was a very sore Harry Potter that opened the door to the cottage that evening to tell Severus Snape that he'd had picked up as many apples as he could before the sun had set.

Of course, Severus already knew this, having watched covertly from the gingham-bedecked window. Somehow a small stool, normally stationed by the counter in the small kitchen area, had ended up under the window. Snape was sure that Potter had moved it there; after all, he certainly wouldn't have done so in order to make himself more comfortable as he watched the boy gather apples.

He had only been watching to ensure that the apples were gathered and placed in the barrel. He wasn't interested in pale, firm skin and shiny black hair, leaf-green eyes, or apple-red lips. Certainly not.


"That's done then," Harry said, brushing past Snape, who looked like he had no intention of inviting his erstwhile servant in. "And I'm done in," he added for good measure, looking up at the other man who was, as usual, scowling down at him. He turned his head to see the old hourglass, freshly polished, still on the counter. Together they watched the last of the glittering sands slip through the glass.

"You'll be on your way, of course," Snape said, and if Harry hadn't been looking for it, he might have missed the fading spark of--something--in those fathomless dark eyes.

"It's awfully hot out there--I'm melting. Could I have some water before I go?" Harry said, whistling slightly under his breath as Snape nodded, a bit absently, and reached for the dipper. The cottage was quite ancient, and Snape kept a bucket of well water on the sink. Harry could personally attest that the well was deep and fresh, since he'd been the one to draw the water all this past fortnight.

He took the pewter dipper from Snape's perpetually stained fingers, and lifted his mouth as though for a kiss before sliding his lips over the cool edge of the dipper. He dropped his head back as he drank, letting a bit of it run down his chin. Would it be enough to rekindle the spark of whatever it had been in Snape's eyes at the thought of him leaving? Hope spread through him like the cool water in his belly.

Very deliberately, Harry winced as he took the dipper away. He put on a brave face as he handed the dipper back, then winced again, a little louder, making sure he had Snape's attention.

"Something the matter, Mr. Potter?" Snape asked, much more his old self. Unfortunately for Harry, his old self was a snarky bastard. A snarky, noble bastard who'd all but ignored the smoldering glances Harry had been throwing him for the last few months before he'd finished school.

"Oh, no," Harry said, very quickly, and dropped his arm as though it were a dead weight to his side. "Only a twinge," he said, rolling his shoulder around. "An ache," he went on, seeing the spark smolder slightly into life, "deep in my...muscles."

"Honest work never killed anyone in your excellent physical condition," Snape said. Then his eyes widened, as if realizing the backhanded compliment.

Harry pretended to ignore the sentiment and started massaging his shoulder with one hand. "Don't suppose you have a potion for it?" he said, trying to make the question sound challenging but not belligerent. Snape snorted and wheeled away to the old fashioned glass-front cabinet. It looked much more recent than the house, and had an incongruously cheerful apple stencil along the mid-section. A rattle of bottles, and Snape returned with a green glass bottle and a spoon.

Eyeing the spoon, Harry slipped the collar of his damp t-shirt away from his neck, burrowing his hand underneath, and sliding the damp cotton away to expose his shoulder. "Don't you have anything, er, topical?" He squeezed his own shoulder muscle, massaging it. "It's a really deep ache."

"You expect rather a lot, Potter," Snape said, looking decidedly undecided.

Wincing again, Harry summoned his brave face again and a weak smile. "Come on, Professor, one quick rub, and I'll be out of your hair forever."

Snape looked down at the green bottle. With a much put-upon sigh, he returned to the glass cabinet. "There's only this old apple liniment," he said with his back to Harry. When he turned around, he came to a dead stop as Harry slowly finished lifting the damp t-shirt over his head. A slight ruffle of breeze from the open window brushed across Harry's bare chest, stiffening his nipples and cooling some of the sweat on the flat plane of his belly.

"I'm sure it'll do," Harry said cheekily, pulling the wooden stool out from under the window, eyeing the view Snape must have had without comment, spinning the stool around and straddling it in the middle of the cottage kitchen. He flexed his back a few times. Then, so softly it sent shivers up his spine, he heard the whisper of movement across the floor.

"Hold this," snapped the crisp voice behind him. Harry held out his hand and received the cork for the lotion. There was another long pause, and Harry wasn't certain, until the first brush of fingertips touched his back, that Snape was really going to touch him. He groaned slightly and the moving fingers stopped immediately.

"Did I hurt you?" Snape asked, then cleared his throat. "I mean, tell me where it hurts."

"That shoulder," Harry said, leaning into the fingers that were moving again, leaning back until he touched, just briefly, the legs behind him. "Sorry." He made a satisfied noise. "That feels really good." He didn't feel the need to mention that it wasn't just his back that was feeling particularly good right now.

Skilled fingers worked his shoulder, stopping only to reapply more lotion The scent of apples wafted between them, deepening with each stroke. Harry couldn't help it; he groaned again.

"Cork, please," Snape said, extending a hand over Harry's shoulder.

"It hurts lower down too," Harry said, not opening the fist holding the stopper.

Snape huffed but began re-applying the lotion in gliding strokes.

"That's great stuff, sir," Harry said, "Did you make it?"

Snape's fingers were pressing into the muscles supporting Harry's spine, moving in firm strokes along his skin. "No," Snape said, clearly concentrating on the task. "Great-Aunt Elphaba's last batch."

"She must have been a good witch. I'm glad you're using it on me." Harry turned his head over his shoulder. Snape forced his opposite shoulder back in place. Harry started to say something to express his appreciation when the other man spoke again.

"Bit of an odd duck, Elphaba," Snape said, "Made everything out of apples Place is permeated with them."

Harry laughed, then winced for real when the stroking fingers probed deeper into his muscles. "I did notice the decor."

A grunt sounded behind him. "The decor, the larder, the potion stores, and the bloody landscaping." Then, without preamble, the fingers lifted again. "How's that?"

Harry leaned backwards again, testing his muscles. He ran into the solid weight of Snape behind him again, but didn't move away quite so quickly this time. "Just a bit more," he said, leaning over slowly, adjusting his seat, and waiting. This time the wait was longer. He was just about to add, "Please," when the cool trickle of apple-scented lotion soothed along his back. The apples now smelled like they were spiced with cinnamon, as though they were baking against Harry's skin.

"Could you go a bit lower? Harry asked, his eyes drifting closed with sensory pleasure. "I think I pulled something in my back."

"I don't recall signing on as your personal pleasure attendant," Snape said, but the venom was mitigated by the ghosting of fingertips below his waist.

Hastily Harry unsnapped the top button of his jeans and minutely lowered his waistline, exposing more of his back. "You have to admit, I worked bloody hard these last few weeks." He found himself holding his breath, waiting to see if the languorous strokes would move lower.

When, after only a moment's hesitation, they did, he exhaled deeply. "I didn't mind though, sir. I don't mind hard work."

Snape smoothed more liniment along his waist, sliding downward into the fleshy part at the top of his flank. Harry shifted in the hard wooden chair again, suppressed a groan, and shifted again. He wondered if he'd made a mistake in asking Snape to do this small thing for him, to touch him without the looming rift of student and teacher between them.

"I know," Snape said suddenly from behind him. Harry's eyes flew open. "I expected endless complaints and lay awake at night thinking of ways to dress you down when you complained." A pause. "But you never did."

Summoning his heart, his brains and his courage, Harry turned in the wooden chair, ghosting his face over Snape's crotch. Harry lifted his eyes, letting them show, in a way he knew his inelegant words could not, the need he'd suppressed for the last two weeks. The spark he'd seen earlier in the core of those dark eyes had turned molten, and Snape hadn't had time to hide it. Nor the very obvious bulge in his trousers.

"You could dress me down now, sir," Harry said softly, running a hand up the back of the black-clad thigh in front of him.

Involuntarily, Snape tried to take a step back, but Harry's hand tightened, and he was caught short. "I've no intention--" he began, but again Harry cut him off. Not with anything as complicated as verbal badinage; he buried his face in Snape's groin. He expected the strong musky scent, breathed it in deeply, scenting the tart apple aroma of the liniment when fingers tangled in his hair. He nuzzled his nose along the hard length that was Snape's cock, opening his mouth to take the scent in through there as well. He'd been aroused from the moment Snape had touched him.

Above his head, Snape's trembling fingers undid the buttons, then dropped away so Harry could worm his face in deeper, moaning slightly.

"I see dressing downs are useless around you, Potter," Snape said, and Harry bent his head backward, his chin still in the open placket of the black pants.

Harry grinned. "Quite useless, sir." Snape wasn't stopping him, but he wasn't helping either. Harry slid off the stool and onto his knees. "I'm quite immune to your--" he pulled the waistband of the plain white underpants over the knot below, "evil tongue." Harry used his own tongue to emphasize the point, licking the purpling head of Snape's cock as it bounded free. He swirled his tongue around the ridge at the top, then licked his way down. He could clearly smell the apple potion-scented hands in his hair. And, oddly enough, the crisp scent wafted up from the back of Snape's balls.

"Let me guess," Harry said, talking around the heavy sacs lying on his chin, while he nipped his way up the erect column of prick. "Great-aunt Elphaba brewed apple soap too."

"I told you she was an odd duck," Snape said, using Harry's hair to gently pull his head away. Harry looked puzzled until he saw the indecision on the other man's face. "Be certain of what you want," he said.

"You want it too," Harry said, eyeing the bead of fluid leaking out of the arched length in front of his face.

"What I want is seldom ever what anyone else wants, especially when it concerns you."

Harry stood up, his loose pants open and low on his hips. Before he had time to think about it, he took out his own hard cock, then stepped closer. His arms went around the taller man's neck, as though he'd been doing it for ages instead of only wanting to. As he'd hoped, they fit together perfectly.

"Then tell me what you want now," Harry said, and then he kissed him. Apparently Great-aunt Elphaba brewed apple wine too, for Snape's mouth tasted of it, like crisp summer sunshine and leaves rustling softly in the breeze. Almost, he felt they were standing in the middle of the orchard, the ill-tempered trees swaying gently around them. Only now the branches that had hurled apples at him formed into skinny brown arms, offering shiny sun-warmed apples in their spindly, ridged fingers, offering Harry a bite.

Harry shook himself out of the sensory fantasy, overwhelmed by Snape's probing tongue. Supported by hastily shoved down pants and underpants, their cocks brushed, burrowing into each other. Harry's at least, seemed to like the idea, snapping orders at Harry's brain like the demanding little beast it was.

"You seem to know what I want," Snape managed, gratifyingly breathless.

Grinning, Harry pressed himself into the warm haven of Snape's groin. "You're a bit of an odd duck, too," he said, rewarded when Snape pushed back, holding his face in his hands before kissing the side of his jaw. "I thought maybe if I stayed here these two weeks you'd--" He dropped his head back, exposing the lightly tanned column of his throat.

"Seduce you? Lure you into my gingerbread cottage and have my evil way with you?" Snape asked, between kisses down his neck and into his hair.

"Something like that," Harry said, working his hands between them and grabbing both their pricks, then discovering he needed another hand to hold them both. Luckily, he remembered that he had two hands.

"What wicked fantasies you have, Mr. Potter," Snape said, rubbing his chin along Harry's bare shoulder. "What delightful, wicked fantasies you have."

Harry stroked them both together, hampered as well as aroused by their proximity. He squeezed along the spongy tips, his thumb pooling their leaking essences. "I'm ready for that seduction part, if you are," Harry said, hissing in pleasure when the roving lips sucked in the sensitive skin of his neck.

"More than ready," Snape growled, pushing Harry toward the one room in the cottage where Harry hadn't been allowed to go. He half expected more red-apple decor, but was grateful to find a definite masculine hand had been applied to the bedroom. He shoved out of the already loose trousers, fumbling a bit over his trainers before hastily pulling them off as well. When he stood up, Snape was sitting on the bed, his shirt open but not off, his cock jutting from his still-open fly.

Harry stood naked and proud, letting Snape look his fill. Then, stroking himself slowly, he crossed the room. He stepped unhesitatingly between the welcoming V of Snape's thighs until their cocks met again. Then there was nothing slow about covering the other man in kisses, nothing languid about pushing him back onto the bed, nothing leisurely about crawling on top of the writhing body beneath him. Harry was on Snape like a tornado, kissing the yellowish, sallow skin everywhere he could reach, and then stretching to reach more with his tongue, with his lips, with his fingers

His cock moved against Snape's, and Harry knew he could easily come that way, from just the delicious friction. Judging from the way Snape was moving, he probably could too. Harry let himself enjoy the slow slide of his cockhead down the hard column of Snape's prick before pushing himself off.

Straddling Snape around the waist, Harry leered down into Snape's scrunched up face. One dark eye opened slowly.

"As usual, I'm doing all the work around here," Harry said, with a smirk worthy of a certain Potions professor of his acquaintance.

"And as usual, not all that well," Snape said, grabbing Harry's arse to lever himself up slightly.

"You're one to criticize," Harry said, not as grumpily as he would have if Snape had been say, berating his potion, instead of lowering his mouth onto Harry's protruding cock. He didn't have a very good angle, not with Harry pinning him down, and he couldn't go very deep, but, as Harry stroked his fingers into the coarse black hair, he didn't mind at all.

He moved his hips slowly, as though fucking his mouth, then picked up speed as he felt Snape's jaw relax around him, taking him in deeper. Very soon, he was moving like a whirlwind, in, out, in, oh god, out, deeper, in, out, oh oh bloody good god, who knew Snape could suck like this, and he could feel Snape swallowing, sucking that much harder until Harry forgot all about anything but the need to jab the back of Snape's throat with the aching length between his legs. Long spindly fingers dug into his arse, pushing him exactly where he wanted to be, trapping him, holding him inside and then bloody sucking like the vampire he'd always been rumored to be, until Harry was shooting down Snape's throat as though attached to a bloody Hoover.

Harry toppled forward, planting his hands on the bed above Snape's head just in time to avoid crushing him. Around his cock, he could feel Snape's mouth working, swallowing around the obstruction, milking him dry. Snape made a noise and Harry eased himself out so he could hear what the other man was trying to say.

"I hope we have successfully negotiated the exchange of labors," Snape said, looking a bit too cocky for a man with come on the side of his mouth.

Still breathing heavily Harry panted, "Exchange, labor, successful. Right. Got it. Fuck me." He let Snape slide up from under him, feeling the tip of his erection bumping his stomach as Snape moved. Despite his depleted energy level, Harry pounced again, licking away the enticing dribble of spunk before being easily and willingly overcome.

Flat on his back, he looked up, his legs flopping open. Snape's eyes gleamed appreciatively as he shrugged out of his clinging shirt.

"At least you are not cowardly about your desires," he said, sitting back on the bed to shuck his trousers. Harry smiled to note that Snape was only wearing one shoe, the other lost presumably by their tussle on the bed.

"Wouldn't get very far with you if I was," Harry replied, lending a hand to take off the single shoe and tossing it carelessly over the edge of the bed. He stroked Snape's pale ankle, then up into the crisp hair of his calf. As he'd suspected, the older man had lean muscle hidden beneath his robes. It was one of the things Harry had fantasized about a lot while still under Snape's tutelage. Pulling the former teacher on top of him, Harry reflected that he'd much rather be under Snape this way.

"You'll find I don't scare easily," Harry said, arching up into Snape, letting him feel the taut hardness of his young body.

He heard a distinctly Snapeish snort. "Gryffindors. More heart than brains," Snape said, but since he was licking the middle of Harry's chest, awfully close to where the organ in question beat a happy tattoo, Harry didn't mind so much.

Snape's tongue was doing things to his navel that Harry decided should be made mandatory for any future encounters. He was still arching up, still trying to get more of his body in contact with that blistering tongue. Only instead of flaying the flesh off him with insults, the tongue was producing remarkable effects by bringing life to parts of his body Harry had considered temporarily out of commission.

"Reach over your head," Snape instructed, lifting his head long enough to utter the words. Harry looked backward and saw small sliding doors built into the headboard. He slid one open and saw what Snape was probably looking for.

"This one?" he asked, making the mistake of looking down just exactly when his stirring cock disappeared into Snape's mouth. Only this time Harry had a much better angle to view it. His body was screaming at him to come again, only his still-spent cock was trying valiantly to catch up.

"Just so," Snape said, licking down the side of Harry's shaft. The bottle was apple green, and Harry passed it down.

"Don't tell me Great-aunt Elphaba brewed that," he said when Snape's fingers closed around his own.

"There are some things," Snape said, pulling the cork out with his teeth, and spitting it softly onto the rumpled duvet, "I don't trust to anyone but myself." He used his free hand to spread Harry's legs wider, taking a moment to stroke into the inviting cleft.

"So, it doesn't smell like apples, does it?" Harry asked, angling his arse up to get into a better position for the probing fingers. When one traced circles around his tight puckered entrance, Harry felt himself melting like ice cream on top of hot apple pie.

Snape smiled. "No. Not apples." He drizzled a little on top of Harry's listing prick. "Poppies," he murmured. "Poppies."

Harry felt his eyes closing dreamily, feeling something nuzzling through the thick rivulet leaking down his cock. It was spongy against him and when he opened his eyes he saw that it was Snape's nose, spreading the thick liquid down him, under his balls. Harry watched, fascinated. The thick scent of poppies wafted up, and he breathed it in deeply, thinking of the bright red rows of them up the front path. He didn't figure he'd look at them the same way, after this.

Another warm trail of liquid tingled down his cleft, worked in with nose and fingers and tongue. Snape was, as in all things, thorough with potions. Harry's own cock, languid beast that it was, was righting itself slowly, like a masted sea-going vessel shaking off a persistent wave.

Harry bent his knees up and began stroking himself again, lifting his balls out of the way to get a better view. He felt something pull out of him, but since he could see exactly where Snape's hands were, he concluded it was probably his tongue, anointing Harry, inside and out.

Snape rose up, using still more of the viscous stuff on himself, though not lingering with his hand, though Harry would have been fascinated to watch some other time. Snape's cock was big and nearly purple, thicker than Harry's was, if as long. His arsehole all but quivered in anticipation of being jabbed with it.

"I'm going to like this," Harry said, lifting one leg, letting Snape grab his ankle.

"If you don't, there's no going back," Snape said, shifting Harry's foot onto his shoulder.

"Why should I go back to wanking over you when I can have the real thing?" Harry asked, gratified by the startled expression on Snape's face. "I wouldn't go back if I had to eat every apple off those trees out there."

He could feel the delicious bluntness of it pressing against him, feel himself opening, aching to accommodate the intrusion. He pushed into it, engulfing the intruder with welcoming heat, guiding Snape inward, letting himself close around the silken shaft. Snape was breathing hard by the time he slid home, and Harry, languid and filled and utterly content if he never came again tonight, gave him time to find his seat.

"You're--" Snape began, then grimaced, pulling out slightly, then back in, balls smacking into Harry's cleft. "So--" he tried again, eyes still closed. Then they opened suddenly and Harry caught the emotion swirling behind the black irises, emotion that couldn't even begin to make it into words yet.

"Want you, Severus," Harry said, his own voice a rasp with things spent and unspent in his throat. "Want you so much," he went on, seemingly making his wish come true by voicing it as Snape slid out slowly, feeling each thick inch of it. But before Harry could feel empty and bereft he was filled again, and again, letting the rhythm of it move him into the bedclothes, letting his heel bump against Snape's shoulder with every thrust, letting his own vocalizations come down to little more than grateful grunts.

"Gods above, boy," Snape hissed, leaning into him, letting Harry's leg slide around his waist, rapidly joined by the other one as Harry pulled himself in as close as he could, needing as much hot, sweaty, bodily contact as possible. Elbows dug into the bed on either side of Harry's head, as the last furious spate of motion, hard deep strokes that left Harry breathless, made the grunts in this throat turn to incoherent gasps.

Snape's flat belly ground into Harry's cock, and Harry was startled to realize he was spurting into the meager space between them. He could feel the compelling pulse of it, then the sticky wetness, as his lover rode him still, pounded them both until at last Snape made the most incoherent noise Harry had ever heard any human make, let alone Snape, and he felt himself flooded with heat, great gushes of it, filling him, leaking out a bit. He squeezed around it, holding both Snape and his seed deep inside him until his lover shuddered hard and slowed then stopped.

Harry watched the man above him, watched his eyes open very slowly, watched them dart around as if to check to make sure Harry was still locked between his legs. Harry, who had no intention of going anywhere, smiled.

As if the smile was a signal, Snape started to pull out, made a face when they separated with a soft, squishy pop and stared at Harry. Harry stared back. Then a slow smile spread over Snape's face, made more interesting with the rosy flush staining his cheeks.

"You never wanked over me," Snape said, although Harry got the idea he'd been about to say something completely different.

"Did too. In the most inappropriate places too." Harry felt entirely too spent, in more ways than one, to even think about getting up out of bed and was half-holding his breath to see if Snape kicked him out. "In fact, I'm going to do it right now," he said, teasingly, reaching for his utterly limp prick and prodding it, despite the fact that they both knew it would take a pulley and a Petrificus Phallus spell to get it up again tonight. The morning though was another story. Harry eyed the delightfully naked, sweaty man who was eyeing him back skeptically. "Unless I can talk you into letting me stay the rest of the summer."

Instead of replying, Snape twitched his nose, then swiped it with the back of his hand, never taking his eyes off Harry, as if afraid he would, like the ill-tempered trees, animate into something utterly unfamiliar. Then, with quick efficiency, he got them both under the covers though it was scarcely turned dark outside.

"The whole summer?" Snape asked finally, when Harry had been wondering if he should back down, and just aim for the rest of the night.

Harry fiddled with the edge of the duvet. He wanted to cuddle up next to Snape but hadn't been given the choice yet. There were only a few inches between them, but it seemed like a huge gulch. "Well, some of those apple trees could use pruning. Might take me a while." He tried not to sound too excited about taking a hedge-clipper to the trees.

Snape exhaled deeply and turned on his side, gathering the pillow beneath his head. Harry liked the way his black hair fanned out on the white fabric. "You've nothing better to do with your time?"

Boldly Harry slid closer, feeling only slight resistance to his frontal assault as Snape allowed him under his arm. Once they were chest to chest, Harry felt more comfortable. "Aside from letting you top me before breakfast, and toss me off after tea, not really. And that's just the days." He slid one hand into the slight dip of Snape's waist. "I have some good ideas for the evenings as well." He let that hang in the air a moment, then said, "Mrs. Weasley has this really good recipe for apple butter we could try."

Snape snorted--actually snorted--and seemed to relax at last. "Is that what they're calling it?"

Harry realized he was relaxing a bit, now that Snape was, and curled himself in closer, letting his shorter legs rub against Snape's. "I'm pretty handy around the house too," he said, trying not to sound too hopeful by the fact that Snape hadn't said no yet. Snape made a noncommittal noise, and Harry angled his head up so he could see his lover's face. Suddenly he knew he wasn't about to be thrown out--not tonight, and probably not all summer.

"No disrespect to the late Great-aunt Elphaba, but the place could use some fixing up," Harry went on, surprised when he felt the man beside him moved as if startled.

Fingers slid through his hair, urging his face up again. Harry was surprised by the glint of amusement in Snape's dark eyes. "Oh, Elphaba didn't die. She emigrated to Australia." A pause. "The land of Oz."