A Dram of Honesty, A Measure of Desire

It was nearly midnight, and the lone candle on the desk had more than half burned down. Severus Snape knew he should finish the evening's work and retire soon, but the school day gave him so little time for his own research that he was loath to give up these quiet, solitary nights. There was something soothing about the faint scratching of a quill on parchment, something pure that spoke of real scholarship -- as opposed to the ordeal of teaching, the clamor and rowdiness and embarassing ineptitude of students who would never appreciate the subtlety and elegance of Potion magic. True, there were always a few good students, but for every one who pleased him there were a score whom he wished to never see again. This meditation on formulas and theories was a balm to his soul, something he needed at least as much as sleep. Snape dipped his quill again in the inkwell and continued writing.

The knock at the door roused him from his contemplation. Startled, for a moment he only stared, sure he had misheard. But it happened again, a tentative knocking that sounded over-loud in the quiet office. The fire popped in response, half-burnt logs settling.

Snape set down his quill and sighed. "Come in." He hoped his icy tone sufficiently communicated his displeasure at the interruption. The heavy oak door swung noiselessly inward to admit the elfin-pale figure of Draco Malfoy. Well. This wouldn't be as bad as it could be, then.

"Mr. Malfoy, it is long past your curfew."

"I know." Something seemed to be wrong with the boy; his normal arrogance and self-assurance were entirely absent. "I couldn't sleep." The circles under his eyes -- bruise-colored in an otherwise flawless face -- suggested that this was an ongoing problem.

"I suggest that you take the matter up with Madam Pomfrey," Snape told him, politely but firmly. "I'm sure she could provide you with a safe and efficient sleeping draught that would correct your problem."

"She'd have to drug me every night, sir," Draco said, then took a deep breath and let all the words out in a rush: "to stop me from thinking of you."

Snape froze. "What?"

"I can't stop thinking about you." In Draco's eyes, a desperate mixture of terror and determination. "I can't -- I mean, you're -- I mean, I want you," he whispered.

"You can't possibly be serious." Snape's voice remained almost completely steady, though his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Shock, he told himself. That's all.

Draco flushed. "I've never been so serious in my life."

"Dra -- Mr. Malfoy," Snape corrected himself, "you're sixteen years old. A child. My student. This conversation cannot happen." He had to look down to say it, unable to face that hurt look.

"And if I weren't?" Draco asked, quietly.

"Weren't?" Snape choked.

"Weren't so young. Weren't your student." He drifted closer as he spoke. Snape could smell something intoxicating and musky radiating off his skin. It did nothing for his nerves.

He opened his mouth to claim that would change nothing, and found himself instead saying, "What could you possibly want from me? Unless it's the impropriety that excites you," he finished, feeling momentarily in control of the situation again -- until he met those silver-gray eyes.

"No, sir," Draco replied, that same soft earnest tone of voice. "Nothing like that. I want to touch you. I -- I want to kiss your mouth." He reached out, laid a hand on Snape's on the desk. "I want to feel you touch me -- I want your hands."

Snape looked down at them. Large and bony, scarred, potion-stained -- Draco Malfoy wanted his hands? He pulled them away reluctantly. "Mr. Malfoy, please," he said hoarsely. "Please don't pursue this any further. You should return to your dormitory." He stared at the half-finished scroll, a theoretical paper on the superiority of boomslang skin over that of various other poisonous snakes, and was dismayed to find that it absorbed his attention not a bit. Not with this confident, talented, hellishly attractive boy standing there within arm's reach, brazenly wanting him.

"I'll leave if it's what you really want," Draco offered finally. "If you can look me in the eyes and honestly tell me you don't want me, I'll go." His voice shook, and Snape looked up at him. That pink flush in his cheeks was so appealing. The look in his face mixed fear with hope, and Snape found himself wondering -- of all the ridiculous things! -- what the proportions were for each ingredient, and how the mixture had been combined.

"I want..." The words died on his lips as he stared into Draco's quicksilver eyes. Honestly? Honestly, he was in shock. Honestly, it would never have occurred to him to think that someone as beautiful as Draco Malfoy might find him attractive. Honestly, the fears about losing his job -- or far worse, should Lucius somehow find out -- seemed so remote in comparison with the potential reward.

Slowly, gently as a breeze, Draco leaned in and brushed his lips against Snape's. He closed his eyes as he did so -- pale lashes against pale skin -- and Snape was grateful, because that meant he didn't see the delicious shiver his kiss provoked.

"You want...?" Draco prompted, watching Snape again. He cupped the older man's face in his hands, fingertips resting on prominent cheekbones.

"This," Snape admitted, closing his eyes as Draco kissed him again, the taste of honey on the boy's tongue. Casually, comfortably, Draco straddled him, and sat balancing his weight on Snape's thighs. He ran his fingers through Snape's hair and took hold of it, as though he wanted to pull.

Snape kissed awkwardly, a man long out of practice, and he was sure Draco would be disappointed. But when he reached up and ran his hands over the smooth muscles of the boy's back, Draco actually sighed with pleasure. Emboldened, Snape wrapped his long arms around Draco's slender frame and pulled their bodies together, and the sigh deepened into a moan. The warmth! It had been ages since Snape had voluntarily been this close to anyone, and the simple sensual pleasure of the contact thrilled him.

And now Draco was breaking off the kiss, was licking along the line of his jaw, was nibbling at an earlobe, was moving inexorably down to the hollow of his throat and sucking on the pulse point there. Surely that ragged panting couldn't be coming from him! Draco's nimble fingers unfastened his robe, pushed it back out of the way, and reached for his shirt buttons. Reluctantly, Snape reached up and clasped the boy's hands -- so fine, so perfectly formed! -- in his own. Draco pulled back to meet his gaze, eyes luminous and questioning.

"Are you," Snape made himself ask, "certain that you want to do this?"

Draco nodded. "Completely," he answered, sounding heartbreakingly tender. Snape's hands released his, and they returned to their task, undoing the buttons of the black shirt, pulling it open. He leaned forward and let his tongue follow his fingers, licking a trail down the exposed skin, and was rewarded with another of those wonderful shivers. When his mouth found Snape's left nipple, the man groaned aloud.

Snape hoped it would never end. Draco's mouth and hands devoured him, exploring his skin with passion and skill. He was dizzy with pleasure. He ran his fingers through Draco's blond hair -- he felt so awkward, so ill-formed in comparison! -- and Draco leaned into the caress, head resting on his chest, and murmured, "I love the taste of your skin." Snape blinked back tears. This was madness, but so sweet.

"Thank you," he whispered, when he could trust his voice again. For answer, Draco kissed him, his hands on Snape's bare shoulders, and rocked his hips forward. The movement made Snape gasp, so Draco smiled a wide predatory smile and did it again. Without thinking, Snape responded, pushing up against him, hands on Draco's hips holding him close.

Draco's smile got wider, a wild light dancing in his eyes. "Mmmm," he purred, "I've been neglecting you horribly, haven't I?" And he squirmed out of Snape's grasp and slid down, off the chair, onto the floor in front of him.

Those nimble fingers were working at the buttons of his trousers and Snape could barely breathe, and he shouldn't be doing this, it was wrong, he was taking advantage of the boy and he must be saying some of this aloud because Draco stopped and looked up at him and waited for his eyes to focus before saying:

"Please, sir. I want to." With nothing but honesty in his voice, and Snape nodded.

"I want you to," he agreed, damning himself -- not the first time for that, certainly, but how much more pleasurable this way! He banished the thought, focused on the moment, Draco's hands parting the fabric of his shorts, the delicate caress of his fingers, and then, O Morrigan Macha and Badh, his mouth....

He finished far too quickly; he'd wanted it to go on longer, but the warm wet silk of Draco's throat was just too much to take. Catching his breath, the relaxation washing him like a silver tide, he opened his eyes and looked down. Pleased and fastidious as a cat, Draco licked his lips for any stray traces, then smiled up at him with that lush pink mouth.

The look on Snape's face was absurdly grateful, and Draco wondered if anyone had ever given him head before. He didn't seem ready to throw Draco out in a fit of remorse, either -- he still looked hungry, for all that his immediate desire had been sated.

Draco licked his lips again -- the Potions Master tasted smoky and mysterious and herbal, and he enjoyed the complex musk -- and rose to his feet. He watched Snape's black eyes watch him, the red of the dying fire reflected in their depths.

"We're not done yet, are we?" he purred, his raw throat making his voice deeper, husky.

Snape actually smiled. "I certainly hope not."

"Good." Draco reached up and unfastened his robes. Green silk slithered off his shoulders into a pool on the floor. He was wearing nothing underneath. He was gratified to hear Snape's breath catch at the sight, and he ran his hands slowly over his own body, offering himself.

"Wicked," Snape called him. And, "wanton," shrugging out of his clothes. "Beautiful creature." Snape stood, and pulled Draco into his arms, kissing him forcefully.

Draco felt weak in the knees. Being held like this -- pressed up against someone taller, more broad-shouldered, darker and more masculine -- made him feel exuqisitely vulnerable. And feeling vulnerable made him crave violence. He raked his nails down Snape's back, provoking a shuddering hiss. Snape grabbed him by the the hair, pulled his head back, and bit down on the tender flesh of his throat. He moaned aloud, grinding against Snape urgently.

"No," Snape whispered, his breath warm in Draco's ear. "Don't rush. It's my turn to taste you now." He let go of Draco for long enough to retrieve his wand from the desk and Transfigure them a thick bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. A few more muttered words revived the fire, and he pulled Draco down onto the fur with him. His hands roamed over the boy's smooth, fair skin.

Draco sighed with pleasure, enjoying the luxury. The fur felt soft against his back, in delicious contrast to Snape's rough hands -- why did he crave the touch of callused hands, with all their low-class associations? Then Snape lowered his head to Draco's chest, black hair tickling, and the wet warmth of his mouth prompted Draco to start making noise again.

Snape touched him everywhere but there, his hands and lips and tongue exploring the lightly-muscled planes of Draco's body, arms and shoulders and chest and stomach and thighs. Draco bucked his hips, trying to get Snape's attention, and his touch, where it would do most good, but the man refused to be rushed, taking his sweet time to lick a slow trail down from Draco's throat, across his breastbone, to his navel, and then, finally, lower....

It was like his kisses: not much experience, perhaps, but a surprising amount of passion that had its own charm. Draco moaned and purred appreciatively, doing his best to hold still and let his partner set the pace. It wasn't easy; he kept thinking about how good it would feel to tangle his hands in that long black hair and take exactly what he wanted. His breathing was getting ragged, his fists clenching unconsciously, when Snape stopped and looked up at him.

"I want you again." Mordred, that rich voice, harsh with desire.

"Come here." Draco pulled Snape up next to him and kissed him hungrily, pressing their bodies together. What a terrible waste, to hide this wiry strong frame under a professor's billowing robes! Now he did run his hands through Snape's hair, took hold of a fistful and pulled. Snape moaned into his mouth and gripped him tighter, fingers digging into his soft skin. Draco squirmed and moaned back, thinking of how easily he bruised and how glad he'd be for the souvenirs.

"Severus," he whispered, trying the name out on his tongue. Snape opened his eyes and met Draco's in a stare of such longing that Draco's heart skipped a beat. "Severus," he repeated, greatly daring, "I want to be inside you."

Draco's eyes were mercury, shining and deadly, and Snape couldn't look away. Serpents, he recalled vaguely, were supposed in folklore to hypnotize their victims with a gaze like that. The irony of the situation was not lost on him: if anyone found out about this night, he would be blamed, when in truth it was this sensual, too-precocious boy who debauched him. Could he really do this?

Could he not?

"I haven't -- ever...." he began, and trailed off. Draco moved against him, and he growled.

"Never? Oh, that makes it even better." Draco's hands roamed, touching erogenous zones Snape hadn't known he had -- never invasive, exactly, but always pushing for more. He kept his eyes locked on Snape's face the whole time, watching the man's resolve crumple, like a parchment shrivelling black at the edge of a fire.

Snape turned his head away. He could feel the flush in his cheeks, but couldn't tell anymore whether it was shame or desire. "Do it."

Draco turned his head back so their eyes met again. "Do it with me." This time Draco was the one with the whispered charm, providing warm oil, and he coaxed Snape to open up to him, to move with him....

They moved together, white on black, breathing harsh, Draco's fingers tangled in Snape's hair and Snape's arms locked around Draco's waist. The silver light behind Snape's eyes was brighter the second time, and he opened his eyes in its aftermath just in time to watch Draco shiver in its grip. The boy collapsed on top of him, shaking and sweat-slick and giddy. They lay there in a messy tangle of limbs for several minutes in silence.

"You realize," Snape said eventually, "that this can never happen again." Even to his own ears it didn't sound believable.

"Hmmm." Draco nuzzled into the hollow of his shoulder. "That's really too bad. I was looking forward to you doing that to me next time."

"Really."

"Really." Draco wiggled suggestively and pouted. "Pinned underneath you, begging for more..."

"Begging, hmmm?" Snape twined his fingers in Draco's hair and pulled the boy's head back to look at him. "I'd like to see you beg, Draco."

The pout turned into a sultry come-hither smile. "You'll just have to make me, then."

"Oh, I will. I will."