Anything

Snape, with one eye still on Harry, half-turns towards the door that leads from the Potions classroom to his private office and whatever lies beyond that. "Come here, slut," he calls.

Despite the fact that he's nearly out of his mind with fear and lust, a burst of laughter wells up in Harry that he can only just hold in. "Slut", for fuck's sake; who would let themselves be called that.

Malfoy.

Not a Malfoy that Harry quite recognises though. His feet are bare. He's wearing nothing but a pair of tight black trousers which only make his skinny torso seem paler, and something dark around his neck. Most of all, his sneering expression has been replaced with a downcast look of complete subservience. He looks, not at Snape's face, but at his feet, as he murmurs, "Master."

Harry's mouth has gone dry again. He can't believe he's seeing Malfoy like this, and he can't believe that Malfoy's just letting him. He tries to shrink back into the shadows at the edge of the classroom, because whatever's going on here, once he and Malfoy get out of there, Malfoy will make it bad for Harry.

"Be still, Harry," says Snape, still looking down at Malfoy. "Slut here is going to show you what promising me anything that pleases me can mean. Aren't you, slut?"

"Yes Master," says Malfoy, his eyes still fixed on Snape's feet.

There's an old beam running across the ceiling of the Potions classroom; normally there are two large cauldrons hanging from it, but tonight they're gone. The chains remain though. Snape loops them around Malfoy's wrists, holding them tight and muttering some word that Harry can't quite hear, but which seals them fast and drags those pale arms up above Malfoy's head.

The curve of Malfoy's back really is quite lovely, thinks Harry. He wonders what it would be like to run his tongue down the soft runnel above the other boy's spine, to taste the sweat that glistens there and feel the tiny blonde hairs against his face.

But Snape is speaking to him. "You will no doubt be aware that I, unlike some other of the staff of this school, was not so horrified when corporal punishment was brought back to Hogwarts, Harry. Discipline is something I value. The teaching of discipline is something I enjoy. And so slut has learned to accept discipline for my pleasure, as well as his punishment."

Harry and Snape both turn to look at Malfoy. His eyes are closed, and from the set of his jaw, his teeth are clenched. He obviously knows, better than Harry can guess, what's coming next, and how much it's going to hurt. Why does he do it, Harry wonders. And almost immediately, the deeper, darker voice within his psyche answers, because he needs to. Just as much as you do, Harry.

And no doubt Harry would go on exploring such interesting psychological ground, except he's distracted now by the powerfully erotic image of Snape caressing Malfoy's back with the black leather handle of a short, evil-looking, many-tailed whip.

"Yes, indeed, Harry," the silky voice continues, "slut has learned much about discipline, but little, I regret to say, about humiliation. I hope tonight will be as much of a learning experience for him as it doubtless will be for you."

As he says this, Snape has walked around in front of Malfoy, and as he finishes speaking, he takes the black trousers and r-i-i-p-s them so that they fall in two ragged pieces on the dungeon floor.

For the first time tonight, Harry sees a flicker of emotion pass over Malfoy's face; something flashes in his eyes before he clamps them tight shut, pain, perhaps or — It's shame, thinks Harry, it has to be; I'd be dying if I were Malfoy, hanging from Snape's classroom ceiling, naked, with my worst enemy watching my cock getting hard.

And it is. Harry can't take his eyes off it, or at least, he can't until he finds his own beginning to throb in answer to Malfoy's arousal, and tears his eyes back to Snape. Who is watching him already.

"Exquisite, isn't he?"

Harry nods. Why lie? He might hate Malfoy with a passion, out there in the school, but in here, in here with Snape, he'd like to do everything he's ever dreamed of . If Snape told him right now to go over there and suck Malfoy's cock, he'd do it.

"And if you're very, very good, Potter, I might let you play together." Snape chuckles dryly, his eyes once again sweeping over Harry's body as his long, slim fingers caress the whip handle.

Harry wishes he would. He's so hard, so achingly hard, that he can hardly think straight any more; he wishes it was him strung up there for Snape to do what he's about to do, to prove he can take anything the Master can dish out. His hands are gripped into tight fists, like Malfoy's, raised slightly from his body as though his flesh, unbidden, is playing out the fantasy that's being enacted in front of him.

The cat in Snape's hand is less than a blur. By the time Harry realises it's begun, a series of thin red stripes lies down one side of Malfoy's back and another set has begun to mirror it. Malfoy is screaming, or perhaps it's Harry, or both of them, surrendered to Snape and making their terrible music at his touch. By the time Snape pauses for breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his dark sleeve, the whole of Draco's back is one raised, red welt.

And that's not the end. Snape reaches for the cane he used earlier on Harry. "You see, Harry, there are many ways to begin. And sometimes cold can be a blessing."

Harry can't imagine, he's given up trying to keep up with Malfoy, even in his own head. He can't imagine how bad it hurts as Snape lays a criss-cross of livid white marks across the red. Malfoy's stopped screaming now; Harry wonders for a second if he's dead, but watching them, he sees that Malfoy is gasping for breath just as hard as Snape is, as though the two of them make one animal together, feeding and food.

And then Snape stops. He flicks his wand at Malfoy's chains, "libero", and Malfoy falls to his knees, whimpering, on the dungeon floor.

"Get up, slut," growls Snape. He's focussed on Malfoy now, with his back to Harry, and for the first time, Harry starts to appreciate just how big the man is. Looming over you in Potions class is one thing, but looming over you when you've just had absolute crap beaten out of you, demanding that you get up and satisfy him some more, Harry thinks he'd break. He'd cry and plead for mercy. He'd certainly never turn and whisper "thank you, Master", like Malfoy's just done, and bend and start to lick the Master's boots.

"I said," Snape takes a handful of the pale blonde hair and lifts Malfoy to his feet, "get up. I am not finished. Assume the spread position. You may use the desk."

Malfoy turns slowly, and places his hands flat on the desk in front of him. He forms an L-shape, legs straight and spread apart, ravaged back perpendicular, his face hidden against his arms. Snape moves between his legs and a wave of voyeuristic joy swells in Harry: he's going to watch Snape fucking Malfoy. Snape is unbuckling the tooled silver buckle of his belt; Harry can't see, he wants to see Snape's cock as it enters Malfoy but Malfoy himself is in the way, and Harry daren't move now, daren't distract Snape from this utterly exquisite act; a pause, and then the Master's hips begin to move, thrusting him into Malfoy, and Harry's follow, moving with the rhythm of Snape, pounding in his ears and throbbing in his cock and it's so good, so hot, and Harry realises that Malfoy's moving too, equal and opposite to Snape, thrusting himself backward to be fucked, and his cock too is dark and swollen, thrusting into air.

Snape takes a new, harder grip on Malfoy, his hands gripping the boy's shoulders and curving the ravaged flesh back towards himself. Malfoy groans, deep, and Harry sees him jerk and then cum, shooting onto the floor while Snape never misses a stroke.

Harry can only imagine how that feels, your cock going through the motions on its own, in the cold air. If he were Malfoy — oh gods if he were where Malfoy is now — he'd want the ground to swallow him up. As much as he'd sell his soul to have Snape do that to him too, to be sunk right up to the hilt in his flesh, head thrown back in glory, eyes closed in ecstasy. He wants to feel the heat of Snape's climax inside him, in place of this constant aching need for release.

There's no give in Snape, not even now, Harry realises. As soon as he's come, he pushes Malfoy away from him, so the boy ends on his knees again on the dungeon floor.

"Clean me," Snape commands.

There's no pause; Malfoy turns around, still on his knees, and busies himself at Snape's groin.

"So, then, Potter." Over Malfoy's pale head, that same smile curls around Snape's lips, the one that Harry used to call a smirk, and now thinks of as a precursor to some new, dark pleasure. "Do you still mean 'anything'?"

The syllables of the word, and the promise they contain, hang heavy in the air.

Harry bows his head.

"Sir," he whispers, "everything."