Serpentine

TITLE: Serpentine
EMAIL: zoerayne@slashdom.com
SITE: http://zoerayne.slashdom.com
AUTHOR: Zoe Rayne
DISCLAIMER: JKR owns all, perhaps literally at this point.
I own nothing but my words, in the particular (and possibly
peculiar) order in which they\'re strung together. This
story is based on characters and situations created and
owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not
limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast
Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no
copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
DISTRIBUTION: Merry Wizards only.
SPOILERS: OotP
SUMMARY: Harry has a dream.
PAIRING: HP/SS
A/N: Written for the Merry Wizards Secret Santa challenge
2003, #21.
REQUESTED: HP/SS, dark
WARNINGS: Um. Potentially disturbing. While not exactly
bestiality, those with a bestiality squick might be better
off avoiding this one.

-----

SERPENTINE
by Zoe Rayne
http://zoerayne.slashdom.com


When he opens his eyes to find himself in a small,
unfamiliar grey stone chamber, some part of Harry
recognises that he\'s in the midst of a dream. It\'s too
easy, though, too inviting to simply sink down into the
cocooning warmth of the room and so he does. He\'s not
worried about where the dream is coming from. Five months
of increasingly complex and exhausting Occlumency lessons
with Snape has left him confident that he can close his
mind at will, and on top of that his scar hasn\'t hurt in
months.

As though the mere thought of his Potions professor is
enough to summon him into the world of Harry\'s dream, the
wooden door swings open with a barely audible squeak and
Snape stumbles through the doorway. His torso is bare and
pale, ribs made more prominent by the arch of his back as
his hands are held - bound? - behind him. Though his face
is hidden behind a curtain of greasy black hair, Harry has
no doubts as to his identity; the past six years at
Hogwarts - years filled with hatred and Snape\'s cruelty -
have left Harry acutely aware of every aspect of the man,
from the curve of Snape\'s shoulder to the lank fall of his
hair.

Harry grins, perversely pleased as Snape stumbles forward
and falls to his knees on the floor at Harry\'s feet, a soft
yet sharp exhalation the only sound he makes. After months
of coming to and finding himself collapsed onto all fours
in Snape\'s office, his head aching as the room swam
nauseatingly at the edges of his vision, it\'s a refreshing
change to have Snape kneeling before him instead. Without
thinking, he reaches out one hand to tip Snape\'s chin up,
brushing the greasy strands of hair from Snape\'s eyes as he
does so.

It takes Harry a moment to realise that the fingers
tangling through Snape\'s dark hair do not, in fact, belong
to him, despite all sensations to the contrary. These
fingers are pale and sleek where his own are tanned and
strong. Most disturbing is the fact that they end in blunt
tips, devoid of fingernails. He opens his mouth to speak
and the voice that emerges is high and far too familiar,
though it\'s not Harry\'s own.

\'Severus, how kind of you to make the time to visit your
Lord. I know you must be terribly busy\' a sharp tug with
the hand entwined in Snape\'s hair, \'teaching Occlumency in
addition to Potions.\'

A sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, Harry
desperately tries to remember those Occlumency lessons,
tries to wake himself from what is obviously another
nightmare brought about by his link to Voldemort. But
somehow he can\'t seem to drag himself free from the
quagmire of sleep. He tries to shout, though whether to try
to get Snape\'s attention or to alert someone at Hogwarts
he\'s not quite sure. It doesn\'t really matter, though,
since he\'s almost certain he can only be a passive
observer, unable to actually affect even his dream
surroundings let alone Voldemort, and he\'s the only
Gryffindor staying over the Christmas holidays so there\'s
no one in the dormitory to hear him call out.

A warm, sliding sensation in his groin wrenches his
attention back to the sultry stone room, and he realises
he\'s standing naked, robes pooled on the floor at his feet,
in front of Snape. Harry has apparently moved one hand to
his prick - some tiny fragment of him protesting in shock
that verges on terror as the sensations filter back to his
disoriented mind and he realises that he has not one, but
two shafts - and is caressing it as it fills and hardens,
emerging slowly from his abdomen. It feels so good to slide
his hand along their supple lengths, the combined glide and
susurration of scales on scales sending shivers down his
spine with each caress.

Harry wants to shudder, wants to pull away and somehow wake
from the nightmare, but with every moment that passes it
gets more difficult to separate himself from Voldemort,
more difficult to remember which feelings are his and which
belong to the terrifying creature whose mind he seems to be
sharing.

He\'s speaking now, Harry\'s lips and tongue forming the
words effortlessly, and once again his awareness of \'self\'
and \'other\' as separate entities melts away and -

\'*Imperio*.\'

As soon as the curse is cast, a single thought is all it
takes to control the man kneeling before him. Just the
simple desire to feel Snape\'s lips wrapped around the
length of his bifurcated penis and Snape\'s mouth is there,
enfolding him in an exquisite wet heat. Harry bends Snape
effortlessly to his will, his desires - and the images
associated with them - blossoming into reality. He revels
in the slide of Snape\'s tongue, velvety and slick between
his shafts as the man presses forward, throat working to
swallow as much of their lengths as possible.

As glorious as the sensation is, however, it cannot match
the sight of Snape kneeling at his feet, coal-black lashes
fanning out against sallow cheeks, hands bound behind his
back, lips stretching redly around twin lengths of white,
scaled flesh. In the tropical atmosphere of the room -
heated and humidified for Harry\'s reptilian comf-
t-
trails of sweat run down Snape\'s cheeks, their tracks oddly
reminiscent of those left by tears.

Snape is his, Harry realises, to do with as he pleases. The
thought sends jolts of pleasure arrowing to his prick, and
Harry thrusts harder, his mind awash with the
possibilities. A single word from Harry\'s lips and Snape
will be writhing at his feet - in agony or ecstasy at
Harry\'s whim - and that knowledge is arousing to the point
of intoxication.

He frees Snape from the Imperius Curse with a thought, wand
poised to cast it again if it should be necessary. But
while Snape falters for a moment, he doesn\'t stop the
rhythmic slip and slide of his mouth on Harry\'s prick, and
Harry smiles at that. Yes, Snape is his.

---------------- finite incantatem --------------------