Crying

Disclaimer - I do not own the character in this fic, and I am not making a profit from their use.

Crying

It’s an odd predicament; I know. Face to face with him again down a dark lonely corridor. Funny how that always happens when I don’t want it.
“Mr. Potter.” It sounds less like a reprimand this time, more like an inquiry.
Another tear slides down my cheek and I am mortified even as I do nothing to prevent it.
He is close to me; we’d nearly collided because my eyes were too blurry to read the bloody map – but my senses still told me he was coming. I could still smell his familiar scent, exotic and distant.
The least I can do is suppress a sniffle. I’m fifteen years old and hopeless. Even after saving the wizarding world and doing what no other could, I still get in these moods. The loneliness gets to me and feels like a weight not even Ron or Hermoine can lift. So yes, I am crying, chest rising and falling in uneven cycles. I feel like Hell, spent and broken and I never expected to see him here. Then again, I always do.

His long finger comes out to raise my chin and I am met with coal eyes in the darkness. Shuddering, I try to avert my gaze as another tear streams down. Just being in his presence is torture – especially when I don’t know what’s coming.
“Mr. Potter, I don’t suppose I need ask what you are doing away from Gryfindor tower at such a late hour.”
I don’t answer, but my stomach is churning. I should learn to not take late night walks – even if they calm me – even if they soothe me enough for sleep. Not even Snape could know of my insomnia. How could he?
Another sniffle from me, and I try to pretend he isn’t standing here. I try to pretend he isn’t staring down into my face, scrutinizing me. What I need more than anyone else right now is Dumbledore – or if my parents were alive…
My eyes are like fountains now, endless streams, and I hear myself make a sound in the back of my throat. I don’t even let myself wonder what Snape might be thinking. I don’t even consider him. Instead, I simply stand there and cry, and he removes his finger.
“Potter.”
His voice is so deep, like a cauldron – but threatening, scornful. I shudder and try to will him away, but I know it won’t work. He merely stands there, and I shake my head, slowly, trying to regain some composure.
“I’m sorry professor.” My voice sounds small and weak, like a reed in the wind. When I wipe my eyes, he is looking down at me, impassive as usual but with a faint hint of something more. Compassion, maybe?
“For wandering the corridors, ten points from Gryfindor.” His sonorous words don’t even phase me. Instead, they fill me with a certain liberation.
“Why not fifty?”
He doesn’t speak for several seconds, no doubt surprised at my rebuttal. Then, he does speak in his still level voice. “Alright. Fifty.”
I have a sudden thought, Neville Longbottom tying me to my bed at night to prevent these point-deducing escapades. I wish it mattered to me.
My chest feels tight even as my ears burn. There is no one in this place to which I can cry to - really cry to. Remus isn’t here. Sirius isn’t here. Dumbledore is mostly inaccessible, and my friends are…well…they can’t be expected to bear such a weight as this, the deep grating horror that is my life, the hurt and anguish, the inescapable loneliness. Lowering my head, I feel the pain welling up inside of me again. So much for retaliation. Instead, I give myself over to it, not caring that he’s still standing here, still regarding me with those dark eyes, intentions unclear but mostly bad, I’m sure.
It’s funny about Snape, though; he’s always here. If I can count on him for nothing else, I can count on that.
Wiping my eyes, I look up and regard him. He is standing there, his expression unreadable. His dark gaze is a cross between condescending and curious. Black hair frames his pale face, and I reach up to push a lock of it out of the way. He flinches as I do, and I pause, startled that I would do this. It makes no sense.
His face is a mask of uncertainty, and I let my fingertips drag along the skin, softer than I would have imagined. I feel as if I am under a spell – and maybe I am. But I can’t stop. It never occurred to me before, but maybe I need him.
“Professor, I…”
“Potter…” His hand not holding his wand comes up to grasp my wrist and cease my actions, and I do. For the moment.

But in the next instant, my other hand comes up to his face. My tears have abated for the time being, but my face still feels warm, my eyes still burn, and my chest still feels full and tight. He is magnetic to me, and I can’t keep from touching him – if only to touch another. Physical contact with anyone else is so rare here, aside from the normal Hermoine hug, the almost sisterly touch of her. It’s nothing like this. Not quite forbidden – not yet – but somehow dangerously absurd. I let my finger slide down his cheek, down, down down, until I reach his collar. His wand hand takes my other wrist and pushes me back, firmly.
He doesn’t speak but fixes me with a warning stare, and I feel the chill. Bad or good, I am trembling over him – nothing new but somehow different. If he denies me, I’ll break down; I know I will.
“Professor, I…I’m sorry. I just…”
“Return to your house.” He says, his voice faint.
It takes all my courage, but I shake my head slowly. “No. I can’t.”
He cocks his head at me, his expression perturbed. “Explain yourself, Potter. What is this act of blatant insubordination? Have you been tinkering around with bravery potions?”
I’m shaking my head, not able to explain myself. “I don’t know, sir. I mean…no sir.”
There is a moments pause, then he speaks, his voice deep and low. “Have you gone mad?”
I don’t know how to answer the question because I don’t know. May hav have gone mad. I can’t be sure.
“I don’t know sir.” I am coming close to him again, my hand reaching for his face.
“Don’t!” He stops me with words and with his rough grasp on my wrist, and I feel a different sort of chill coursing through my body. I am trembling.
“But sir…Professor…I…”
“Potter, you will cease this behavior immediately.”
He is still holding my wrist in his tight fist, and I am wincing. It hurts so good, squeezing to the heart of me. My eyes are closed, and I can see myself enveloped in him. I am warm and aching with a need I can’t explain. There is no one else except him.
“P-p-professor…” My free hand is reaching for him, searching for him behind the darkness of closed eyes, and I am pressing my face into his dark heavy robes, startled by the almost sweet scent of him, the softness and the weightiness of him. “…God…”
“Stop this…”
“No.” My lips brush against the fabric covering him seemingly in endless layers. I don’t know what I want, but I can feel it, deep inside me. My body prickles with fire. “Touch me.” I whisper it, and he pulls away from me suddenly, as if burned. My scar feels weird as he regards me with contemptuous eyes. I am looking back at him now, pleading silently, and he shakes his head, slowly, backing away from me, putting a considerable amount of space between us.
“Goodnight, Potter.” The words spoken so softly cut me to my core. I am trembling, in danger of falling save for my supporting hand on the cold cement walls as I watch him fade into the darkness, black robes billowing after him. How could he leave me this way?

It’s a risky move, but I start to undress. Right in the hallway. First my shoes, then socks and pajama pants. Lastly, my sweater with the big embroidered ‘H’ made for me by Molly Weasley, quite possibly the only maternal figure I’ll ever have. I don’t let myself wonder what people would think. I don’t even have my wand if someone should find me – or something. Instead, I let my legs carry me unsteadily towards his dungeon because I know that’s where he’ll be. My eyes are filling again because this little stunt could get me put out of Hogwarts. They allow for theasioasional run-in with danger, or act of bravery or the few bouts with bad behavior, but insanity is a different matter altogether. I am frightened when I think oe pre prospect of running into Dumbledore. What would he say? What would Lupin say? Or Ron and Hermoine? It’s as if I am possessed, and my feet don’t stop until I reach him, and I push the large door open and creep inside. He is hunched over his desk, scrawling on a parchment, and doesn’t notice me straight away. His black hair hangs about his face in long locks, and I want him to see me. I need him to acknowledge me.
When his eyes slide up, I get chill bumps all over my skin. I am stark naked before him, and I have made an offering of my body, a sort of truce, a kind of peace treaty. I want him to do with me what he will, but he makes no immediate move. Instead, he lets those black eyes slide along my pale, hairless body, along my limbs, down my torso, down, down down…I am shivering, thinking of his hands on me. My eyes are puffy and they hurt from so much crying. Have I been cursed?

When he stands and comes towards me, I swallow ha
“
“What do you call this, Potter?” His voice sounds tired and not at all impressed. I feel like a naughty little schoolboy whose prank has gone miserably wrong.
“I want…”
“Not another word.” He says, removing his robe and draping it over my naked body, and without warning, I press myself against him, wrapping my arms around his middle. My pelvis is against him, rubbing the thick fabric of his clothes and I hear myself gasp as my dick hardens. This ndenndeniably weird, but it feels so much better than anything I ever could have done to myself; I want him to hug me back, to hold me tight, to touch me…there.
My face is just at his neck level and I bury it there, smelling hair,air, letting my eyes drift shut, my lips brush against his collar. He doesn’t seem to be moving so I take advantage while I can – before he uses his wand to knock me flat. It feels so wonderful to have him this close. He may be my worst enemy – besides Voldemort, but I can handle Snape. I know I can – I want to!
He makes a sound deep inside him and it only serves to endear him to me.handhand is on his chest, stroking him as my hips begin to push against him, rubbing my hard flesh against him, working up an exquisite friction. Oh God...I\'ve never felt so good.
When I feel his hand rest on my hip, I cry out. Then, that same hand squeezes me, hard. Tears come to my eyes, but I love the contact – would’ve paid him for it. He slides his hand up the side of my torso, around to my back, up to my shoulder – so gently. I can’t stop myself; I crane my neck and angle my head so that I may kiss him, and contact is made with his thin cold lips – but only briefly. One last thrust of my hips against him, and I am coming just as he is pushing me away, and I am on my back on the floor, come shooting from me as I moan and raise my knees, still gyrating my pelvis.
Covering my face with my hand, I start to cry. I have just made a terrible mistake – and Snape has all he needs to have me expelled on the basis of insanity if nothing else. I am embarrassed and cold and alone. I can feel his eyes on me, and it feels like a great weight upon me. Between sobs, I muster a whimper. “I –I’m s-sorry.”
Then, in an instant, he lifts me up and into his arms. His embrace is so warm it startles me. I am dizzy as I bury my face in his chest and cry. My arms are around him and there is a gently rocking motion, and I am crying so hard, my body hurts. I am crying for all that has happened, for my parents, for my friends, for Dumbledore, for Hagrid, for Sirius, for everyone. I am crying because I am in love with Snape and his robes are sticky with my come. I am crying because I am so sad – and yet so happy for this moment. My fingers reach up and slide into his black silky hair as my tears finally subside, and I have no concept of how long we have been here. Then, he is pushing me away, and there is a space of about two feet between us. Our eyes are locked and he looks so uncomfortable, so caught off guard. I relish this instant before he speaks.
“Now, return to your house and never speak of this. If you do speak of it, even in secret, then I shall know.”
Nodding, I back away from him, towards the threshold. I am running through the corridors covered only in his too large black robes, but I am filled with a newfound inspiration. I don’t pause to think of what has happened; there will be plenty of time for that – nor do I consider the possible ramifications of the act. I simply let my legs carry me to Gryfindor Tower as fast as they can, strangely content with the thought that Snape may feel the same for me.

END?