Carpe Diem

*First, thanks for the kind feedback. It inspired more creativity from me. Second, I suggest reading \'Crying\' first (if you haven\'t already) - if only to better understand how things progressed to this point. *

Disclaimer - I do not own the characters in this story and I make no profit from their use.

-8incal

Carpe Diem

I’m sitting near the center of his classroom; my eyes fixed on first his shadow, then his robes and eventually, his face. I gasp and Ron bumps me, giving me that look. The one that asks, ‘what’s up, mate?’
I shrug off the inquiry, lowering my gaze back down to the parchment before me. Thinking it over inside my head, I decide that I am officially incapable of taking this class any longer. Not with him teaching it and certainly not after what happened two nights ago. I was insane to do what I did, and I hate myself for it. However, I sort of like the warm ache in the center of my body. He seems quieter today as he deliberately avoids my gaze, deliberately ignores my staring eyes in his direction. It\'s attractive, this coyness from him. My cheeks feel hot when I turn and see my best friend gaping openly at me.
“What whi whisper, trying desperately to act as if everything is normal.
He snorts a disgruntled laugh before whispering. “I dunno. You look out of it. Even more than normal.”
There is a low ‘ahem’ as we look up to find the trail of dark robes passing our table. “Ten Points from Gryffindor for discussion during lecture.”
Ron looks pained, but I am staring after the Potion Master, stupidly. Why didn’t he address us, directly? This isn’t like him. Then again, taking house points is pretty much run of the mill stuff. I only wish he would look at me. After my little display with him that night, I wish I could find where we stand. But we were never on level ground to begin with, then, were we?

After lecture, we are mixing potions, and I am neither combining the right ingredients nor following the correct mixing procedure because I am too preoccupieditiniting for him to come around and inspect my work, aching for an opportunity to speak with him, to at least meet his dark gaze. When he finally does come around to me, I panic, spilling a pink gooey ingredient onto the front of my robe. He stands before me, and I can’t find the courage to look up. Instead I murmur, quietly.
“Sorry, professor.”
“What is this?” He asks, gesturing at my cauldron.
“I- I- I don’t know, sir…I’m…uh…it’s…” Now, I am looking into his eyes, endless pools of black. My body starts to feel warm as my heartbeat gets louder inside my head. “I forgot a step…or two.”
He pauses, as our eyes stay linked. I want to touch him so badly, but I know that would be a terrible mistake. Especially with Ron staring in our direction and Draco Malfoy not far from us, curiously watching the exchange with his usual sneer.
“Perhaps, Potter, you will better memorize all the steps…” he says in a low, purring - but somehow malicious voice. “…in detention. Tonight.”
I am trembling inside and out even with Malfoy’s snickering in the background. When I swallow, it takes a great deal of effort because my throat is suddenly constricted. I don’t know whether to scream out in jubilation or cry out in misery. Of course, neither would be appropriate because I have been in this situation before. Only this time, there is a whole other set of emotions to deal with besides the usual dread and anxiety. Of course, I can never tell Ron how I feel. He’d probably dn men me, and Hermoine would probably chalk it up to some spell someone might’ve cast on me, unbeknownst to the user or his intent.

Currently, though, I am walking through the hallways with a disgruntled Ron Weasley at my side, complaining on a range of different levels about a range of different things.
“…and you didn’t even deserve a detention! For what? God, the injustice!”
I’m nodding and thinking of Snape. I’m wondering what he’ll make me do. I’m wondering if he’ll be especially harsh. I’m picturing his pale face against his black curtain of hair in the firelight. When I feel a hand on my arm, I am startled.
“Have you even been listening to me?”
I’m nodding vigorously at Ron. “Yeah. You said something about Hermoine being angry at you because of a letter she wrote to Viktor. You think she should get over him because he’s a pompous git.”
Ron stares blankly at me, for the moment, then shakes his head. “Bloody hell, you really looked like you’d gone out on me for a moment.”
Sighing, I grin at him. “Ever hear of multitasking?”

Later, I am travelling the long corridor towards the Dungeon where Professor Snape’s office is. My hands have gone cold and pale, as the temperature seems to drop even lower. My heart races and I pause just outside his door, remembering the last time we were alone here. I feel an embarrassed heat color my cheeks, but I trudge forward, at any rate.
The worst he will do is instruct me to do lines. Then again, there are tons of miserable things he can make me do. Going inside, I search the room for him aind ind him, as usual, bent over his desk, scribbling on parchment. When he glances up, he takes a pause and watches as I approach him.
“Professor.” I whisper when I get to the edge of his desk, staring down at him.
Wordlessly, he stands and comes around to where I am, and we are inches apart, and I don’t give myself time to back out. With quick unplanned movements, I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his robes, enjoying the scent of him before he feels inclined to push me away – but much to my surprise, he never pushes me away. Instead, he lets me hold him close, lets me brush my lips against the fabric of his garments, lets me clutch him tighter. I can feel his heart beating hard inside his chest and it only serves to fuel my blossoming need.
“Professor.” I whisper again, letting my fingers come up to slide through his silky hair. “Please…” I’m gasping, desperate, elated and confused all at once. “…Please say something…”
I am looking at him, staring at him. He seems taken aback but also a little accepting. I realize in this instant that I am leaning against him and he is perched on the edge of his desk, helpless, because of my weight against him.
“Potter…” his voice is barely a whisper –a breath. “…I don’t…”
He is having some sort of internal struggle with himself and I reach for his hand and bring it to my lips, kissing tenderly the cold knuckles. He seems startled and discomforted by this, but allows it. I open his fingers then, and turn his hand over to drop soft kisses on his palm. I know that if I keep this up, his hands will warm up, but I don’t get the chance because in an instant, he is cupping my face and tugging me forward in a kiss. Our lips are pressed, and I open my mouth, instinctively, eager to taste him this time, eager to savor him. When I find his tongue, I release a sound in the back of my throat similar to a cry but more like a groan. I marvel in the fact that I am getting hard inside my slacks. I wonder, fleetingly, if he notices this since our bodies are practically stacked against one another.
My fingers are tangled in black locks of his hair, and we are dueling, not with magic, but with desire. His hand on me remains on my face, cupping my cheek, and I wish that he would touch me. It aches that he doesn’t. In my head, I am trying to visualize the scene we make, him, the evil, Potions Master – and me, the boy who lived, the boy with the hard-on, the boy who wishes Snape would bloody touch him, already! Then, an image floats into my head; it’s a picture of someone walking in on us, Professor McGonagall.
Suddenly frightened, I pull out he khe kiss and stare at him, feeling terribly conflicted. Paranoia has come over me quite suddenly.
“What did you see?” Snape asks in a perfectly casual voice, not like we’ve just made out.
“Professor McGonagall.” I answer without hesitation. “Walking in on us.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then, in another instant, his eyes slide from my face to the door of the dungeon as the Transfiguration instructor comes into the room. My face drains of color, but Snape merely stands there, looking as he always does, indifferent.
“Good evening, Severus…”
“Minerva.”
“I was told I’d find Potter here – and I wondered if it’s possible you could postpone his detention with you until tomorrow – as this is the last Quidditch practice before the last game…”
Ahh, Quidditch. I’d practically forgotten about that in lieu of recent events. My erection is slowly dying down, and I am thankful for the flowing robes I chose to wear on this evening. It was a gallant attempt, her coming down here to ask, but as is usually the case, Snape is not likely to budge. Especially since the match is against Slytherin.
After a moment though, he speaks in his sonorous voice. “I will allow it.”
Admittedly, I am a little crushed. I had thought he’d have wanted to continue this…whatever this is, but instead, he’s releasing me to Quidditch – a sport that I do enjoy, yes, but a sport that pales in comparison when placed against kissing the man next to me.
I pretend to look relieved, but instead, I am empty inside. Averting my gaze, I brush past him and follow a thankful McGonagall to the threshold before I hear his ominous voice catch my attention, and I turn my head in his direction.
“Same time tomorrow, then, Potter.” He is busy at his desk, but I think I catch a tingting, evil smirk grace his lips. “Don’t be late.”
My knees tremble, and my mouth goes dry. I’m fighting to keep from grinning as I manage a feeble nod.
“Yes, Professor.”