More Jaded Views on Underage Wizard Dating

Uh...mostly, this is a Snape/Harry fic, but there are a few other pairings and themes hinted at. One of the themes mentioned here is Malfoycest so if that isn\'t your cuppa, sorry. i only mention it once, though. The boggest thing here (as suggested in the title) is underaged sex. If that offends, please don\'t read. Thanks. Come again. :)

Disclaimer - I do not own these characters. No infringement intended. No profit made. No harm done. Yes?

More Jaded Views on Underage Wizard Dating


“Oliver Wood.” McGonagall purrs it in a quiet, conspiratorial voice. “Most certainly.”
I glance in her direction and feel the corners of my lips curl upward automatically. She’s adorable in her strict old ladiness. I’d never admit that out loud, of course. Madame Hooch has a self-satisfied glint in her eyes at mention of the name. Yes, Oliver Wood has been the talk of the staff and student body since he first arrived on the grounds. And yes, he is attractive but not my cup of tea.
Tiny Professor Flitwick is floating in midair, supporting his steaming mug of Earl Gray on one knee and smirking beneath his beard.
“I’ve always fancied the Weasleys.” He says, grinning as I feel I am already tiring of this conversation.
The others nod as their eyes beg for more. Details of Flitwick’s sexuality have been a mystery for some time. I, myself, am wondering whether he has had a tryst with the redheaded twins (the misfits) or perhaps melancholy little Ginny. Almost certainly not the latter.

“How about that Malfoy?”
I roll my eyes. Leave it to Trelawny to make a startling breakthrough like that one.
McGonagall sighs, but I notice over in the corner, Lupin has glanced up from his Witch Weekly. He always was a kind of blend-into-the-woodwork sort of bloke. I wonder if he looks up because he can verify the glorious well bred looks of Draco Malfoy or if he’s planning to run to the headmaster, blowing the whistle on this little discussion. Everyone has been with a student at one point or another. It’s a simple fact of life. Still, his amber eyes drift lazily over to where I am sitting, linking with mine briefly before I turn away. He unsettles me.

When Lockhart was still doing his stint here at Hogwarts, he’d have had many a tale of randy, young groupies in disheveled uniform skirts and shirts unbuttoned to reveal just the tiniest hint of black brassier beneath. He’d felt plenty of them up, no doubt, but Lockhart was a fraud, a temporary fill-in. He didn’t belong within our inner sanctum – just like Lupin. And it’s as if the werewolf can feel the invisible wall behind which he waits, like a placeholder. I don’t feel comfortable divulging anything within his presence. His golden eyes are far too intense. Like when he was a child. I still remember that displaced look, his frail wispy self adorned in tattered brown – like a chameleon. I’m thinking of Harry Potter suddenly, but I don’t dare speak of him. It’d be too much for the others to accept.

“And you, Severus,” McGonagall has turned her sharp eye on me, her playful grin. “Surely you must have a name or two?”
Thinking quickly, I drawl out quietly. “Neville.”
The others glance in my direction, unsure how to respond. McGonagall isn’t buying it. “Longbottom? Really, Severus, you despise him.”
“I despise everyone, Minerva.” I reply as the other staff members present have a good chuckle at my deadpanned response. They already know of my on-again, off-again love affair with Draco, but are otherwise oblivious to my brief interlude with Alicia Spinnet, Pansy Parkinson, the very fast shag with Cedric Diggory and a nice year long affair with Percy Weasley because seeing someone in a different house sometimes makes it easier on the both of you. Although I tend to waver back and forth across the lines of sexuality, my primary interests lie within the male race. Which is where I am at present, wrapped up in an affair with a male student.

“And now, I must bid you all goodnight.” I am standing, letting my eyes go to where Lupin is still pretending to read an article. In my head, I imagine him debating on whether he should go to Dumbledore tonight or wait until morning. He always was a good Samaritan. Then again, perhaps he is thinking of a student as well. Perhaps he is thinking of Harry.


As I make my way through the hallways and along the path towards the dungeons, my head is reeling. I am trying to think of a song, something about strawberry fields – some muggle thing I heard years ago. They’re very passionate, muggles. Even in the profoundly idiotic way they carry themselves through life, vulnerable and oblivious, they still manage, on occasion, to move me. My thoughts are moving in too many directions at once as I try to ignore the quiet sound of my own footfalls on the stairs. Lupin has managed to unbalance me again, with his intense animal eyes. I imagine he would be furious with me, yet again, if he knew the full power I had over him, the full advantage. Sure, he has Sirius Black, the murderous felon, I am positive of this. But I have the Gold. I have Harry Potter.

When I arrive at my private quarters, he is there, waiting for me.
“Professor…” He whispers, eager and childlike.
I swallow once and close my door, locking it with a muttered charm.
“We’ve discussed this.”
He nods, blushing warmly. “Sorry. Severus.”
I approach him and stand very near, studying his pale face, perfect nose and mouth, incredible green eyes, the color of sleep potion. My hands come up to touch his skin, cup his face and draw him near. He gasps before our lips meet, and I am enveloped in him, in his perfection, in his sweetness, in his love, in the forbidden pleasure of his fourteen-year-old self. This boy needs a father, but I am not the kind of father he needs, the kind that comes to your bed at night, jostling you awake to do the unthinkable in the wee hours of night and beneath the eyes of angry Gods. This boy comes to me, instead, and I accept him.

“I need you… inside me.” He whispers against my lips, and I am hardening as a result of his need, and as a result of the fear. I fear being caught, but even worse than that, I fear the look in Dumbledore’s eyes, the disappointed, slightly wounded look. Ignoring my thoughts, I crash the boy’s mouth to mine and plunge my tongue deep inside while fumbling with the fastenings on his robe.
He is radiating heat, and I am suddenly insatiable, ripping the shirt from his body, exposing his pale flesh, knowing I can repair anything I damage later. This is the power I have as a wizard, the power I have over any muggle. This is what makes them weak. The boy cries out as I pinch his nipple, hard.
“Severus…” He whines, presses closer to me.
“Yes…anything you want…” I hiss against his slender throat, reaching beneath his trousers to tug on his rigid cock.
“Ughhnn…” His voice is a strangled gurgle as he trembles and lets his hand slide across my chest, unsteadily undoing each button, fearful of them coming unstitched.
After he is nearly halfway done with opening my jacket, I am dropping to my knees in front of him, pulling his cock free and shoving it into my mouth. His voice is a hoarse cry, and I like the sound of it reverberating across the dungeon walls, slamming against brick and stone. His thick cock fills my mouth, and I shut my eyes as I take him, dragging my tongue around the head and underneath the shaft. I am imagining his face as I listen to his ragged breathing, his head thrown back, mouth parted, lids fluttering over those emerald eyes. His fingers are tightening on my shoulders, his pale arse, even paler than the rest of him, flexing as he gets closer and closer.
“I’m…so close…” He manages as I let him slide from between my lips and stand and hold onto his chin while I deliver the softest kiss anyone has ever had the pleasure to receive from me. Even through his unbridled passion, the boy is startled by it. And then, I am forcing him over my desk, freeing myself and unceremoniously sheathing myself within him. My pre-cum is lubricant enough, and I am so angry at myself for wanting to come already. It shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t be so wonderful. I could murmur a quick spell to make it last longer, but I don’t want to cheapen the experience. I want it to be genuine – just like every time we’re together.

Fucking Malfoy is nothing like this, not quite so innocent and pure. It is tainted with our blood, charged with the pain that comes from masochism and dominance. He likes it rough – the way he gets it from his father, and I like leaving that parchment white body marred and bruised, only to spell it all away when we are done, and he is not nearly as open as Harry. Draco is far more closed and infinitely colder – almost as cold as I am. But, Draco is also needier than I could ever be, and vulnerable and in search of acceptance. Being with him, (sexually or otherwise) is almost too exhausting.

Harry is pressing back against me, seemingly deliberate in his efforts to bring my thoughts back to him.
“Severus…” He whispers, reaching back to rest a hand on my hip as I drive slowly back and forth, trying to hold onto this. “…Severus, don’t stop…I love it…love you…”

It isn’t the first time he’s said it, and I never return the sentiment. Whether I feel it or not, is a different story. I could see myself in a lasting relationship with Harry (and by lasting, I mean til his graduation from Hogwarts). Beyond that is anybody’s guess.

When I feel myself begin to reach the breaking point, I reach around for his beautiful, taut cock and squeeze it in my palm, milking it as we both come, trembling and spilling the last evidence of our sex onto and into ourselves. My mouth is against his shoulder, and my teeth are biting the skin, gently, so gently lest I send off the wrong message. In my head, I am picturing McGonagall and the others and wondering what their reaction might be. Me and Harry Potter. I’ve already schooled the boy on the right behaviour, what to do and what not to do etc. We retain the same ill-will in public that people are expecting of us, still sneer and battle, and he endures my critical remarks in class, but I always make it up to him. His grades are never nearly as bad as he deserves (because Harry really is awful at Potion making).

Extracting myself from him, I allow him to turn and face me and slide his fingers through my hair, pulling a few black strands in front of my eyes, black lines of ink across the perfect portrait of him.
“I love being with you.” He whispers, wrapping his legs around my waist, resting on the desktop. “You’re so beautiful.”
I roll my eyes but stay where I am. “You aren’t required to be so…” I can’t find the right words. “…forthright.”
He makes a face. “I’m only being honest.” He pulls me down over him and wraps his arms around my neck.
Our lips are nearly touching, and I take a chance on being honest too. “Like when you say you love me?”
His cheeks pink, but he nods, his glasses crooked. I remove them so that I may look into his eyes, perhaps even crawl around in his head a bit.
“Yes, like when I say I love you.” And the look on his face is so pained and so genuine and so real that I need not go inside his mind to know if it’s true.
Disentangling myself, I murmur the words that clean us both and repair his torn shirt. He is left only with the task of fastening his pants and straightening his tie and robe.

“We must be more careful.” I tell him as I move a stack of parchment back into place on the desktop. “I believe we may have a spy inside the castle.”
Harry swallows, looking ashen. “Besides Sirius Black?”
I nod once. “Yes. Besides Sirius Black. Someone working inside. I don’t wish to frighten you, but…”
“You think its Professor Lupin…”
I don’t readily respond since I know how fond the boy has become of the werewolf, nor do I reveal the fact of his condition as the boy will be made aware soon enough on his own.
“I only bring it to your attention so that you may use extreme caution.”
Harry pauses, then comes close to me. “You think he suspects us?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. Perhaps. Perhaps not. We cannot be too careful. We aren’t exactly an… acceptable pair, now are we?”
He nods, quicker than I would have thought. “Not nearly as acceptable as you and Draco.”
Ouch. I think I actually felt that one. Turning my gaze on him, I size him up. “What do you know about that?”
Now he lowers his gaze, seems to withdraw as he starts for the exit. “Nothing. Forget it.”
With my wand, I shut the door before he can reach for the handle. He turns to look at me, uncertainty clouding those twin green pools.
“Tell me …or I shall extract the information I seek without your help.”
He seems visibly shaken by my words, and I remember he has yet to learn of Occlumency. I feel a stab of regret at having to come across so harsh, but I want to know how he knows.
“Okay.” He murmurs. “I saw him coming here one night. Late. I just assumed…” He shrugs. “…it doesn’t matter what I assumed.”
Without so much as a blink, I tell him pointedly, “It’s over between us. You need not worry about that.”
He seems to crumble over onto himself, eyes filling with tears.
“So, its true?”
“I said it’s over.” I stand my ground. “Done with. Don’t think anymore about it.”
“How can I not?” He whispers, letting a tear fall down his cheek.
“Don’t do that.” I command in a low voice. “Stop it, this instant. The situation isn’t worthy of tears. It was only sex.”
“That’s what I am.” He cries, bowing his head and openly sobbing.
So, I am standing there, thunderstruck and unsure of my next move. A lot like my chess games with Dumbledore. Gods, Dumbledore. He’d probably have me sent to Azkaban for breaking the heart of the boy-who-lived. Then again, I should never have let it progress this far. I fear I may actually care. Beyond caring, I won’t admit to.

“Goodnight, professor.” He whispers, reaching for the door handle, and I cannot recall, in this instant, when I have ever been hurt by a student, before now. I don’t prevent him from leaving, but I call to him.
“I feel nothing for him.”
He pauses, and I wonder how I let myself get to this point, letting my entire life hang in the wings based on the final words of one fourteen year old boy. Somehow, though, he doesn’t seem suddenly as young as that. He seems as old as I am – possibly older. His face is pale as he faces me, and half-smiles. My nerve endings are aflame with jubilation, and it is difficult for me to stand my ground, so rigid and still when I am feeling so elated and (dare I say?) happy.
He is near me in an instant and his arms are around me. The unspoken truth he chooses to believe is that I love him in return, and maybe he is right to believe it. Maybe I do.


FIN